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Inside a Pearl: My Years in Paris
When Edmund White moved to Paris in 1983, leaving New York City in the midst of the AIDS crisis, he was forty-three years old, couldn't speak French, and only knew two people in the entire city. But in middle age, he discovered the new anxieties and pleasures of mastering a new culture. When he left fifteen years later to take a teaching position in the U.S., he was fluent enough to broadcast on French radio and TV, and in his work as a journalist, he'd made the acquaintance of everyone from Yves Saint Laurent to Catherine Deneuve to Michel Foucault. He'd also developed a close friendship with an older woman, Marie-Claude, through which he'd come to understand French life and culture in a deeper way.
The book's title evokes the Parisian landscape in the eternal mists and the half-light, the serenity of the city compared to the New York White had known (and vividly recalled in City Boy). White fell headily in love with the city and its culture: both intoxicated and intellectually stimulated. He became the definitive biographer of Jean Genet; he wrote lives of Marcel Proust and Arthur Rimbaud; and he became a recipient of the French Order of Arts and Letters. Inside a Pearl recalls those fertile years for White. It's a memoir which gossips and ruminates, and offers a brilliant examination of a city and a culture eternally imbued with an aura of enchantment.
The book's title evokes the Parisian landscape in the eternal mists and the half-light, the serenity of the city compared to the New York White had known (and vividly recalled in City Boy). White fell headily in love with the city and its culture: both intoxicated and intellectually stimulated. He became the definitive biographer of Jean Genet; he wrote lives of Marcel Proust and Arthur Rimbaud; and he became a recipient of the French Order of Arts and Letters. Inside a Pearl recalls those fertile years for White. It's a memoir which gossips and ruminates, and offers a brilliant examination of a city and a culture eternally imbued with an aura of enchantment.
261 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2014
58 people are currently reading
869 people want to read
About the author
Edmund White
139 books913 followersEdmund Valentine White III was an American novelist, memoirist, playwright, biographer, and essayist. He was the recipient of Lambda Literary's Visionary Award, the National Book Foundation's Lifetime Achievement Award, and the PEN/Saul Bellow Award for Achievement in American Fiction. France made him Chevalier (and later Officier) de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in 1993.
White was known as a groundbreaking writer of gay literature and a major influence on gay American literature and has been called "the first major queer novelist to champion a new generation of writers."
White was known as a groundbreaking writer of gay literature and a major influence on gay American literature and has been called "the first major queer novelist to champion a new generation of writers."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 84 reviews
May 31, 2014
I was quite charmed for about the first hundred pages or so–and then I realized there was about 150 pages still to go. By the last fifty pages or so I was finding it something of a chore to finish, even if I always found the content itself of interest. Which means, unfortunately, that Inside a Pearl: My Years in Paris is a case of constantly-diminishing returns.
In my critical writing I always try my best to take the object of analysis at hand on its own terms, attempting to come to terms with what it is, rather than what I want it to be. But in this particular case I can’t seem to get away from complaining about what it seems this book could and should have been: a sparkling and witty little rumination on issues of expatriation and experiencing a particular historic moment through the people who inhabit it. Certainly, all of these elements are present in Inside a Pearl, but as it turns out the most interesting moments of the book are not the familiar (and intriguing but not-so-familiar) names on endless parade, but White’s personal observations on the complicated cultural relationship between France and America.
[…]
An author of White’s stature who is specifically acclaimed as a master of autobiographical or autobiographically-inflected fictional forms should instinctually know that “and then I met, and then I went” is an untenable narrative structure to hang nearly 250 pages upon. Even the most fascinating of lives–and White’s certainly falls under that category–can’t possibly sustain the reader’s interest when rendered in such a ponderous way. In the end Inside a Pearl is endlessly readable and from moment-to-moment often quite fascinating, but somehow it always feels like a dutiful record instead of an account that captures what it is to vitally alive.
[NOTE: In an effort to maintain control over my writing in light of some dubious policy implementations, I am no longer posting full reviews on Goodreads on topics connected to my scholarly interests. If you're interested in reading the full review, you can find it here on my blog, Queer Modernisms. My apologies for the annoying inconvenience.]
In my critical writing I always try my best to take the object of analysis at hand on its own terms, attempting to come to terms with what it is, rather than what I want it to be. But in this particular case I can’t seem to get away from complaining about what it seems this book could and should have been: a sparkling and witty little rumination on issues of expatriation and experiencing a particular historic moment through the people who inhabit it. Certainly, all of these elements are present in Inside a Pearl, but as it turns out the most interesting moments of the book are not the familiar (and intriguing but not-so-familiar) names on endless parade, but White’s personal observations on the complicated cultural relationship between France and America.
[…]
An author of White’s stature who is specifically acclaimed as a master of autobiographical or autobiographically-inflected fictional forms should instinctually know that “and then I met, and then I went” is an untenable narrative structure to hang nearly 250 pages upon. Even the most fascinating of lives–and White’s certainly falls under that category–can’t possibly sustain the reader’s interest when rendered in such a ponderous way. In the end Inside a Pearl is endlessly readable and from moment-to-moment often quite fascinating, but somehow it always feels like a dutiful record instead of an account that captures what it is to vitally alive.
[NOTE: In an effort to maintain control over my writing in light of some dubious policy implementations, I am no longer posting full reviews on Goodreads on topics connected to my scholarly interests. If you're interested in reading the full review, you can find it here on my blog, Queer Modernisms. My apologies for the annoying inconvenience.]
March 25, 2014
White's jewels are all paste worn by bulldog-faced Elsa Maxwell in drag. A laundry list of Elsa names. He massaged the right "people" for grants and pr, and delivers trivial poo.
June 4, 2017
I bought Edmund White’s Inside a Pearl almost as a reflex action. I was at Sydney’s gay bookstore, The Bookshop Darlinghurst, and like to try to make purchases there to support them. It was on sale. It’s about Paris. I was going on a long trip where I’d have more time for reading. And it’s Edmund White.
But most of the way through the book, I thought: why do I do things based on what I used to do (i.e. I’ve been buying and reading his books for almost three decades)? Doesn’t it show a lack of growth, or even imagination?
These are the things that I liked about the book:
White illuminates different aspects of Paris and French culture in a way that is witty, intelligent and engaging, and in doing so, illuminates American culture, and even parts of NYC, where I’m reading the book.
He often does this by repeating something that he’s learned from someone else, but he attributes it, and that’s a skill in itself. I enjoyed sharing with my husband some of his observations of the French that we’d picked up.
In the meantime, White can often summarise a person, or a situation, with a few sharp words, in a way that I find engaging. A glass-eyed virgin hovers above their guest bed in Provence: ‘We had to put underwear over her head if we wanted to sleep or have sex’. Lauren Bacall is simply a ‘loud, opinionated harridan’ to which he tries to reconcile with his remembrance of her ‘iconic slender body and huge eyes’.
Similarly, he can sketch out character studies in a few paragraphs, and what characters they are! His gossip and observations, rapportage of conflict and jealousy: this is all that Jonathan Galassi’s boring ‘Muse’ wasn’t. The details were witty and true, rather than trite and possibly about someone who we should know, but might not.
But while I was interested in the book to begin with, particularly how his friends, for example, his adored M.C., the first wife of the creator of Babar, represented a particular type of Frenchwoman, the book descended into a clutter of names and celebrities, all of the famous and infamous people White has met and socialised with.
I have a complicated relationship to Edmund White’s writing. I adored the first two books of his gay trilogy so much that they served as inspiration for my own writing. His candidness, his yearning, his storytelling: all of these represented something exciting about my identity as a gay man. And I simply loved his words, long, crafted sentences that didn’t lose their way. It was strange to read right at the end of the book that my observation was right that his style has changed over the years. His current writing is pretty sharp and succinct, which he admits was a consequence of living in two languages and an impatience, as the French have, with ‘long sentences and sinuous syntax’ (though on the other hand, French formal correspondence is so long-winded and courtly compared to English used in the business world).
When living in Brussels, a friend of mine, a journalist John, had also read his earlier book on Paris, Le Flaneur, and we loved his gossipy tales and imagined stalking him in Paris to crash a dinner party, and enjoy the pleasure and intellect with which he engaged his acquaintances.
Yet in the same period, we started a book club and I chose his book of essays: Skinned Alive. My pals David and John just weren’t very impressed; it was not a problem with the writing itself. They just didn’t really like him as a person and what he was saying. I had to admit that it wasn’t a strong work.
Years later, in Sydney, I asked him a question after his reading about the nature of fame. I was perhaps prompted by something he’d said. In front of a sold-out audience at the Sydney Theatre as part of the busy Sydney Writer’s Festival, he remarked ruefully that a famous gay writer is not really famous at all. I think I had him sign a book afterwards, and I gave him a copy of one of my own. Kindly, he emailed me, though I think that evidence is lost in an IT disaster from years ago. He didn’t comment at all about the writing, but simply asked was it really so hard to be an Asian man on the gay scene? This from someone who has lamented so often about how he’s worried about how his ageing and weight gain makes him less desirable, and seems keenly aware of differences in social power and the way homosexuality marks out difference.
These two issues – a desire for fame, and a sort of tone-deafness to issues of power and privilege – kept coming up for me during reading this book.
The endless parade of names seems to be a fascination not only with intellect and literature but with wealth and power. After a while, it was boring. He references endlessly whether people have given him a good review or not for various books (and proudly notes that he’s friends with people who gave him bad reviews).
But perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh. He does seem to be kind to people in his social circle, and introduces his huge cast with admiration, as handsome, or erudite, charming, of fierce intellect, well-dressed or faithful in friendship. But it is a whirligig of social activity and connections: only those who love this themselves will connect with it.
He can criticise friends and acquaintances with simple phrases, too drunk, or crazy or hopeless or lacking in self-confidence, but he stands back at a strange distance, without judgement when talking about certain lovers and issues: French writers who defended pedophilia; a masochist lover who beat up gay men when not having gay sex. He admits being out of touch when criticised about his selection of white authors for a gay short fiction anthology, but considers this is an example of how politically correct America is, not a reason for him to think about diversity and race.
His own relationships of power seem remarkably free of analysis. He’s happy to hire sex workers or buy things for lovers. It’s alluded that a number of lovers were attracted to his wealth and fame. But he doesn’t offer the same observations of himself that he makes of so many other people.
It’s a strange world that he inhabited in Paris: wealthy and famous gay men, and their toy boys and lovers, how each party discards each other for better options (though to be fair, he also describes a share of strange straight relationships). Emotional connection, something called ‘love’ doesn’t seem to figure: ‘in the battle of love the vanquished is whoever gets dumped first’. His longest description of a relationship, with Hubert, reveals little about any shared affection but in the end much of how unpleasant Hubert was. Perhaps his deafest statement was ‘how often straight guys must be accused of rape’ because of being stoned or drunk and assuming other person wants the same thing as you.
The biggest theme in the book, I think, and probably in life, is an obstinate resentment about not being more famous. He laments often about not being recognised in America as writers are lauded in other parts of the world: ‘the writer’s loss of prestige and the public’s neglect’. It comes up over and again, and has obviously been a lifelong issue: not to be satisfied with the fame and success he has, but to want more. He is obviously disappointed that Princess Di’s death consumes the media… and ruins coverage and interviews for his book ‘The Farewell Symphony’.
I started writing notes for this review before I actually finished the book so was surprised at how prescient I was: he ends the book with more lament, of not being considered a ‘good American writer’ in France, of whether he was known by peers, by the elite or by the general public.
In the end, I don’t think this book added much to his considerable oeuvre. Was it a contractual obligation? Or simply a habit: to write. It covers some of the same ground as Le Flaneur, and touches on parts of his life already fictionalised. One could propose that an interesting theme is someone who is caught between two cultures, and how that experience provides insight on both cultures. But what comes through and than dominates that possible narrative is a curmudgeonly dissatisfaction with one’s lot, no matter where one is living. His last comment, that he came to discover he was American when he first moved to Europe, could have aspects of revelation or gratefulness, but after the complaint before it carries an element that is sour and unpleasant.
But most of the way through the book, I thought: why do I do things based on what I used to do (i.e. I’ve been buying and reading his books for almost three decades)? Doesn’t it show a lack of growth, or even imagination?
These are the things that I liked about the book:
White illuminates different aspects of Paris and French culture in a way that is witty, intelligent and engaging, and in doing so, illuminates American culture, and even parts of NYC, where I’m reading the book.
He often does this by repeating something that he’s learned from someone else, but he attributes it, and that’s a skill in itself. I enjoyed sharing with my husband some of his observations of the French that we’d picked up.
In the meantime, White can often summarise a person, or a situation, with a few sharp words, in a way that I find engaging. A glass-eyed virgin hovers above their guest bed in Provence: ‘We had to put underwear over her head if we wanted to sleep or have sex’. Lauren Bacall is simply a ‘loud, opinionated harridan’ to which he tries to reconcile with his remembrance of her ‘iconic slender body and huge eyes’.
Similarly, he can sketch out character studies in a few paragraphs, and what characters they are! His gossip and observations, rapportage of conflict and jealousy: this is all that Jonathan Galassi’s boring ‘Muse’ wasn’t. The details were witty and true, rather than trite and possibly about someone who we should know, but might not.
But while I was interested in the book to begin with, particularly how his friends, for example, his adored M.C., the first wife of the creator of Babar, represented a particular type of Frenchwoman, the book descended into a clutter of names and celebrities, all of the famous and infamous people White has met and socialised with.
I have a complicated relationship to Edmund White’s writing. I adored the first two books of his gay trilogy so much that they served as inspiration for my own writing. His candidness, his yearning, his storytelling: all of these represented something exciting about my identity as a gay man. And I simply loved his words, long, crafted sentences that didn’t lose their way. It was strange to read right at the end of the book that my observation was right that his style has changed over the years. His current writing is pretty sharp and succinct, which he admits was a consequence of living in two languages and an impatience, as the French have, with ‘long sentences and sinuous syntax’ (though on the other hand, French formal correspondence is so long-winded and courtly compared to English used in the business world).
When living in Brussels, a friend of mine, a journalist John, had also read his earlier book on Paris, Le Flaneur, and we loved his gossipy tales and imagined stalking him in Paris to crash a dinner party, and enjoy the pleasure and intellect with which he engaged his acquaintances.
Yet in the same period, we started a book club and I chose his book of essays: Skinned Alive. My pals David and John just weren’t very impressed; it was not a problem with the writing itself. They just didn’t really like him as a person and what he was saying. I had to admit that it wasn’t a strong work.
Years later, in Sydney, I asked him a question after his reading about the nature of fame. I was perhaps prompted by something he’d said. In front of a sold-out audience at the Sydney Theatre as part of the busy Sydney Writer’s Festival, he remarked ruefully that a famous gay writer is not really famous at all. I think I had him sign a book afterwards, and I gave him a copy of one of my own. Kindly, he emailed me, though I think that evidence is lost in an IT disaster from years ago. He didn’t comment at all about the writing, but simply asked was it really so hard to be an Asian man on the gay scene? This from someone who has lamented so often about how he’s worried about how his ageing and weight gain makes him less desirable, and seems keenly aware of differences in social power and the way homosexuality marks out difference.
These two issues – a desire for fame, and a sort of tone-deafness to issues of power and privilege – kept coming up for me during reading this book.
The endless parade of names seems to be a fascination not only with intellect and literature but with wealth and power. After a while, it was boring. He references endlessly whether people have given him a good review or not for various books (and proudly notes that he’s friends with people who gave him bad reviews).
But perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh. He does seem to be kind to people in his social circle, and introduces his huge cast with admiration, as handsome, or erudite, charming, of fierce intellect, well-dressed or faithful in friendship. But it is a whirligig of social activity and connections: only those who love this themselves will connect with it.
He can criticise friends and acquaintances with simple phrases, too drunk, or crazy or hopeless or lacking in self-confidence, but he stands back at a strange distance, without judgement when talking about certain lovers and issues: French writers who defended pedophilia; a masochist lover who beat up gay men when not having gay sex. He admits being out of touch when criticised about his selection of white authors for a gay short fiction anthology, but considers this is an example of how politically correct America is, not a reason for him to think about diversity and race.
His own relationships of power seem remarkably free of analysis. He’s happy to hire sex workers or buy things for lovers. It’s alluded that a number of lovers were attracted to his wealth and fame. But he doesn’t offer the same observations of himself that he makes of so many other people.
It’s a strange world that he inhabited in Paris: wealthy and famous gay men, and their toy boys and lovers, how each party discards each other for better options (though to be fair, he also describes a share of strange straight relationships). Emotional connection, something called ‘love’ doesn’t seem to figure: ‘in the battle of love the vanquished is whoever gets dumped first’. His longest description of a relationship, with Hubert, reveals little about any shared affection but in the end much of how unpleasant Hubert was. Perhaps his deafest statement was ‘how often straight guys must be accused of rape’ because of being stoned or drunk and assuming other person wants the same thing as you.
The biggest theme in the book, I think, and probably in life, is an obstinate resentment about not being more famous. He laments often about not being recognised in America as writers are lauded in other parts of the world: ‘the writer’s loss of prestige and the public’s neglect’. It comes up over and again, and has obviously been a lifelong issue: not to be satisfied with the fame and success he has, but to want more. He is obviously disappointed that Princess Di’s death consumes the media… and ruins coverage and interviews for his book ‘The Farewell Symphony’.
I started writing notes for this review before I actually finished the book so was surprised at how prescient I was: he ends the book with more lament, of not being considered a ‘good American writer’ in France, of whether he was known by peers, by the elite or by the general public.
In the end, I don’t think this book added much to his considerable oeuvre. Was it a contractual obligation? Or simply a habit: to write. It covers some of the same ground as Le Flaneur, and touches on parts of his life already fictionalised. One could propose that an interesting theme is someone who is caught between two cultures, and how that experience provides insight on both cultures. But what comes through and than dominates that possible narrative is a curmudgeonly dissatisfaction with one’s lot, no matter where one is living. His last comment, that he came to discover he was American when he first moved to Europe, could have aspects of revelation or gratefulness, but after the complaint before it carries an element that is sour and unpleasant.
September 3, 2016
Edmund White has already written two other books about Paris (Our Paris: Sketches from Memory and also The Flaneur) but these were more traditional travel narratives than this new work. Inside a Pearl is more like a companion volume to his 2010 memoir City Boy: My Life in New York during the 1960s and ‘70s offering a wealth of entertaining anecdotes about his friendships with the rich and famous, other writers, and his various boyfriends and numerous lovers. Inside a Pearl concentrates on White’s friendship with Marie-Claude de Brunhoff, an older French woman, polished and elegant, and married to the author of the Babar the Elephant books. She helps shape and refine White’s understanding of Paris and the French and adapt to the cultural changes and linguistic complications. If you a fan of White, you will notice some repetition from his previous books – for example his relationships with his boyfriends Brice and Hubert are explored (they were also featured in his novels The Farewell Symphony and The Married Man). Yet there are fascinating insights into writers such as Ned Rorem and James Lord, and due to his work for Vogue, encounters with Azzedine Alaia, Yves Saint Laurent and Christian Lacroix. One chapter also takes us across the channel to London and provides interesting, gossipy profiles of his friends and acquaintances there – the likes of Neil Bartlett, Adam Mars-Jones, Alan Hollinghurst, Julian Barnes and his literary agent wife Pat Kavaugh (who famously had an affair with Jeanette Winterson), and even Nigella Lawson. He can also be extremely indiscreet and candid − Lauren Bacall comes in for a vicious serve. There is less explicit sexual detail than some of his previous books, yet as an English newspaper declares in a headline – ‘the frisky old goat is still at it!’ The subsequent article is about White and his partner Michael Carroll (who is 25 years his junior) One of the book’s closing chapters, describes this couple moving back to New York together, much to Marie-Claude’s disappointment. But adapting to life back in New York proved difficult for White with so many of his old gay friends now dead and the differing customs and attitudes. He also blamed the American food for gaining weight!
January 23, 2014
Pure Edmund White Gold
Edmund Valentine White III is an American novelist, as well as a writer of memoirs and an essayist on literary and social topics. Much of his writing is on the theme of same-sex love. His hugely successful books include his autobiogray `A Boy's Own Story', `The Beautiful Room is Empty', `The Farwell Symphony', `Forgetting Elena', `Nocturnes for the King of Naples', `The Married Man', `City Boy', `The Flaneur', Jack Holmes and his Friends', `States of Desire', `The Joy of Gay Sex', probing essays on Jean Genet and Michel Foucault, and now he reminisces about his 15 year ex-patriot years in Paris from 1983 to 1998.
Now at age 74 he is just as brisk, learned, polished and fascinating a writer as his bulging resume would indicate, but not there is a wondrous sense of melancholy as he recalls his loss of friends to AIDS (including some of the Violet Quill group of authors to which he belonged with Andrew Holleran, Felice Picano, George Whitmore, Michael Grumley, Christopher Cox and Robert Ferro), and the varitions in the way of looking at love and life in contrasting America with France (or rather New York with Paris). His love affairs and consignations in Paris are described in full as are his gradually developing obsessions with all things French.
But the real joy, or for this reader the primary joy, in reading Edmund White is his consummate use of the English language, inserting many French phrases that fit so well, and sharing the Parisian style that few have ever shared so well. The book is rich in humor and philosophy and reflects his life participation in the gay rights movement. From his book we become acquainted with innumerable French artists in every form of art, but even more fascinating is his ability to convey the 'French mannerisms' that elude so many other writers. This is a book to read slowly, like sipping a fine French wine. Highly recommended for those who savor fine writing.
Edmund Valentine White III is an American novelist, as well as a writer of memoirs and an essayist on literary and social topics. Much of his writing is on the theme of same-sex love. His hugely successful books include his autobiogray `A Boy's Own Story', `The Beautiful Room is Empty', `The Farwell Symphony', `Forgetting Elena', `Nocturnes for the King of Naples', `The Married Man', `City Boy', `The Flaneur', Jack Holmes and his Friends', `States of Desire', `The Joy of Gay Sex', probing essays on Jean Genet and Michel Foucault, and now he reminisces about his 15 year ex-patriot years in Paris from 1983 to 1998.
Now at age 74 he is just as brisk, learned, polished and fascinating a writer as his bulging resume would indicate, but not there is a wondrous sense of melancholy as he recalls his loss of friends to AIDS (including some of the Violet Quill group of authors to which he belonged with Andrew Holleran, Felice Picano, George Whitmore, Michael Grumley, Christopher Cox and Robert Ferro), and the varitions in the way of looking at love and life in contrasting America with France (or rather New York with Paris). His love affairs and consignations in Paris are described in full as are his gradually developing obsessions with all things French.
But the real joy, or for this reader the primary joy, in reading Edmund White is his consummate use of the English language, inserting many French phrases that fit so well, and sharing the Parisian style that few have ever shared so well. The book is rich in humor and philosophy and reflects his life participation in the gay rights movement. From his book we become acquainted with innumerable French artists in every form of art, but even more fascinating is his ability to convey the 'French mannerisms' that elude so many other writers. This is a book to read slowly, like sipping a fine French wine. Highly recommended for those who savor fine writing.
October 4, 2015
Gossip for days! Sometimes I love him (might be time to re-read "States of Desire" and "The Flaneur"), sometimes not so much, but I knew I had to read this one.
Here's the last page:
Did living in France all those years affect my writing? It gave me a lot to write about.
Once a green-haired presenter on TV in Manchester asked me, "You're known as a writer, a homosexual, and an American. When did you first discover you were an American?"
"When I first moved to Europe."
Here's the last page:
Did living in France all those years affect my writing? It gave me a lot to write about.
Once a green-haired presenter on TV in Manchester asked me, "You're known as a writer, a homosexual, and an American. When did you first discover you were an American?"
"When I first moved to Europe."
March 11, 2014
As a Parisophile, I was entirely disappointed in this book. On my Amazon review I put: "I can't believe I actually made it to page 137 before just finally giving up on this self-serving, endlessly name-dropping snoozer by an author I have always enjoyed reading. Nothing at all like the enjoyable OUR PARIS or THE FLANEUR. I wish I had kept a tally of how many names were dropped in a lame attempt to, I guess, impress the reader. Those who have read him don't need to be impressed. Sad parody of an aging author in decline! I hope he sends me a refund for the $26.00 I spent on the book." If Amazon and Goodreads had a ZERO star option, I would have used it.
September 2, 2013
A fun and salacious romp through the memories of Ed White, specifically on his life in Paris and the friends, lovers, and celebrities (literary and others) he encountered while there.
February 8, 2014
Acclaimed American gay author Edmund White moved to Paris from New York in 1983 when he was 43, and spent the next 15 years there. His memoir of those years reads like a who’s who of Parisian and French society as he seems to have met just about everyone – writers, artists, designers, socialites, people just visiting the city as well as its denizens. He had friendships with the rich and famous of both sexes, plus numerous lovers. At times the book feels like an exercise in name-dropping. People pop in and out of the narrative with alarming frequency. Full of anecdote and observation, musings on life, literature, the arts, and the devastating rise of AIDS which affected so many of his gay friends as well as himself, this is engaging memoir on the whole, although it’s sometime hard to keep up with his wide acquaintance. His sexual encounters are described in graphic detail, which tends to become a little monotonous, but it’s obviously an aspect of his life that is all-important to him, so I suppose the reader can’t object. I found the book interesting and engaging on the whole, even if I did sometimes wonder if I’d slipped into reading a celebrity gossip magazine by mistake. But White writes so well, with such a command of language, that he just about gets away with it - although I sometimes muttered “enough already” at an encounter with yet another big name. Nevertheless, particularly for White aficionados, this is an entertaining book and one that gives real insight into White’s life, experiences and outlook.
September 20, 2017
I was quite disappointed when, not that long ago, I read Edmund Wilson’s Our Own Boy, which I found to be sloppily written and conceived. I'm happy to say that Inside a Pearl, that I just finished reading, has reconciled me with the writer. It is a very different kind of work, if only because it is a memoir and not a novel. As far as I’m concerned, Inside a Pearl is a vastly more enjoyable and rich reading experience. It is a delightful book, enlivened by a sharp, stylish, and witty prose, and it made me want to read Wilson’s previous books that have made him so famous. I did wonder, though, if Inside a Pearl couldn’t be seen by some as an acquired taste. It is not, as I first thought, about Paris per say (even if Paris is definitely a major character): the whole volume is essentially about Wilson’s glittering life as Parisian, starting in the early eighties, and more specifically, it is mostly about the numerous people that he has encountered and befriended during his almost 20 years on the old continent. Most of those people are members of the French intelligentsia, or at least of a very privileged crowd that defined a certain Parisian scene, and most of them are completely unknown here in the US: I’m not sure how interesting it can be to read about them for an American reader. I was living in Paris at the same time Wilson was there – I realized that it is very possible we did run into each other, in fact – and I know very well who he’s talking about (I even met a few of those people) : this memoir, somehow, took me back on a tour of the Paris I knew, and that is probably one of the main reasons I found it so entertaining and evocative. Wilson is extraordinarily gossipy - he admits so himself - and one does have to enjoy gossip to fully savor those pages. I do, in a way, but the truth is that, as amusing and revealing as the gossip Wilson indulges in is, the accumulation, at some point, tends to amount to rather shallow and facile vignettes about interesting people rather than to an in-depth and complex portrait of the Paris intellectual scene. Wilson is a gifted observer but he's not Marcel Proust. That being said, Inside a Pearl remains a compelling read to the end. Wilson also loves to name names. Big time. I actually suspect him of being a little bit of a snob who loves being surrounded by more or less famous personalities. Like so many Americans who move to Europe, he seems to be enamoured with titled people, aristocrats of all sorts, and people who incarnate a certain image of the intellectual elite of those countries (and in France, those people do tend to mix and be part of the same set.) Basically everybody that Wilson gossip about is a celebrity of some sort within the realm of this very closed coterie. We, French people, talk about “parisianism”, when we want to denounce this kind of snobbery. That Wilson had so many friends is astounding, but I imagine that his definition of what a friend is remains rather loose. More than once I did wonder: when did he have time to write and work, when he seems to have spent so many hours socializing and going from one lunch or dinner to another party? He certainly was, as a well-recognized American novelist, happily embraced by the Paris intellectual crowd, and it is, as he describes it, a lively, brilliant, incredibly educated, and in some ways enchanted milieu, even if it also can be felt as a deeply irritating, arrogant, and suffocating crowd. Wilson is obviously, as an expat, captivated and charmed, but he doesn't cease to be an observant American, and that allows him to never be a dupe. I imagine that to some degree Wilson felt he was in the shoes of Henry James. He certainly does write about all this lovingly, with subtlety and humor. His sense of observation is wonderful: not only is he very good at portraying various people in a few chosen words (his portrait of another expat, James Lord, is excellent), but he’s also very adept at analyzing, with care and intelligence, the French character and what defines it. He also adroitly pinpoints the differences between French, American, and British people. He’s quite right on target about it all, I’ve to say, although he probably would have had a very different take on the French had he spent more than a decade in a blue-collar community or within the conservative provincial bourgeoisie. Wilson’s France is a very specific France! Inside a Pearl encompasses many, many years of socializing: Wilson, thankfully, doesn’t settle for a boring chronological painting of his Parisian life but he rather lets his memory wander and meander along, jumping from one character or one event to another. The result is endearing, as we follow Wilson on an impromptu and disorganized walk through his colorful past. Emerging from the crowd of people that he depicts is one special woman: Marie-Claude de Brunhoff, a discrete French socialite with whom he was very close and about whom he writes beautifully. Anyone being honored by such a loving tribute all through those pages must have been an exceptional person, and Wilson’s tenderness for her feels sincere and is really moving. Inside a Pearl is often a funny book, as Wilson drily notes the traits and travails of this elite he’s discovering, but it’s also a book haunted by tragedy and tinted by immense sadness: the eighties and nineties were the devastating era of AIDS in our Western countries. Wilson himself is HIV positive and believes he only has a few years to live, and way too many of his lovers and friends die at a young age. Wilson doesn’t try to be sentimental, but the impact of the AIDS catastrophe imbues his pages with a veiled emotion. He does evoke some of his most difficult intimate experiences, such as the death of his lover Hubert, with a delicate bluntness that brings unexpected gravita to the book. Wilson is actually a strange memoirist: he does give - rather randomly - some highly personal details, notably when it comes to his sex adventures, yet he does remain very discreet on many other aspects of his life and career during those years. At the end, this memoir reveals little about him: it is more about his vision of the scintillating social world that surrounds him. And why not? I just loved walking through the Paris he knew (and that I knew too) in his company - with a few detours through London, New York, and other exotic locations. I found his mordant, clever, ironic, yet affectionate painting of the Parisian artistic and literary elite to be delicious – and deliciously accurate.
February 26, 2014
Superb literary memoir from a man who has a fascinating taste in company and stature. For me, the key chapter is when he talks about his relationship with French authors Pierre Guyotat (the strangest writer he knows) and Gabriel Matzneff, who as far as I know has not previously been translated into English. I am going to have to presume due to his pro-pedophile stance. But that is just two or three pages here. The rest of the book is a combination of being haunted, due to the AIDS crisis that took place in the 1980s (the era he was in Paris the most) and the chi-chi set he met through his work writing articles for French Vogue.
White is one of my favorite literary essayists. Whenever he writes about an author, I immediately always want to check that writer out. So "Inside a Pearl" is a combination of life during AIDS, the good life in Paris, and commentary on London social and literary life as well. There is really nothing new here, except the reader is sharing space with White, and that is perfect company. It's best to read his memoir "City Boy" which is his sex-obsessed life in New York City first, and then go into this Paris book. Both books are front-to-back memoirs that standalone, but I think it's a much richer experience to read both titles. With respect to this one, it is also interesting that he was mostly in Paris to write his great biography of Jean Genet. As I said, lovely company.
White is one of my favorite literary essayists. Whenever he writes about an author, I immediately always want to check that writer out. So "Inside a Pearl" is a combination of life during AIDS, the good life in Paris, and commentary on London social and literary life as well. There is really nothing new here, except the reader is sharing space with White, and that is perfect company. It's best to read his memoir "City Boy" which is his sex-obsessed life in New York City first, and then go into this Paris book. Both books are front-to-back memoirs that standalone, but I think it's a much richer experience to read both titles. With respect to this one, it is also interesting that he was mostly in Paris to write his great biography of Jean Genet. As I said, lovely company.
April 29, 2014
I couldn't imagine doing what Mr. White did and moving to a foreign country at the age of 43, especially without knowing the native tongue. The author, Edmund White, moved from New York City to Paris in 1983 even though he did not know the French language. Luckily, he did know a couple people in the city. I did enjoy reading about the people he met while in Paris and some of the work he had done. He's led quite an exciting life.
I also feel it would have been hard to deal with losing so many friends and acquaintances during that period, during the AIDS crisis of the 80's. Unlike generations like mine, that grew up with a knowledge of AIDS, when it first started out, there were a lot of unknowns and public misunderstandings about the disease. In addition to having to deal with the affects of the disease, many of the sufferers, along with their friends and family had to deal with the social stigmas of the times. I couldn't imagine losing friends and loved ones during this time, like the author did.
Mr. White is an excellent writer and I enjoyed reading about his experiences learning about French culture. The book flowed well and was well-written.
Since I am a fan of memoirs, I enjoyed this book and even enjoyed the 'name-dropping'. I would recommend this book to fans of the genre.
I also feel it would have been hard to deal with losing so many friends and acquaintances during that period, during the AIDS crisis of the 80's. Unlike generations like mine, that grew up with a knowledge of AIDS, when it first started out, there were a lot of unknowns and public misunderstandings about the disease. In addition to having to deal with the affects of the disease, many of the sufferers, along with their friends and family had to deal with the social stigmas of the times. I couldn't imagine losing friends and loved ones during this time, like the author did.
Mr. White is an excellent writer and I enjoyed reading about his experiences learning about French culture. The book flowed well and was well-written.
Since I am a fan of memoirs, I enjoyed this book and even enjoyed the 'name-dropping'. I would recommend this book to fans of the genre.
February 14, 2014
I am a big fan of memoirs, and Paris is one of my favorite cities on the planet. Thus, I thought "Inside a Pearl" would be a perfect mix of things I love.
Unfortunately, Edmund White's memoir felt more like a name-dropping party than a memoir. He made a big point in every single chapter of talking about rich and famous people whom he met at various dinner parties.
This was not the only reason I found the book disappointing; White is an openly gay man who was living in Paris at the beginning of the AIDS crisis. He is also one of the founders of the Gay Men's Health Crisis Center, so I expected to find out more about what things were like in the earliest days of this event. What I found was a man in denial, who was still unsafely promiscuous. Perhaps this was more common in the early days of AIDS than I realized, even given the large number of gay friends I have had since long before that time; it's hard to say, from an outside perspective. But between the "here's who I bonked" catalogue and "here's who I dined with," this book felt like a shallow look at what should have been deeper issues.
Unfortunately, Edmund White's memoir felt more like a name-dropping party than a memoir. He made a big point in every single chapter of talking about rich and famous people whom he met at various dinner parties.
This was not the only reason I found the book disappointing; White is an openly gay man who was living in Paris at the beginning of the AIDS crisis. He is also one of the founders of the Gay Men's Health Crisis Center, so I expected to find out more about what things were like in the earliest days of this event. What I found was a man in denial, who was still unsafely promiscuous. Perhaps this was more common in the early days of AIDS than I realized, even given the large number of gay friends I have had since long before that time; it's hard to say, from an outside perspective. But between the "here's who I bonked" catalogue and "here's who I dined with," this book felt like a shallow look at what should have been deeper issues.
February 25, 2014
I rate this book very high mainly because I feel and sense the compassion this writer has for France and his friends. He states that "A true friend could be called on at any time, day or night"- White appears to be that type of friend. I was particularly struck by his sincere and lasting friendship with "MC" and his genuine feelings and respect for her losses (it appears she never really got over her husband leaving) and artistic ability. He does name drop- but he can. He writes well. His description of the French people's regard for the avant-garde, collective knowledge of things and attention to table manners is accurate and strikingly reminded me of my mother as I grew up (She was a Parisian who my dad met during WW II and still at 92 complains if you "grasp the silverware" the wrong way). This is not a particularly quick read but it's worth the wade if you are interested in French writers and some unique aspects of the players who made up the artistic scene when White was there.
August 4, 2014
A fast reader could read this book in a day; it took me forever because of all the name-dropping - the book resembles articles in Vanity Fair so, if you enjoy that type of journalism, this is the book for you. I expected more introspection about Paris during the AIDS epidemic - for those of us who lost so many friends, I wanted to hear it from someone who is HIV positive and why everyone was flocking to Paris for the newest treatment.
I enjoyed some of the snippets of the popular and infamous artsy-crowd but the best part is White's description comparing cultural perspectives of the French to the English and, to Americans.
By the time (finally), I closed the book, it seemed obvious to me that it was a love-tribute to one of his best friends, Marie Claude de Brunhoff (wife to the famed Babar books' author).
I enjoyed some of the snippets of the popular and infamous artsy-crowd but the best part is White's description comparing cultural perspectives of the French to the English and, to Americans.
By the time (finally), I closed the book, it seemed obvious to me that it was a love-tribute to one of his best friends, Marie Claude de Brunhoff (wife to the famed Babar books' author).
July 12, 2016
Where to begin? I have no idea who the author is and I don't particularly like him. The book just seems to be a ramble through his life naming names of people I would say no one has ever heard of. There is a fair bit of info about his sex life and the life of gays in general. Sad to say I found it all fairly repulsive. Not that he's gay but that he is proudly aware of having slept with thousands of strange penises. There Seems to be little love or ethics in his love life. I would say this book would please very few.
December 26, 2014
A Christmas gift by a wonderful writer about one of my favorite places, Paris - especially as described by him. I had to dip in and read a few pages here and there where he seems to have experienced more than I did in my full five years there.
Look forward to reading the full book.
Look forward to reading the full book.
March 9, 2024
White's book is another one of his memoirs detailing his life in Paris in the early 1980s. The book charts all the people and places he knew during this period and while the name dropping does at times become exhausting there is no doubt he led a fascinating life and captures the joy he experienced meeting all of the names dropped. While a fun, gossipy and salacious read, White is also not afraid to use the hindsight of the memoir to ask questions about himself. More than anything the book is a love letter to France's capital city.
"Paris still seemed like a set out of nineteenth century opera..."19
"I'm the kind of guy who's always wanted to be elsewhere." 21
"He said he was dyslexic, the vogue word of that decade for lack of literary curiosity, just as attention deficit disorder is the term now." 27
"The Taoists, so I've been told, say that no one ever lives, that even an untruth can express a desire, an ideal, a longed for reality. John certainly wanted to be seen as the sweet, wounded victim..."37
"In America we wouldn't usually confuse aesthetics and politics, whereas in France everything is arranged according to extra-artistic allegiances." 43
"After all, I was of the Stonewall generation, equating sexual freedom with freedom itself." 49
"Madame de Staël, in her book about Germany, had written that German was not a proper language for intelligent conversation since you had to wait till the end of the sentence to hear the verb and couldn't interrupt." 81
"Our experience couldn't be reduced to a malady. I didn't want us to be 're-medicalized.'119
"The jet set, I concluded, amused itself by attacking one member or another. They were led by "Zip" Nancy Reagan's friend and gay walker, the New York socialite and real estate heir Jerry Pipkin. Their conversation consisted mainly of their schedules-where they'd been and where they were going. If you weren't going to Gstaad or Venice or Marrakesh or New York or Paris, they lost interest in you. Many of them were interested in the business of art, and they flew to art auctions in various countries or to Art Basel or eventually to its sister exhibition in Miami. They thought collecting art somehow made them artistic and bohemian. After all, most rich people collected cars or houses or jewels or wives." 122-123
"Death was my constant shadow. My mother said to me, "It's normal for someone like me in her eighties to lose a friend every month, but it's strange for someone like you in his forties." 148
"Cocteau was the perfect impresario who promoted the careers of the talented young men around him." 246
"There, as he put it, he slept in his own well of Narcissus, surrounded by paintings of himself by Lucian Freud, Cocteau, John Craxton, Picasso, Dora Mara, Balthus, Cartier-Bresson-and nothing by Twombly." 247
"People in Europe liked to talk about American 'puritanism,' by which they meant not only prudishness, but also a distaste for luxury. The French liked clothes and interior decoration for their own sake, not as status symbols alone but also for the comfort and pleasure of contact with fine things." 286
"The French have a relatively benign word, mythomanhe, which suggests someone who is a spinner of myths, which aren't necessarily self-serving or designed to conceal the truth but are spun for the pure pleasure of spinning." 303
"For me a current lover has always been like whatever current book I'm writing-an obsessive project orienting all of my thoughts. I have such a geisha temperament that I long to please men..." 309-310
"When I asked her how she could walk through the Bois de Boulogne at night and risk being attacked by huge, fierce Brazilian transvestite whores, she replied, "Oh, Monsieur White, I admire them so. We are just biological women; they are artistic, constructed women. They are the real women." 324
"After all, we'd just emerged from the seventies, the 'golden age of promiscuity' (as Brad Gooch later put it..."336
"What men like about anonymity is that it allows free rein to any fantasy whatsoever. There are no specifics to contradict the most extravagant scenario." 389
"If you could hear only one person in a restaurant, you could be sure it was an American. John Purcell's theory was that Americans thought they were interesting and wanted everyone to hear what they were saying." 445
"Suburbia was where the true horrors were perpetrated, bastions of puritanical pettiness and hypocrisy, with all that wasted space and all those locked doors to help hide it." 480
"Certainly my style became simpler and more direct because of living in two languages. As a reader I became more and more impatient with empty locutions and action-free descriptions, not to mention nuanced interior monologues. French-with the notable exceptions of Proust and Saint-Simon-doesn't tolerate long sentences and sinuous syntax. Le style blanc..." 505
"Paris still seemed like a set out of nineteenth century opera..."19
"I'm the kind of guy who's always wanted to be elsewhere." 21
"He said he was dyslexic, the vogue word of that decade for lack of literary curiosity, just as attention deficit disorder is the term now." 27
"The Taoists, so I've been told, say that no one ever lives, that even an untruth can express a desire, an ideal, a longed for reality. John certainly wanted to be seen as the sweet, wounded victim..."37
"In America we wouldn't usually confuse aesthetics and politics, whereas in France everything is arranged according to extra-artistic allegiances." 43
"After all, I was of the Stonewall generation, equating sexual freedom with freedom itself." 49
"Madame de Staël, in her book about Germany, had written that German was not a proper language for intelligent conversation since you had to wait till the end of the sentence to hear the verb and couldn't interrupt." 81
"Our experience couldn't be reduced to a malady. I didn't want us to be 're-medicalized.'119
"The jet set, I concluded, amused itself by attacking one member or another. They were led by "Zip" Nancy Reagan's friend and gay walker, the New York socialite and real estate heir Jerry Pipkin. Their conversation consisted mainly of their schedules-where they'd been and where they were going. If you weren't going to Gstaad or Venice or Marrakesh or New York or Paris, they lost interest in you. Many of them were interested in the business of art, and they flew to art auctions in various countries or to Art Basel or eventually to its sister exhibition in Miami. They thought collecting art somehow made them artistic and bohemian. After all, most rich people collected cars or houses or jewels or wives." 122-123
"Death was my constant shadow. My mother said to me, "It's normal for someone like me in her eighties to lose a friend every month, but it's strange for someone like you in his forties." 148
"Cocteau was the perfect impresario who promoted the careers of the talented young men around him." 246
"There, as he put it, he slept in his own well of Narcissus, surrounded by paintings of himself by Lucian Freud, Cocteau, John Craxton, Picasso, Dora Mara, Balthus, Cartier-Bresson-and nothing by Twombly." 247
"People in Europe liked to talk about American 'puritanism,' by which they meant not only prudishness, but also a distaste for luxury. The French liked clothes and interior decoration for their own sake, not as status symbols alone but also for the comfort and pleasure of contact with fine things." 286
"The French have a relatively benign word, mythomanhe, which suggests someone who is a spinner of myths, which aren't necessarily self-serving or designed to conceal the truth but are spun for the pure pleasure of spinning." 303
"For me a current lover has always been like whatever current book I'm writing-an obsessive project orienting all of my thoughts. I have such a geisha temperament that I long to please men..." 309-310
"When I asked her how she could walk through the Bois de Boulogne at night and risk being attacked by huge, fierce Brazilian transvestite whores, she replied, "Oh, Monsieur White, I admire them so. We are just biological women; they are artistic, constructed women. They are the real women." 324
"After all, we'd just emerged from the seventies, the 'golden age of promiscuity' (as Brad Gooch later put it..."336
"What men like about anonymity is that it allows free rein to any fantasy whatsoever. There are no specifics to contradict the most extravagant scenario." 389
"If you could hear only one person in a restaurant, you could be sure it was an American. John Purcell's theory was that Americans thought they were interesting and wanted everyone to hear what they were saying." 445
"Suburbia was where the true horrors were perpetrated, bastions of puritanical pettiness and hypocrisy, with all that wasted space and all those locked doors to help hide it." 480
"Certainly my style became simpler and more direct because of living in two languages. As a reader I became more and more impatient with empty locutions and action-free descriptions, not to mention nuanced interior monologues. French-with the notable exceptions of Proust and Saint-Simon-doesn't tolerate long sentences and sinuous syntax. Le style blanc..." 505
January 8, 2023
I am unapologetically a bibliophile and detest the idea of parting with my books. My partner has made a rule, owing a lack of space, that before I buy a new set of books I ought to part with a few read books, and it breaks my heart a little to part with my read books knowing well that I shan't, perhaps, read them. Now "Inside a Pearl: My Years in Paris" is one book which I will happily part with. (Any takers?) It really was a chore, an arduous one, to finish this book and mind you I started reading again after having read about 70 pages to be certain that I was not missing out a good read and I feel robbed of my time and the money I spent on this book.
First, it should not be called "My Years in Paris" but should be called "My Fellows in Paris, London and other cities". My sole intention of reading this book was because it featured in a list of must-read books about Paris (I ought not to trust lists that are randomly published over the internet). The book is anything but about Paris. What Mr. 'Edmond' White writes about are the umpteen dinners, meeting the high and mighty and the who's who across Europe and America. There was, if I am not mistaken, one paragraph about the walk he would take to his apartment describing the lights and sounds of Paris. C'est tout! Yes he does mention the quirks of being in France, the cultural differences but they lacked a description which I sought.
Second, the 23 chapters could be actually written as a glossary of all of the folks that Mr. 'Edmond' White knows and interacts with. His acquaintances are introduced and dropped save Marie Claude. The book has more characters than War and Peace! And in every chapter the authors never fails to surreptitiously glorify his book "A Boy's Own Story" and if lackluster be his writing style I shall pass.
Third, he writes about his sexual adventures. I appreciate his honesty but this book I presumed was supposed to be the experiences in Paris not experiences of making out half undressed, sniffing each others genitals. A forewarning could be appreciated!
I am not sure if I missed a point in the book or it deceived me. In either case I detested the book. A bad start to this year's reading. It never felt like being inside a pearl, rather an empty shell where my pearl of reading was robbed off me!!
First, it should not be called "My Years in Paris" but should be called "My Fellows in Paris, London and other cities". My sole intention of reading this book was because it featured in a list of must-read books about Paris (I ought not to trust lists that are randomly published over the internet). The book is anything but about Paris. What Mr. 'Edmond' White writes about are the umpteen dinners, meeting the high and mighty and the who's who across Europe and America. There was, if I am not mistaken, one paragraph about the walk he would take to his apartment describing the lights and sounds of Paris. C'est tout! Yes he does mention the quirks of being in France, the cultural differences but they lacked a description which I sought.
Second, the 23 chapters could be actually written as a glossary of all of the folks that Mr. 'Edmond' White knows and interacts with. His acquaintances are introduced and dropped save Marie Claude. The book has more characters than War and Peace! And in every chapter the authors never fails to surreptitiously glorify his book "A Boy's Own Story" and if lackluster be his writing style I shall pass.
Third, he writes about his sexual adventures. I appreciate his honesty but this book I presumed was supposed to be the experiences in Paris not experiences of making out half undressed, sniffing each others genitals. A forewarning could be appreciated!
I am not sure if I missed a point in the book or it deceived me. In either case I detested the book. A bad start to this year's reading. It never felt like being inside a pearl, rather an empty shell where my pearl of reading was robbed off me!!
December 24, 2018
Very informative & shameless memoir by one of America's leading 'queer' writers; as a straight reader, it did,unsurprisingly, make me feel some sympathy with the lively but reckless characters who succumbed to the scourge of AIDS but also a physical queasiness at the endless parade of sordid, emotionally-brutal encounters that sustained the gay demi-monde for so long in the post-war social revolutions that transformed their previously-proscribed horizons. Sad then, that it also brought them abject misery & the premature deaths of partners,friends & casual pick-ups too!, which White records with monotonous regularity & apparent resignation. Oh well!...on to the next set of well-used genitals & muscly buttocks for rent!
How White survived his thousands of homosexual liaisons in three continents is a medical mystery; but he writes in some entertaining depth about France, the enigmatic French & gay Paris...with plenty of swingeing side-swipes at the snobbish but humorous English & his boorish compatriot Americans too. (He mentions an old, occasional friend of mine - not one of his paramours! - as 'a handsome poet' who has an affair with the gorgeous wife of a famous, acerbic English writer...I never broached the subject with the late flaneur M.!...but I moved in a parallel universe to Monsieur White!). I will pass this slim but well-packed volume on to a glamorous parisienne I know, for her refined, critical assessment of White's sweeping survey of gay Paris in the 70s, 80s & 90s. She will, sans doute, recognise more of the cascade of strange, unfamiliar names that White drops as frequently as his guard and his trousers!
How White survived his thousands of homosexual liaisons in three continents is a medical mystery; but he writes in some entertaining depth about France, the enigmatic French & gay Paris...with plenty of swingeing side-swipes at the snobbish but humorous English & his boorish compatriot Americans too. (He mentions an old, occasional friend of mine - not one of his paramours! - as 'a handsome poet' who has an affair with the gorgeous wife of a famous, acerbic English writer...I never broached the subject with the late flaneur M.!...but I moved in a parallel universe to Monsieur White!). I will pass this slim but well-packed volume on to a glamorous parisienne I know, for her refined, critical assessment of White's sweeping survey of gay Paris in the 70s, 80s & 90s. She will, sans doute, recognise more of the cascade of strange, unfamiliar names that White drops as frequently as his guard and his trousers!
July 30, 2021
I suppose if I were gay, I would have known who Edmond White, the writer was. And about his book: A Boys Own Story. But I'm not, so I didn't. One of the many benefits of our local Little Free Libraries, is you run into, then pick up books you would never buy or think you have an interest in. I grabbed this one because it was a beautifully bound hardcover and I thought "Years in Paris" had to be interesting. Little did I understand how interesting.
Frankly, this book is less about Paris, more about being gay in Paris, during the very dangerous time of the early AIDS epidemic. Unfortunately, it also contained White's countless (and unwise) escapades. And it also perhaps shared too many secrets of those around him, who may not have preferred to see themselves in print this way. White reminded me of Truman Capote's similar damages to many.
Having said all this, White is an excellent writer. Paris is Paris and he did illuminate the many facets of the residents, their thoughts and benefits. His description of meals, places, institutions and reasoning were clear. To be fair, even if one did not have an interest in being gay, the book deserved the four stars I gave it.
Frankly, this book is less about Paris, more about being gay in Paris, during the very dangerous time of the early AIDS epidemic. Unfortunately, it also contained White's countless (and unwise) escapades. And it also perhaps shared too many secrets of those around him, who may not have preferred to see themselves in print this way. White reminded me of Truman Capote's similar damages to many.
Having said all this, White is an excellent writer. Paris is Paris and he did illuminate the many facets of the residents, their thoughts and benefits. His description of meals, places, institutions and reasoning were clear. To be fair, even if one did not have an interest in being gay, the book deserved the four stars I gave it.
June 4, 2017
'Inside a Pearl' is a delightful memoir in which White dazzles his readers with countless anecdotes about his time in Paris. In loose, conversational prose, he not only succeeds in poking fun at himself, but he also hones piquant cross-cultural comparisons between Europe and the US, which had me chuckle to myself on more than one occasion. Alas, the book is also plagued with innumerable typos in both English and French, and quite a few non sequiturs throughout suggesting the book may have been hastily assembled.
August 12, 2023
This is a book about life in France in the eighties, specifically the lives of a certain cultural and intellectual elite. White is frank, amusing, poetic and deliciously forthright in his accounts of interactions, both with the famous and the unknown. The book has the slimmest of narrative threads, but it does not really need one, such is the intricacy and intrigue of White's adventures and character portraits.
July 21, 2025
this one makes me maddest at white, I think. He's soooo name droppy, soooo pleased to be in Society, Sooooo rambly, he thinks he's sooo interesting, and the nice feeling of an old queen gossiping with you droops after a while until you feel a little stuck in the corner with him and find it striking how little he cares about the bigger world he lives in. I am not interested in the antics of the Babar heiress or why everyone is mad at you, Edmund....
July 31, 2025
As always, Edmund White wrote this book so beautifully. It was slow reading and I enjoyed every moment. I am a straight 66-year-old woman and I’m always transported by his writing. His thoughts on living in Paris and France are so interesting to me as I go there often. It was a spectacular read.
I was reading this book when this fine author passed away. I immediately bought all of his books to read.
I was reading this book when this fine author passed away. I immediately bought all of his books to read.
December 3, 2025
Now that I read this book, Edmund White is my newest literary crush. This is a fantastic memoir. It is bold, flamboyant, sexy, witty. It inspired me to live larger, deeper, and to read and think better. Love his promiscuity, unapologetic hedonism and sense of adventure. I need to read more and more White.
July 25, 2022
A great overview of everyone who was anyone in the cultural milieu of Paris in the 1980s. Edmund White is quite outrageous at times and you may find out more than you ever needed to know about gay Paris, but he is witty and writes well.
February 22, 2024
Endless name-dropping and gossip. Some beautiful anecdotes that illuminate French culture. It gets slightly tedious in some sections, but it’s so charming and deliciously rendered that you forgive him. Great to read if you are an expat anywhere and are navigating similar struggles and excitements
May 9, 2024
A simply marvellous, sharply observed little memoir. Reading it is like having a long-overdue catch-up with your most raconteur-ish friend. White has excellent taste, strong opinions, and an effervescent sense of humour. Not terribly chronological, serious, or high-minded, so don't expect that.
April 15, 2025
A book so juicy it makes you a voracious, intrigued reader. I too want to be this sharp and truly insightful observer and documenteur of such a grand city.
"Bernard devoured books the way
other people ate croissants — one or two daily...
"Bernard devoured books the way
other people ate croissants — one or two daily...
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