I really loathed this book, and I use the word carefully. I've read books that I may not have liked before, but never have I read one that left me bristling with irritation. While I have empathy for Karen Armstrong's story and struggles, spiritual, physical and otherwise, I found her descriptions - which were labored, repetitive, and smacking of victimhood - to be unrelentingly self-indulgent. For all of the esteem issues she wrestles with, I found her musings, whether discussing life at Oxford, on television, her writing projects etc so often to be intellectually arrogant. Was it reflective - yes, tediously so. But was it insightful - God no.