This book is as much an account of the writer's search for Wittgenstein and the personal oddessy it involved, as a factual narrative of what the philosopher was doing in Ireland in the 1940's and why he was there. It is not hugely illuminating on the man's philosphy, previous history or what happened after Ireland but there is a charm to this whimisical, poetical and often inaccurate book. The writer is a photographer and poet as well as author and indeed the photographs of the west of Ireland and the little fishing village where Wittgenstein settled for nine months are the strongest aspect of his book. Wall wrote a poem following his interview with a fisherman and boat builder, now in his nineties, who was one of those who tolerated the philosopher until they fell out over a dog barking at night. The book ends with a speculation that this ancient mariner - whose name Wall cannot remember and didn't chase up although he was pivotal to the book and about whom he had written a poem - must now be dead or locked up in an institution but, as anyone who reads the Irish newspapers closely can testify, the same sage is still relating journalists with tales of the foreigner who wanted his dog shot and is very much alive and in full possession of his faculties. This tells us much about Wall's attitude to research. However the combination of Wall's undoubtedly beautiful, limpid black and white photographs and the account of his own, often poverty-striken, meanderings around the west, Wicklow and Dublin hotels in search of traces of Wittgenstein do constitute an engaging, beautiful, often pathetic, but compelling read. Delightful for either a devoted Wittgenstein reader or for one deeply familar with the people and places but one must question the relevance of this book for those who fall into neither category.