Diane Keaton has long been one of my favorite actresses - all the way back to “Annie Hall.” I’ve admired how she seems to be aging gracefully without having a lot of “work” done and loved what I thought was her independent spirit. I assumed the quirky clothes and styles were kind of a raspberry aimed at traditional Hollywood beauty standards, and loved that she was self-confident enough to do that (she’s apparently just trying to cover and hide as much of herself as possible). If I had made a list of ten people I’d love to have lunch with before reading this book, Ms. Keaton certainly would have been on that list. Now I’m not so sure I’d even accept such an invitation. I only needed to read a few of the chapters to discover (with a great deal of chagrin) how wrong I was about all of my assumptions about Diane Keaton. Instead of being an autobiography (I didn’t know she had already written one), the book is a collection of essays about what beauty is and isn’t - and mostly what it isn’t. It is page after sad page of diatribes about everything that is wrong about her own face, hair, ears, body, and life. After a few “oooh, poor baby” comments, the book got more and more tedious. Written in the first person, I could often hear Keaton’s voice as I was reading, but that made it even harder to take. Thankfully, the book is a quick read, but there is little of real substance between the two covers and I’ll never see Diane Keaton in the same way again. Some of the anecdotes about her life are interesting and fun to read, but there aren’t enough of those to carry the book and hold it together. Very disappointing.