my books. my life.

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.