It's been said already in other reviews, but Styron clearly romanticizes his depression and applies a kind of artistic elitism to depression that exlcudes those who don't live a so-called "creative" life. (Styron regularly appears on television with other "artists" and Mike Wallace, the journalist, a kind of unspoken code: this is about "creative types.") This is a very small book with very little to offer. He talks a lot about his alcoholism but fails to connect his many years of drinking with his depression. Of course, it is known that alcohol is a depressant and, like other drugs, kills brain cells and diminishes the brain, in general. There's a part of Styron at work that embraces his depression. He identifies with it and, I believe, his writing this slight essay was his way of keeping it. I found the book redundant, slow, at times unclear, and offering, quite frankly, nothing of value.