This book was obviously written more for the benefit of the writer than the reader. Put together almost immediately after Peake's premature death from Parkinson's Disease in 1968, it is a fragmented, nostalgic, sentimental, largely incoherent moan of distress by a weak, overly-dependent woman unable to see her lost husband as anything other than a Romantic demi-god or the world as anything other than a violent, malicious site of evil. I cannot quite see what Gilmore hoped to achieve by writing this memoir. Peake's talent needs no apology or explanation: even in his own lifetime the peculiar genius of his Gormenghast books was well-recognised. Nor does this account make any attempt at being a factually full biography. All it tells us is how much Gilmore loved her husband, and how unfairly she felt he was treated by fate and the world. I think that is of extremely limited interest. It is only Mervyn Peake, after all.