I must have read this book when I was 12 or 13 the first time and I remember it made a huge impression on me, its anger and passion and pain. Now I’m impressed that this 30-year-old had the self-insight to simultaneously blame the Beatles and Paul McCartney for the harrowing eight or nine years he’s just closed the chapter on *and* to realize that he was also full of shit. He was angry that no one accepted Yoko, who had rescued him from his own self-loathing and anxiety. He was angry at all the hangers-on who wanted to take full credit for the Beatles’ success. And he was exasperated at his own shyness and anxiety and aggression. But he was also full of remarkable insights about art and music, too. On putting the Beatles together: “Was it better to have a guy who was better than the people I had—obviously—or not? To make the group stronger or let me be stronger? That decision was to let Paul in to make the *group* stronger” (133). “I read that Malcom X or Eldridge Cleaver or somebody said that, with rock, the blacks gave the middle-class whites back their bodies, put their minds and bodies to it…. It was the only thing that could get through to me of all the things that were happening when I was fifteen” (76). If only Lennon had lived to be part of that nice old couple “off the coast of Ireland, looking at our scrapbook of madness” (151).