Judging from the fact that she already had entered her 10th decade at the time of its publication, it would have been reasonable for longtime British editor and author Diana Athill to believe that her prize-winning 2008 memoir, SOMEWHERE TOWARDS THE END, would be the last work she’d live to see published. But the very tentativeness of that title hinted at a suspicion that she might be around for at least a few more years. Happily, for the many readers who have enjoyed her tart, witty and insightful writing, she now has delivered ALIVE, ALIVE OH!, a collection of revealing personal essays that revisit some of her previous characters and themes while deepening her engagement with life as she passes her 98th birthday.

Despite its brevity, in the 10 pieces (and one poem) that compose the book, Athill's recollections range across almost the entirety of her life, from evocative descriptions of the childhood years she spent on the verdant grounds of her maternal grandparents' estate in Norfolk, to a frank reflection on how she overcame her fear of death. In between, she treats subjects as diverse as the decline of the British Empire in the wake of World War II, her move into an old people's home, her taste in clothing, and the "two valuable lessons" she's learned in life: "avoid romanticism and abhor possessiveness." In each instance, Athill is emotionally revealing without succumbing to bathos and precise in recalling the anecdotes that enliven her gift for storytelling. She displays a knack for dwelling neither too long nor too little on a subject, so that each essay is a fully satisfying experience.

"Athill's sharp, observant prose elevates the experience of reading her work into the realm of pure pleasure.... The fortunate few who share, with Athill, the gift of a life that is both long and productive to the end can only hope to greet that circumstance with comparable equanimity and grace."

Athill's sharp, observant prose elevates the experience of reading her work into the realm of pure pleasure. "This Bit Ought Not to be True," an account of the tension between Athill and her mother that grew out of her decision to write her first memoir --- the story of a failed youthful love affair --- describes their eventual reconciliation and then concludes with this astonishing sentence: "There are no memories that I value more than that of the almost flame of love which lit her eyes when she opened them and saw me standing over her deathbed." In another reflection, she deploys her characteristic dry wit to describe her physical condition and that of the other mostly nonagenarians (and mostly women) who live with her: "One good thing about being physically incapable of doing almost anything is that if you manage to do even a little something, you feel great."

While every one of these pieces is a model for anyone who appreciates the craft of the personal essay, several stand out. "The Decision," Athill's description of the process that led her in 2010 to move into the Mary Feilding Guild --- "A Retirement Home for the Active Elderly," in Highgate, north London, where she remains today --- is an unsentimental yet heartfelt exploration of how it feels to give up a fully independent life in a comfortable flat for one in the confines of a tiny room. Most challenging for Athill was the need to reduce her extensive library to the 200 or 300 books she reasonably could take with her. That process guaranteed that she would hold on to works by Boswell and Byron, the two favorite writers she identifies in the essay "Beloved Books."

A companion piece is "Dead Right," the book's concluding chapter, in which Athill describes the "practical attitude toward death" that prevails among the 42 residents with whom she shares her retirement home. Taking her cue from fellow essayist Montaigne, Athill explains how her decision to think about death in a regular way led her to see it as a natural part of existence and, as a consequence, to shed her belief in an afterlife.

The most dramatic piece is the title essay, a description of Athill's unintended pregnancy, at age 43, with her longtime married lover, Jamaican playwright Barry Reckord, the two of them "each other's unexpected bonus from life." Athill describes the end of that pregnancy, which almost cost her her life, in vivid, but coolly analytical detail. Her conclusion that "I loved being alive so much that not having died was more important to me by far than losing the child: more important than anything" offers as clear an insight into her mind as any of the numerous trenchant observations in this consistently candid book. 

Athill modestly calls ALIVE, ALIVE OH! "a report on what living for ninety-seven years has taught one rather lucky old woman." In that characterization, she's clearly being too self-effacing, as even a superficial reading of any one of this distinctive memoir's essays will reveal. The fortunate few who share, with Athill, the gift of a life that is both long and productive to the end can only hope to greet that circumstance with comparable equanimity and grace.