Flying back to Toronto on a quick pre-Christmas visit I eschewed all media entertainment and instead read this:
The novel was an enjoyable read in which flapper Louise Brooks plays second fiddle to Cora Carlisle, her chaperone on a summer trip to New York. While the teenage Brooks did spend a chaperoned summer in New York, Cora Carlisle is a fictional character and much of the novel is devoted to her life; that of Louise Brooks is mostly background accompaniment.
But as much as I enjoyed the novel, its lasting effect is that I am now desperate to read this:
Does fiction lead you to memoir?