I am giddy with the knowledge of yet another forgotten woman writer who deserves resurrection. This book was spotted at Malaprops bookstore in Asheville earlier this summer and promptly added to my to-read list. A dazzling, spare, witty writing style that takes down the 1930s New York publishing stereotypes while weaving a complex tale of the author (Dennis Orphen) on the eve of his exposé novel about his older friend/paramour, the ex-wife of a famous literary giant (Mrs. Andrew Callingham, aka Effie Thorne). Dennis also has a married girlfriend, Corrine, whom he has to visit at her home for dinner parties and put up with the piercing eyes of friend Olive, who knows all. So many great characters in this, including the city of New York, always present, pulsating, provoking.
Originally published in 1936. Unceremoniously trashed in the dust bin of history and forgotten, but should be read far and wide. Now I’m on the scent of Powell’s posthumously published journals… onward!