Erudition for its own sake is perhaps not as prized in the world of Australian letters as it once was; in an age when sparsity is king – where blunt clarity and a kind of punchy journalese dominate contemporary essay writing – loquaciousness and intricate wordplay are undervalued commodities. Feathery intellectualism of the type personified by Robert Dessaix might not be much in vogue, which is precisely why it feels so joyful and necessary. Chameleon, his latest work of memoir, is discursive and prismatic, wise and worldly. For the shambolic musings of an esteemed octogenarian – ‘now at the end of my life, at the fraying, but suddenly illumined, highly coloured end of my life’ – it is expertly calibrated, often remarkably vivid, and always exquisitely articulated.