Kevin Jackson

Cynics have long noted that there are certain, relatively coarse, artistic vocations in which premature death can be a shrewd career move: consider the presently thriving and/or grossly inflated reputations of, say, James Dean, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin. For those who practise the more elite arts, an equally potent and far less drastic option is readily available. Why bother with the agony and mess of drug overdoses or car crashes when you can attain a comparable, pseudo-posthumous mystique just by renouncing your gift?

If you happen to be one of those maddeningly quick-witted or sideways-thinking readers who can spot at a glance that 'potty train (4)' means LOCO, that 'Where reluctant Scotsman lives (7)' is LOTHIAN, or even - a lovely one, this - that 'Amundson's forwarding address (4)' is MUSH, the pages of Sandy Balfour's memoir will hold few surprises. (Nor, probably, will you need to be told what its title means. Answer, for the rest of us, in the final paragraph below.) For those who find themselves wrestling with the likes of 'canine animal' - three letters, beginning with D - the book will be at the very least a source of mild revelation and at best a delight.

Where other contemporary American novelists, mandarin or popular, like to write about war in South-east Asia, corruption in the boardroom, organised crime and the alienated condition of the human soul, Nicholson Baker prefers to tackle the truly important issues of our time: how to lift a pair of underpants with your toes, how to make a bar of soap revolve in your hand by strategic squeezing, why it is perfectly permissible, indeed thoughtful, for gentlemen to relieve their bladders in the seated position traditionally favoured by ladies, the demonstrable superiority of the English spelling 'grey' to the standard American 'gray'.