Jan Morris has written a competent, chronological, amusing, mannerly, dutiful account of one of the most beautiful and enchanting cities in the world: Sydney, Australia. My gut feeling is: She found a nice apartment with a great view of the harbor, checked a dozen books out of the local library (including a collection of colorful epitaphs from a historical Sydney cemetery and the Oxford Companion to Australian Literature) and then sat demurely down to write.

Jan Morris' "Sydney" is very useful. Its tone is very pleasant, but pretty soon you want to grab her by the lapels of her blazer and shriek: "Open your eyes! You're talking about what possibly may be the most beautiful city in the entire world! A city with what just may be the most heroic municipal history in the entire history of man! A city where the arts right now--novels, film, pictorial art, theater--are going ape-crazy with creativity!" It's as if Morris had visited Mexico City and described it as "crowded," or announced Paris traffic to be interesting but clogged.