I love detailed non-fiction and biographies, but looks like I have my limits as well. At a point when there are hundreds of dates and details concerning the publishing industry (at least that's what it felt like) and whatnot, reading feels too much of a chore. The countless irrelevant particulars were like a thicket of weeds through which you have to make your way to find the main point. Because of this Fitch's book doesn't seem that polished (maybe the editor got tired), so even the most patient reader might find the narration a bit exhausting. I did manage to read the whole thing through, though, because I was looking for a precise description of Paris of that era. Reading was hard and daunting, but ultimately very rewarding.

Oh, and Gertrude Stein and James Joyce were self-centered morons. Although that publicity picture for Finnegans Wake, where he's slouching in a chair kind of makes me feel sorry for him.