I just finished Morley Callaghan’s That Summer in Paris. It was a very enjoyable read. I felt like I got a peek into the world of the lost generation. Through Callaghan, I was able to box with Hemingway and drink with Fitzgerald. I walked the streets of Paris in 1929 with all the writers and artists of the era. Unfortunately, I also got a glimspe of Hemingway’s strong sense of pride and Fitzgerald’s attempts at controlling poor Zelda. It’s their prose I love, not their person and this book confirmed that belief.
I’m sticking with nonfiction and reading Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell Is This? by Marion Meade next.