I don't think the underrated T.S. Stribling was seriously trying to write an autobiography with this thing. It's disjointed, unfocused, and at times exceedingly dull even though it's a short read. The beginning has promise but the thing begins to crash under the weight of just so much, so what. There is virtually no insight into the man, his insights, dreams, or aspirations -- little reference to others in the literary world (as he was something of a recluse), and it is devoid of his eccentric persona which was probably the most interesting thing about him. How did a non-illustrious boy from a tiny, tiny town on the banks of a river in southern Tennessee somehow receive the Pulitzer Prize? We'll never know from this couched, non-illuminating ramble.