Oh, how I love cut-to-the-chase, no-beating-around-the-bush prose. A boring writer could have made a couple of chapters out of the first page, but Woody Allen is telling his story in a kind of fast neighborhood street patois mixed with one-liners from “Caesar’s Hour.” Blunt assessments, zero sentimentality, all economy. In the mid 1920s his grandfather, “in a burst of manic euphoria, bet more and more on Wall Street, and you can see where this is going.” His parents “loved each other in their own way, a way known only to a few headhunting tribes in Borneo.” His father’s “weak, wan and degenerate-looking” brother “drifted around the Flatbush streets, peddling newspapers till he dissolved like a pale wafer…white, whiter, gone.” I’d fallen in love by the middle of page #1.