This is a strangely, piercingly affecting book ostensibly by and about
 two largely forgotten writers among the "Lost Generation" of writers 
and artists in Paris in the 1920's. It is an emotionally engrossing 
tale, especially on Boyle's part, of what physical and 
emotional/spiritual sacrifices the life of the committed artist 
demands.-----Yes, there is plenty of name-dropping and stories 
concerning Pound, Joyce and Hemingway-But that hardly seems the point 
and neither does their art (except for Boyle, at times). This book is 
about what sort of People they were, how they lived their lives, both 
internally and externally. The stereotype of the artist as a 
self-destructive martyr to his or her art is certainly on display here, 
but the characters aren't represented as hollow stereotypes (which 
themselves exist, after all, for very good reasons). They leap from the
 page as living, breathing people, and one gains an insight into the 
modus vivendi of each of them. And it must be said that, of the writers
 from that milieu that are still remembered today (mentioned above), 
only Joyce comes through as a lovable figure, and a good man, despite 
his drinking bouts. The major achievement of this book is that it 
brings home the humanity of both Boyle and McAlmon as they lived their 
externally festive (especially McAlmon's), inwardly tormented 
(especially Boyle's) lives. There are several other aspects on which 
one could dwell, Mcalmon's generosity and relative selflessness (as 
written of by Boyle, not he), Boyle's supposedly more "Romantic" way of 
life and art (as written of by McAlmon, not she), but the main effect is
 that of laying out a physical and psychological tableau of their lives 
in the 1920's.-As McAlmon confesses, "It is a horrible admission, but 
some of us are driven to work at times to forget about living life. 
That creative urge, if you will, or is it that something remembered or 
contemplated is more entertaining than the actual scene and event being 
experienced? Somebody else spoke of Marsden as an 'eagle without a 
cliff', but aren't we all?"-Later he writes, "...we had moments of 
enjoying the sodden destruction of time in a weary world."--- As we 
look back on this supposedly "dated" attitude of those expatriate 
writers, can we really say that their actions and outlook were so dated?
 What artist or what person has not had thoughts or periods of life 
such as expressed above?---At one point in the book, McAlmon reports a 
fellow reveller at a Parisian cafe chiding him for his well-known 
generosity and telling him that he has "too much humanity." This is the
 only criticism that can be levelled at this book, if you choose to 
categorize it as such.

Being Geniuses Together, 1920-1930 PDF

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