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A review by jonfaith
Memoirs by Tennessee Williams
2.0
There isn’t much of literary value in this endeavor. Penned in the mid 1970s, Williams appears to offer a hip rationalization of his life and peccadilloes, though little is said about his work. He loves Lawrence, Chekhov and Brecht but does not reflect on them but rather notes several times that Jean-Paul Sartre didn’t show up at party. Not that he’s sulking. He cruises Mexico with Leonard Bernstein and keeps Gore Vidal and Truman Capote from being arrested. Then there’s the anonymous men.
The drink and then the drugs. There’s considerable family pain on display. I can relate. His family’s fortunes were always rising and falling—Hawthorne slamming highballs in a St. Louis boardinghouse.
It is the romantic in me, but his soulmate was Carson McCullers and I’m fascinated by his memories of her cooking for him. Art needs that quaint angle.
The drink and then the drugs. There’s considerable family pain on display. I can relate. His family’s fortunes were always rising and falling—Hawthorne slamming highballs in a St. Louis boardinghouse.
It is the romantic in me, but his soulmate was Carson McCullers and I’m fascinated by his memories of her cooking for him. Art needs that quaint angle.