During my all too brief residence in London as a fishmonger in Selfridges, I recall the strange wonder I experienced at several of my coworkers who had never left the city.  I chalked it up to perhaps the incurious nature, or financial circumstances, of my colleagues.  How could one city be enough? I thought.  20 years later, finishing Peter Ackroyd's London: A Biography, I am reminded of this.  Recognizing that this immense city defies traditional, chronological treatment, Ackroyd's biography (rather than a history) approaches London as an ancient living thing, growing, developing, with a multitude of tissues and characters.  Roman tombs under medieval chapels under Victorian tenements.  The Saxon roots of cockney dialect. The Theatre of public executions.  The Theatre.  Food and markets through the centuries. The Thames and the blitz.  London and child sacrifice in nursery rhymes.  During my brief time there I scarcely saw the surface, let alone scratched it.  Through the lens of a biographer of Dickens and Blake, this is a great read.