This is a lively read. It's also an interesting artifact from an artist who, from her perch atop the turmoil of World War I Paris, managed to craft a work that was modern in style, yet classically human in expression. Here she stood on the cusp of 19th and 20th century literature: T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland this is not, nor is it Hemingway's musings on the Lost Generation or Fitzgerald's cold, vacuous and material world. It's not cubist or surrealist, either, despite the influences evident elsewhere in her work. Instead, this is Gertrude Stein unplugged: witty, hip, self-deprecating, self-aggrandizing, opinionated and sharp, and we love her for it. It's a book about hanging out with friends in Paris, and that's about it, thank you. It has a whimsical style reminiscent of Seinfeld, but with the real-life characters of Picasso, Hemingway, doughboys and lovers wandering through the set, it also carries literary weight and impact.
In a sense, this is a book about nothing, but it's delivered with such intelligence and energy, one might swear Gertrude Stein is leading the reader through her teeming streets of early 20th century Paris on the way to catching a new art sensation. Stein has a remarkable feel for these streets, too: their intimate moods and pulses.
The autobiography, actually not an autobiography at all (but we get the joke), is also a parody of her partner Alice B. Toklas, who bears the brunt of affectionate barbs when not showering the author with zingers and unflattering observations of her own. This technique of imitation is uncommon in American literature--it's more common in Russian and Spanish classics, for example--but Stein carries it off with requisite naturalness and wit.
Despite her playfulness, Stein refrains from the avant-garde in this book. There's little "Steinese" experimentation or inventiveness here. The words flow from her pen and typewriter like conversation, unflappably so, and this choice of language is shrewd, as the work gives a you-were-there quality; like a photo album, this book is a testament to her visual and "painted" frame of reference. Those who want to see her more edgy experiments in syntax and diction should check out Selected Writings of Gertrude Stein, an edition that includes this autobiography and an interesting, if oddly unflattering at times, essay by F. W. Dupee and helpful notes from editor Carl van Vechten.
At times, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas feels shallow, I must say. While far from cold and plenty humorous, the writing conveys the aura of a modern city on the go, where relationships are casual, the stakes are low and people move in and out of other peoples' lives with little impact. Some of this entails love "French style," while at other times a character might drop dead with no more than a mention. Even French soldiers, fighting one of the most savage wars in human history, emote their greatest dramas only when responding to mistakes in Stein's thoughtful, but occasionally absent-minded, letters. The overall effect is comedy, then, and while at times the author reminds us of the Battle of the Marne or the bitter setbacks of artists and couples, the turmoil around and within her characters never overwhelms the characters' insatiable urges to live and laugh. Against a backdrop of world war, the end result is diminished, if not unresolved. To wit, Stein writes of Toklas, "as Gertrude Stein's elder brother once said of me, if I were a general I would never lose a battle, I would only mislay it."
Gertrude Stein was a warm and charitable person. More than eager to help France manage the war--even to the point of driving an ambulance for the A.F.F.W.--she had a Ford motor car shipped to Paris from the States, then shuttled wounded allies in her makeshift ambulance while constantly negotiating with military officers for fuel. She also hosted wayfarers and other visitors at her rue de Fleurus home, where she generously cooked dinner, served wine and critiqued artists' work in-between sleepless nights of work. All this is adorably depicted in the book.
One such artist was Hemingway. Depicting him as a callow, earnest newspaper boy with grand ambition, Stein displayed mixed opinions about him and other writing contemporaries while remaining ebullient when such editors and writers, including F. Scott Fitzgerald, recognized her work. When pointing out the strengths and foibles of her fellow artists she also, along the way, made shrewd observations about art; these commentaries are well worth a look. Both the insider who cavorted with Picasso and the outsider whose work was a target of mockery, Stein maintained a self-image that mirrored the contradictory inspirations around her. Altogether forgetful, telling us through Alice "she has a bad memory for names," a genius-by-association, and a genius personified, she constantly picked herself up, pulled herself together, then embarked on new adventures.
Gertrude Stein is all about adventure and challenge, and since she succeeds in both with a shrug and a laugh, she's also an eminent character. As she conveys through this literary conversation with herself and Alice B. Toklas, Stein might not know why, either; but the answer to why, for this writer, is subordinate to the question. In this work, as observation-upon-observation unfolds, enveloping "the real," "the truth" and "the whole" in both criss-crossing patterns and repetitive sounds, Gertrude Stein searches for deeper, more indefinable truths about her friends and acquaintances--not in terms of form, but in terms of the unconscious. She would vigorously contradict this point, but her work with Radcliff's psychologist William James is evident when she so probes the essences of her characters without killing her patients.
A fine effort by an engaging writer.
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Don't waste the money on this copy.
The words are TINY, and they don't even fully fill up the whole pages.. its a waste of paper, and a headache to try reading
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Gertrude Stein - The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas
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