Woody Allen is, of course, a figure of singular cultural stature, and his odd memoir would be of interest for that reason if no other. As in the films, so on the page, few people are so verifiably, inescapably themselves; that alone — the elaboration of a sensibility to its fullest extent — seems to constitute a kind of aesthetic achievement, one preserved in his work, the triumphs and failures alike. Not that he cares for a legacy. ‘Rather than live on in the hearts and mind of the public, I prefer to live on in my apartment.’