the lost generation have been reading a book about a rich literary lady of the twenties and her husband who drank, ate and partied their way through Europe meeting Pound, Picasso, A. Huxley, Lawrence, Joyce, F. Scott, Hemingway, many others; the famous were like precious toys to them, and the way it reads the famous allowed themselves to become precious toys. all through the book I waited for just one of the famous to tell this rich literary lady and her rich literary husband to get off and out but, apparently, none of them ever did. Instead they were photographed with the lady and her husband at various seasides looking intelligent as if all this was part of the act of Art. perhaps because the wife and the husband fronted a lush press that had something to do with it. and they were all photographed together at parties or outside of Sylvia Beach's bookshop. its true that many of them were great and/or original artists, but it all seems such a snobby precious affair, and the husband finally commited his threatened suicide and the lady published one of my first short stories in the 40's and is now dead, yet I can't forgive either of them for their rich dumb lives and I can't forgive their precious toys either for being that.