Henry Green wrote his autobiography in 1940, aged only thirty-five, because he was convinced he wouldn’t survive the war. The result is a delightfully wayward and incisive portrait of English society and of the man himself. From reminiscences of a childhood spent among the gentry, to searing descriptions of Eton and Oxford, to reflections on the author’s first experiments with prose and with sex, all Green’s unique talents as a writer are on offer here, at their most dazzling and accessible.