NO ONE WHO HAS laboured for any time in what the Victorian novelist George Gissing used to call “the valley of the shadow of books” can have failed to be amused by A.N. Wilson’s recently published memoir. But you suspect that the amusement will have been two-fold — provoked, naturally, by the book itself, but also by its reception down on the Grub Street front line.
As for the contents of (Bloomsbury £20), “Ann”, as Craig Brown once christened him in his “Wallace Arnold” days, is as
