Amazon — It was the fabulous summer of 1929 when the literary capital of North America moved to La Rive Gauche—the Left Bank of the Seine River—in Paris. Ernest Hemingway was reading proofs of A Farewell to Arms, and a few blocks away F. Scott Fitzgerald was struggling with Tender Is the Night. As his first published book rose to fame in New York, Morley Callaghan arrived in Paris to share the felicities of literary life, not just with his two friends, Hemingway and Fitzgerald, but also with fellow writers James Joyce, Ford Madox Ford, and Robert McAlmon. Amidst these tangled relations, some friendships flourished while others failed. This tragic and unforgettable story comes to vivid life in Callaghan’s lucid, compassionate prose.
Amazon — Picking up where Henry and June (1986) left off, this portion of Nin’s diary, which was cut from the expurgated editions published in her lifetime, records her steamy love affair with Henry Miller in Paris, but here her intense adoration gives way to disillusionment. She describes Miller as crude, egotistic, imitative, childishly irresponsible, “a madman.” Her real focus, however, is her father, Joaquin Nin, a Spanish pianist and aristocratic Don Juan who seduced her after a 20-year absence. Her graphic account of their lovemaking and of her incestuous romantic feelings is fairly shocking. Nin sought absolution from her psychiatrist and lover, Otto Rank, who advised her to bed her father, then dump him as punishment for abandoning her when she was 10. Nin’s ornate, hothouse prose is much rawer than the chiseled style of the expurgated diaries. She
AMAZON — Disintinguished literary critic Edmund Wilson’s extraordinary record comes to a fitting culmination in The Sixties, the last of his posthumously published journals, a personal history that is also a brilliant social comedy and an anatomy of our times.
Meticulous account by Wilson of his coming to terms with old age. His precise observations of his increasing enfeeblement, and of the “glitterati” with whom he socialized, make for fascinating reading. His restless movement from Manhattan to the countryside to the beach to Europe contrasts with the subtle melancholy of his narrative; it’s a page-turner with a wintry mood. Disappointed by the surprising shabbiness of the Princeton Club, for example, Wilson says, “I doubt that I shall go there again,” and it’s as much an acknowledgment of his own mortality as a comment on the flaking plaster. The occasional summer