On the back cover of this edition, Frances Spalding from the Sunday Times says something about "deadpan humour." There is no humor of the deadpan or any other variety.

This is because Gertrude Stein's whole soul was devoted to admiring herself. And that kind of ego is rarely humorous.

There are many books about the writers and artists in Paris in the 1920s. I've read several. I've found them all good -- some are better than others - but they all tell (from different perspectives) similar descriptions and stories about a variety of interesting people, how they lived, thought, interacted, worked, drank. In all of them you get a some sense of what it was like to be a writer or an artist living in that unique environment. This is the only book among the many that does not achieve that.

What you get here is a laundry list of everyone Gertrude ever met and countless mentions of her writings. You get a few stories and vignettes, but very few. There is no sense of the society and no sense of the place. There is no life there.

You learn that Gertrude was a genius among the merely adequate and the not so adequate. Her hatred of Hemingway (a dear friend in the 20s, but an enemy (rival, more likely) by 1933 when this book was written) is notable. Maybe her problem was that she didn't drink. ( )

orig. published in 1933

The public lives of Gertrude Stein and her partner.

1/4 (Bad).

I gave up after 40 pages. As far as I can tell, the point of this is to impart how important and wonderful the Steins are because they bought some art before it was cool. And it's Literature because they left out some punctuation.

(Aug. 2022) ( )

Couldn't finish this. Maybe I will later. Kind of a slog, but an enjoyable one.

I'm baffled by Gertrude Stein's writing style. Such a straightforward prose but puzzling all the same. I don't know how she manages. The book is a collection of memories of which I expected much more but yes her writing style is why this gets four stars. ( )