Anyone here would like to write a book like this one? I'm here, ready to become your nightmarish artist-madman roommate: also a failed intellectual, and a Capricorn, and could monologue all evening if given permission, although I don't have too many really depraved secrets (seriously, that feeling when you're sitting there, thinking how all of Miller's friends seem pretty awful and Moricand doesn't come across that much worse in comparison, it's only that he's always there--and then comes the punch).
I had way more fun than I thought I could reading essentially a novella-length piece of gossip one could hear around 3 am at certain parties. I was sober reading it, and have only recognized one of the names, and yet Miller has kept me entertained. I could wonder how much truth really was there--he admits himself that the people he was writing about were dead at that point, so obviously couldn't lend me their perspective, but what is here makes an oddly fascinating story.