on 19 October 2010
It is worth noting that, for much of his life, Cocteau denied having written this book, and yet the voice could be no-one's but his. I used to own a copy when I was student, but it was stolen by a David Bowie fan who stayed at my house; so I am glad to have found this edition on Amazon. I bought it for my son, who is a surrealist writer and musician. Jean Cocteau was one of those artists who are their own best work. It does not matter whether he is writing about his opium addiction or his sexual experiences (as here); it is the opportunity to share the thoughts of an enigmatic and unique mind for which we should be grateful. Gratitude is due too to Peter Owen for publishing this and other works which most publishers would not consider commercially viable. I would have given it five stars if economic necessity had not so obviously compromised the quality of materials and production.