Was reading a treatise on growing older by Lewis Lapham and he said this was his favorite book, one he reads and re-reads as the years unwind, so I had to read it. Published in 1934, it reads like other books of its era (think Fitzgerald) with terse dialogue of the age and an undercurrent that’s almost sinister. I liked it, but honestly it was harder to read than contemporary books and not just because of the language. There’s a complexity of observation here that today’s blogs and scripts just can’t match.
Post a Comment