John Mortimer's book [Clinging to the Wreckage] has a thoroughly misleading title. It is designed to enlist a little pathetic sympathy for someone carried along like a piece of flotsam without the courage or determination to strike out for the shore. It would be difficult—judging from the book itself—to find anyone less shipwrecked than John Mortimer and less likely to pursue this policy if shipwrecked. At every stage Mr. Mortimer demonstrates a firmness of intention which makes the title slightly fraudulent.

In the Wild West idiom, 'a man's gotta do what a man's gotta to do': but when and where a man has 'gotta' write an autobiography is a matter for debate. The interesting question is why Mr. Mortimer chose this moment of his life to write this book. One senses a motivation more pressing than the importunities of hopeful publishers…. [There] can be no doubt that Mr. Mortimer had a book, and an interesting book, inside him. It is unnecessary to say that his autobiography is immensely readable. He is a distinguished, if not a great dramatist; he has evolved an imaginative and immensely popular television series; he is first-class in discussion programmes on television and, presumably, radio, and is careful not to be overexposed; and he has recently developed into one of the best newspaper interviewers in the country. He writes book reviews which are usually more entertaining than the books he is reviewing. It follows that what he has to say about his life must be of interest. The book has received, in almost all quarters, unqualified and well-deserved praise for its readability. But I must confess it leaves me dissatisfied.

I can claim to be a friend of John Mortimer, although not a close friend. I have never mixed in his circles. But I know and have seen enough of him to doubt whether the book presents a full picture. Since he is an honest man, it certainly presents a true picture so far as it goes, and I am not even sure that the author is conscious of what he has left out. John Mortimer is an interesting and exciting original—a rare commodity in this country today. He is amiable (the word 'Pickwickian' struggles to emerge but he is worthy of a less cloying adjective), witty, warm-hearted, generous and humane, it is sad to say that these qualities do not emerge from the book with any great clarity. The book presents, and was clearly intended to present, the picture of a cool, dispassionate and largely uncommitted observer. Mr. Mortimer may see himself in this light, but few other people will so see him. For someone like him, it would have taken quite a feat of dissembling to achieve this result….

[Although] he espouses unconventional causes he represents the essential upper-middle-class Englishman, pursuing some erratic notions. (p. 11)

The book is episodic and was obviously written at some speed. The great autobiographies of the world depend, I think, on the attention to detail with which they are written: this book is self-indulgent in that there is detail only of those matters which have retained his interest. We gather that he was—but is probably no longer—a supporter of the Labour Party. Politics are clearly not for him, although he would seem to be natural material for the SDP. The book is marred by a certain calculated crudity in some of his descriptions of his emotional life and by one absolutely nauseating jest. This does not imply any genuine coarseness of character so much as the determination to maintain an emotional nonchalance lest the reader should suspect that events have made a deeper and sharper impact than the author likes to admit.

It is in relation to his legal career that the book is most disappointing, and for two disparate reasons. Legal memoirs are in special need of detailed recollection. What the Judge actually said to the impertinent advocate and what exactly was the response; how the late F. E. Smith insulted the Judge with sufficient forensic skill to avoid evil consequences; how Marshal Hall demonstrated the pistol and how his clerk brought in an air cushion for him to sit on. It is details such as these which grip the interest, and in such details the book is notably lacking. The two main interests in his life I share. The theatre, to which he has made such a distinguished contribution, has been a love of mine, incredibly enough, for sixty years or more…. John Mortimer adds little of novelty in his account of his theatrical life. We do not smell grease-paint from the pages and the occasional reference to a distinguished theatrical figure is insufficient to make the book a significant one about the stage. His prominence in the law arises through his participation in a number of cases to defend the 'book' and the 'writer' against intolerable outside interference. Here he has justifiably acquired a reputation as a freedom fighter, but this, alas, does not make him a legal progressive. (pp. 11-12)

I enjoyed reading [John Mortimer's] book and recommend it warmly to those who want something to wile away the odd hour, but I have a feeling that we will one day get a more profound account of his life from this very remarkable man. That book may be less readable and sell fewer copies, but it will tell us more about the author than he is at present prepared to divulge. (p. 12)