Gertrude Stein (1874–1946)

I worked my way through this book over the course of two months, beginning in early December 2025. I cannot say that I enjoyed everything in this book, but I am glad I read it. Many of the specific works were rereads, but not all of them. QED, The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas, and several of the shorter works were read in December. Aside from stating that I still feel, as I did in college, that the Autobiography is the least interesting thing Stein wrote. I can see why it brought her show more fame. I think I appreciated Tender Buttons more today than I did in my 20s, mostly because I’ve learned to just let the language set its own pace in my heart, and stop fretting over what it might “mean” and, as a corollary, whether I am smart enough to understand it. I like the way Stein employs words both as weapons but also as a means to capture the elusive threads of memory and emotion. I also now think “Melachantha” is the strongest and most powerful part of Three Women. To write a story from the perspective of a black woman was ground breaking enough, even if Stein was not black. But by doing so, this highly educated and ambitious Jewish lesbian woman was able to explore what it means to be separate, and different, and on the fringes of society. I think I still have a lot to learn from Gertrude Stein. show less

Once you get past the silliness of American exceptionalism (in short: the English just like being, whereas Americans like doing shit and shit), there are some decent points made here, and Stein's attention to actual words, rather than character/plot/psychology/structure is a nice corrective to most discussion about narrative. I'll continue to think about her distinction between poetry and prose, in particular: poetry as continual naming, prose as a kind of reflection on mediation ("prose was show more more and more telling and by sentences balancing and then by paragraphing prose was more and more telling how anything happened if any one had anything to say about what happened how anything was known if anyone had anything to say about how anything was known..."). Since 'literature' is predominantly subjective, our problem is to make what is 'outside' 'inside,' that is, to make the objective world subjectively interesting.

Fair enough. Stein's arguments here are in some ways typically modernist, and in other ways more interesting than academics usually make modernism seem. But the real draw is Stein's style; the quote above is entirely representative. She doesn't use many words, but the ones she does use are very common, and the ones she does use she sure does use a lot. Not too many people could get away with that. show less

Before I started reading The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, I looked at reviews online. Many, many of them mention how conceited Stein is. They complain that she thinks herself a genius and that her writing is fantastic and groundbreaking and to the writing world what Picasso’s paintings are to the art world.

After reading the book, I would contend that she’s not nearly as much of a braggart as people say she is. The book itself is something of a joke, and throughout, she intersperses show more self-deprecating remarks with self-aggrandizing ones (which she often makes in an off-hand, tongue-in-cheek manner, anyway).

But even if she were outright conceited in calling herself a genius and placing herself at the forefront of twentieth-century literature, so what?

One thing that always irritated me about modernist authors—even the ones I loved from the beginning, like Hemingway—is that their writing is all so self-consciously genius. “Look at me!” they seem to scream from the page like my four-year-old when I’ve spent too long on the computer. “Look how clever I am!”

Hemingway does this. James Joyce does this. Pablo Picasso does this (I know he’s not an author, but he’s from the same time period, and he never shied away from proclaiming his own genius). But people don’t seem to complain so loudly about the fact that these fellows know they’re geniuses. And I have to think that’s because they’re fellows.

Stein’s writing bridges the gap between nineteenth-century and twentieth-century literature. She made it possible for the amazing writers who came after her—Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Joyce—to be amazing writers and to have an audience for their amazing writing. She broke the ground, and she toiled for years and years with little recognition to do so. If she believes that she’s a genius, then what’s wrong with that?

The only thing I can see wrong with it is that she said it out loud and she said it unapologetically and she said it as a woman rather than as a man.

I really enjoyed The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas. The first chapter was absolutely brilliant, and I laughed and nodded with understanding many times in just the scant three pages that make up that shortest chapter.

There’s the opening sentences, with which I could completely relate: “I was born in San Francisco, California. I have in consequence always preferred living in a temperate climate but it is difficult, on the continent of Europe or even in America, to find a temperate climate and live in it.”

Then there was the anecdote about Toklas’s father’s response when his son and a friend had gone horseback riding and one of the horses returned riderless. The mother of the friend became hysterical. “Be calm madam, said my father, perhaps it is my son who has been killed.” I laughed out loud at this and made my spouse listen while I read it to him so he could laugh out loud, too.

It is also in this chapter that Stein, through Toklas as narrator, first refers to herself as a genius. Toklas says that she has only met three “first class geniuses,” Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, and Alfred Whitehead. And while this seems a little egotistical on Stein’s part, Toklas throughout the book refers casually to the geniuses in their circle.

At times, it was a little tedious to read so much detail about the lives of all of the many, many friends Stein and Toklas had among the literary and artistic luminaries of their time, but the writing carried me through.

Punctuating these long, detailed passages were gems of writing. Stein clearly had an incredible gift for constructing phrases in which every word packs a punch.

Take a very simple passage: “The geniuses came and talked to Gertrude Stein and the wives sat with me.”

This passage does so much. It shows that Toklas actually believes that they were essentially surrounded by geniuses in Paris, and that there weren’t only three geniuses in the world. It shows that all of the geniuses that came to visit were men. It shows that Toklas does not consider herself one of the geniuses. It shows that she considers herself one of wives of geniuses, which is even more significant because she is the wife of the only female genius in the crowd.

And because it’s actually Stein writing this, it shows that Stein realizes just how marginalized her partner is in the crowds that filled their Paris home on Saturday nights. While the geniuses were crafting twentieth-century art, she was left talking about hats with the sidelined wives. The fact that Stein realizes this and indicates it in writing I find profoundly poignant.

The other thing that drew me through the story is the way the anecdotes are constructed. The chapter titles suggest a linear progression through time, but while the book follows a generally straight path from past to present, it meanders through time all the way through in the style of someone having a conversation, losing her thread, and then picking it back up again. Toklas as narrator will start talking about one subject, get sidetracked, and then pick up the subject again, using nearly identical words to pick up the subject again as she did to introduce it in the first place. There is a very pronounced example of this in Chapter 2, almost as though Stein is trying to get her readers used to the device, but she uses it throughout.

One example towards the end of the book: In Chapter 7, Stein writes about the way that Elliot Paul drifted into their lives and then drifted out again. She introduces the idea by writing, “…actually little by little he appeared and then as slowly he disappeared, and Eugene Jolas and Maria Jolas appeared.”

There follows an interlude in which Stein explains that American soldiers loved the book The Trail of the Lonesome Pine and about Elliot becoming editor of a Paris magazine, until four pages later she picks up the thread and essentially repeats the words she used to introduce the idea: “Elliot Paul slowly disappeared and Eugene and Maria Jolas appeared.” Now we know more about the history and the words mean something a little different now. With the repetition, they also take on a mantra-like quality that brings them even more meaning.

My favorite section was in Chapter 7 when Stein writes about post-war Paris and the young writers that came to visit them, including Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Stein has some very prescient things to say about both. Hemingway she describes as “fragile” and having “been worn by the war.” She suggests a more introspective approach for Hemingway. “But what a book…would be the real story of Hemingway, not those he writes but the confessions of the real Ernest Hemingway…one he should tell himself but alas he never will.” As someone who loves Hemingway’s writing and feels so strongly the tragedy of the inner torment that eventually ended his life, I find Stein’s assessment as haunting as it is loving. And this she wrote in 1932.

Of Fitzgerald, she writes (as Toklas, and so referring to herself, Stein, as “she”), “that it was this book [This Side of Paradise] that really created for the public the new generation…She thinks this equally true of The Great Gatsby. She thinks Fitzgerald will be read when many of his well-known contemporaries are forgotten.” This prediction is less dire but no less accurate than the one she made for Hemingway.

With all of the writing about how egotistical Stein was and this idea of her as a pull-no-punches hardass, I was surprised to find this image of Gertrude Stein and Alice Toklas as mother hens, both to young writers and artists and to young soldiers during the war. There are few examples of authors who have successfully melded the maternal with literary genius. We hear more about those who were unable to do so, like Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath. Although a lot has changed in nearly a hundred years, a lot has also stayed the same; I find this portrait of balance very encouraging.

I began reading classics with a general idea that I would become a better, more rounded thinker, and that I would enhance my experience of reading modern literature by improving my understanding of the literature that came before. Reading The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, I also began to recognize the potential for improving my writing and for—and this seems a little corny to write, but I’m going to do it anyway—creating for myself a community of great writers from among those whose classics I’m reading.

Reading about Stein and Toklas’s social circle and all of the move-and-shaker writers and artists in their midst, I felt jealous. I told my spouse that maybe we should think about starting a Saturday salon, inviting people to come to our home every Saturday night (or, knowing our habit of nodding off by 10pm, maybe Saturday afternoon) to discuss art, literature, politics, and other intellectual topics and just in general share a love of language and of placing disparate elements together and seeing the beauty in the result. My spouse was incredulous and suggested that central Massachusetts in the 2010s is pretty dissimilar from Paris in the 1910s. He has a good point.

But even if a Saturday salon isn’t practical, I can still hang out with Stein, Joyce, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald, as well as Dickens, Woolf, Kafka, Austen, Plath, Lewis, and St. Augustine any time I want to. Using the Internet, I can even invite writers, artists, and other thinkers from the present to join the conversation.

And I don’t have to make hors d’oeuvres or even change out of my pajamas. show less

Oh boy, this book and I had some kind of love / hate relationship going on (or rather like / hate - love is far too strong).

For those unfamiliar with this piece of work, Alice B. Toklas was Gertrude Stein's life partner, and Stein used the writing of Toklas' autobiography as a device for really writing her own memoir, starting briefly with her life in America prior to moving to Paris, but mostly concentrating on the period in Paris from 1903 to 1932.

Why not just write her own memoir? Oh I'm show more very clear on that point having now read the book - she couldn't possibly have been anywhere near as boastful about herself if she'd written a straightforward autobiography compared to how much she could when adopting the voice of Toklas writing about her. I don't think I've ever read such a display of egotism in all my life's reading, and when you consider that Gertrude Stein really didn't make it into mainstream popularity until the publication of this very book, her unwavering self-belief and self-promotion is really quite something.

Stein was certainly an interesting character and undoubtedly an instrumental figure in the Paris arts scene in the early twentieth century, an early champion and friend of artists such as Picasso and Juan Gris and influential in the literary scene of that period. The Saturday salon sessions she held became renowned in Paris for the art collection she owned and displayed with her brother and the arts discussions that took place there. However, given how interesting this period in Paris was for art and literature, Gertrude Stein is so caught up in the orbiting of others around her own self-importance that despite this book being only 272 pages long, it's a dull and boring slog for large swathes of it. Page after page of supposed comments of others on Gertrude Stein's brilliance and importance became utterly tedious no matter how famous the name-dropping. And despite certainly many famous names popping up regularly, you also have to wade through pages about visits from and to people whose names have been largely eroded from popular history with the passage of time, where nothing more interesting happened than someone commenting on how fascinating Gertrude Stein's work was.

The second half of the book interested me much more than the first. The First World War broke out, and as Stein and Toklas took on volunteer roles with the American Fund for the French Wounded, the focus of the autobiography expanded beyond the circle of the group in Paris and became more interesting. Given how much I lapped up Hemingway's description of the Paris literary scene of this era in The Sun Also Rises, it's incredible that Stein managed to make this so tedious with excessive detail and odd punctuation thrown in every now and then. I found it telling that in this book she writes at length about the Parisian artists, yet Hemingway only gets a few pages (and in those any compliments are matched with twice as many put-downs), Fitzgerald is only mentioned in two or three paragraphs and the likes of James Joyce doesn't get a mention at all. Stein tells it that she was a great mentor to Hemingway and that his writing needed so much work, yet consider that he had great success with The Sun Also Rises in 1926 and that Stein had yet to have wide commercial success until The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas was published in 1933. I suspect that Stein's ego around the publication of her own work up to that point couldn't allow her to dwell on these literary success of others during this time for too long.

3 stars - this should have been such an interesting memoir to read, but Gertrude Stein's ego far surpassed the quality of her writing. show less