On the back of this book stands the opinion of no less an authority than Annie Proulx. Gilbert is “a writer of incandescent talent”. The New York praises her “mix of intelligence, wit and colloquial exuberance”. And so it goes on. I disagree. Strongly. This self-indulgent and self-important account of Gilbert’s self-discovery is utter guff. It is a waste of the recycled paper on which it is printed.

The story is straightforward. Unhappily married in her early thirties, Gilbert wants a baby – and doesn’t. She extricates herself, has an affair with a guy called Dave (who at least isn’t her gym instructor) and then becomes the American abroad. First in Italy, then in Bali and finally on an ashram in India, she seeks her true self. In the arms of a Brazilian, she finds it at last – although, of course, she believes that “I was the administrator of my own rescue”. Now she divides her time between Australia, America, Bali and Brazil: “Like a classic poem, like a pair of rhyming couplets.”

In its plasticity, this book makes Sex and the City seem profound. Try this: “I’ve met travellers who are so physically sturdy they could drink a shoebox of water from a Calcutta sewer and never get sick.” A shoebox? I persevered only because of Proulx’s recommendation, and have learnt that even she can be wrong. If she was referring to another of Gilbert’s oeuvres, it is not one that I will read. Life is too short for such twaddle and inanity.

ROSS LECKIE

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