DON'T judge a book by its cover. Or its book jacket. Or the incredible amount of hype which precedes its debut. Deng Xiaoping: My Father by Deng Maomao, otherwise known as Deng Rong, the youngest of the paramount leader's daughters, is supposed to be, according to the publishers, 'the first insider account of this enigmatic, post-revolutionary Chinese leader'.
And who better to recount Deng's remarkable story - from his petty elite origins in the Chinese hinterland to 16-year-old student revolutionary living hand to mouth in Paris to virtual emperor of a nation he himself fashioned into a superpower-in-waiting - than his own flesh and blood, one of the few to have access to those secret chambers of the communist aristocracy guarded jealously from outside scrutiny? Publication of the English-language version of Deng Maomao's biography has been accompanied by an incredible amount of publicity.
But despite all the hype about breaking taboos - Chinese leaders' children do not normally write about them, especially while they are still alive - Deng Xiaoping: My Father delivers far less than it promises.
The problem is, surprisingly, a very unco-operative subject. As it turns out, not even Deng's offspring have been able to gain an intimate view of this extraordinary man.
Throughout the book Deng Maomao talks about her father's reticence. In one outburst of frustration, she writes: 'Father must have many stories in mind, but he is reluctant to tell about his past. If he could tell more stories . . . I would have more 'rice straws' to clutch, and this story would have been more vivid.' There are a few bits of nice gossip. After retiring, Deng watched 50 of the 52 1990 World Cup Tournament matches broadcast on television.
And occasionally, Deng does speak candidly, such as when he recounts a narrow escape from police in Shanghai 1931. (He just walked through the back door when police arrived.) But the book never becomes truly personal, by the standards the author would like to have achieved.