Written with great brevity, Hemingway sets out not to describe but to simply write true accounts of his time spent writing in Paris, an interesting series of reflections from his time with Gertrude Stein to that with Fitzgerald. There was something refreshing about the way Hemingway penned this account, it felt like a series of short letters to the reader, nothing to throttle the senses, just tastes of another world, another life lived, and perhaps giving us scope to a wider picture of humanity, the artist, the movement of the world.

The Hemingway I have read, and because I have never been too sure about reading any Hemingway, I found this worked for me on its own level.