Harry Crosby Diary
Reading Harry Crosby's diary proved to be an interesting experience. It gave me a glimpse of Paris in the 20s, of life as the American expatriates lived it, but from the angle of someone who was wealthy. Before I came across Crosby's diary, most of my notions about Paris in the 20s (and 30s) had been derived from the works of writers, journalist, commentators, editors who had lived in Paris on small incomes or on no incomes at all. Quite a few of them lived on very little money or had to scrounge to get a meal or borrow from friends and loved ones. I am thinking of Hemingway, of course, and of Gertrude Stein, and Robert McAlmon and Kay Boyle and Malcolm Cowley and certainly Henry Miller. I was aware that the 20s saw the growth of immense wealth and quite a few wealthy people had also made Paris their home. But since very few among the rich left written records of their, the lives remained unknown to me.
Caresse and Harry Crosby appear to be a breed apart: not only fabulously rich but also totally immersed in the world of art and literature, in culture, in fact, as an artifact of human endeavor. Wealth in itself was meaningless to Harry unless it could be put to use to beautify and enhance life. To this end he devoted himself. Living life with taste and grace and style was what he wanted. Making money was not as important as spending it well, spending it in the service of Beauty and Excellence.
Harry had come very close to dying during his stint as an ambulance driver in WWI. This experience he shared with Hemingway. But the two young men reacted very differently to this experience. Hemingway decided to devote his life to making art; Harry wanted to make life itself an art. Harry's wealth robbed him of the discipline he needed to submit to in order to learn the craft of writing. Hemingway's poverty imposed on him the necessity of submitting to this same discipline. Ultimately, Hemingway also ended his life in suicide. But he only conceded to death after a lifetime of dedicated work and effort and struggle. Harry blew his brains out because the struggle of life meant nothing to him. After all the drinking and the drugs and sex and the seductions and life became a weariness from which he wanted to escape.
And yet in his diary he leaves behind an intriguing record of a keen mind, an evolved sensibility and a sensitive soul. For anyone interested in this time period and in Paris the way it was in the 20s, this diary provides a marvelously detailed portrait of people and places.
