Hemingway’s mostly factual ode to his years in Paris after World War I. The events take place a full century ago, and at times the various wisdoms are outdated, but this is still a great read, with the energy of youth even though it was written late in the author’s life. The writing is declarative and sentimental and vaguely bitter—a sharp-edged love letter to a post-war capital where writers and artists could live well for next to nothing.
The mini-sketches of the “lost generation” literati are the main draw: Gertrude Stein’s disdain for authors’ wives, Ezra Pound’s universal likeability, Wyndham Lewis’ eyes of an “unsuccessful rapist.” And the pièce de résistance: Hemingway babysitting a sodden neurotic named Fitzgerald during a road trip from Lyon. These character portraits are sometimes tender and sometimes malicious, but they always ring true and are thoroughly entertaining even if you aren’t into writers’ memoirs. Reviewed on July 29, 2021