Cyril Connolly's The Unquiet Grave might have been well-known in British literary life twenty-five years ago, but no one under the age of 32 seems to have heard of it. The accusation most often levelled at it is that it is a work of pure egoism - an accusation that fails to distinguish between talking a lot about yourself (which can be very entertaining), and being self-centred (which never is). Connolly did a lot of the former, but was not the latter. The book is a seductive mixture of diary, common-place book, essay, travelogue and memoir - arranged in loose paragraphs, in which Connolly gives us his views women, religion, death, seduction, infatuation and literature. The thoughts are wise, dark, and beautifully modelled, with the balance of the best French aphorisms. For example: "There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover," "No one over thirty-five is worth meeting who has not something to teach us - something more than we could learn from ourselves, from a book." The charm of the book lies in the narrator's mischievous, melancholy tone as he shifts between the sublime and the banal: "To sit late in a restaurant (especially when one has to pay the bill) is particularly conducive to angst, which does not affect us after snacks taken in an armchair with a book. Angst is an awareness of the waste of our time and ability, such as may be witnessed among people kept waiting by a hairdresser." It's a book one can fall in love with...