Read it after it was pointed to as a condensed view of Popper's work, but it undershoots and only really functions as a brief, uninviting gloss over some of the major "problems". He even abandons the autobiographical hook about halfway through as an unnecessary conceit, which, to be honest, it is.

The thing that really struck me though was how barren and empty of company the world of philosophy seems through Popper's eyes. Apart from the ever-present spectre of Wittgenstein at his shoulder, the sterility brings to mind Flaubert's observation that "There is not one tree in de Sade, not one animal." ( )