Very much a book of two halves. The first was fascinating and compelling - a record of the time Frankl spent in various concentration camps in WW2. This is particularly of note as he was able, at the time, to see and analyse the behaviour of his fellow prisoners, combining an almost detached scientific viewpoint of their behaviour (he was a medical doctor) with the awareness of his own suffering. His slow groping towards a philosophy of hope, towards the detection of meaning in that suffering, is just so well written.

Then we get to the second half of the book, in which he puts his discoveries into a psychological framework, and suddenly it's all noogenics and existential realities, logotherapy and dereflection and academic footnotes. In the memoir-portion, Frankl is talking to everyone. In the analysis, he only thinks he is. I wanted to enjoy the second half, but comparatively the writing there is so turgid that it's a struggle to get through. And honestly, I don't think it's really necessary? It seems to me to dilute the strength of the first portion, and undermine the message of meaning by dragging it under the microscope and stretching it out with forceps: This is what I mean, do you see?

Well yes, I did, and it was so much clearer and more affecting in the first half.