Glenway Wescott was an enigma in American literature. After a promising start, his talent seemed to fizzle and for the last decades of his life he produced very little, devoting himself to foundation and literary group work. Still, his novels have always had a small cult following. In this posthumously published journal one finds a mixture of short anecdotes, philosophical musings, excerpts from letters, nature writing, and searing self examination. The fun of the book comes from the stories (Wescott seems to have known everyone) and from the frank discussion of gay life in wealthy artistic circles in mid-century New York and Paris. However, his continuous discussion (whining about) of his artistic and financial failure gets tedious. Some of the writing is clearly highly polished and written with an ear to posterity; some of it clearly off the cuff. Indeed, it is difficult to tell how much of his journals were included and how they were edited. Some will find the frankly erotic, even pornographic descriptions of his sexual encounters (often in groups) to be disturbong. ( )