I agree with everything said so well in the previous review. Unfortunately for those of us who long for insight and instead are given a travel diary - often in verbatim transposition, I fear - a real thirst after finishing the book is not uncommon. I agree with Mr Bernabo that an editor in hiding cries out at times wishing to rescue us from another plane trip and another successful performance, but I must say that Caballe's biography (seemingly often lauded) suffers hardly a less dismal fate than does Prima Donna's Progress in that regard, and it claims not one but two biographers and who knows how many editors along the way. Perhaps Sutherland truly has no inclination to write about her art. However unwished for, such a thing is not utterly outside the somehow conceivable. It was once remarked that Sutherland would have preferred puttering in her garden to singing on the operatic stage for most of her life, and there is indeed a certain 'happy' aura around her art that could indicate perhaps such might be the case.
It doesnt matter. This book gets four stars because it is Sutherland in her own words, for richer or poorer. The title is wickedly original, the cover photo is perfect, and one is able, at least, to spend a few hours with an artist whose impeccable contribution will stand and conquer for all time. Let that be enough.