Oh dear. I should have read the blurb. This wasn’t a book about modernism, it was a chronological gossip column from 1922, mainly taken from the diaries and letters of the celebrities of the day. I really disliked it.
I’m just not interested in Joyce’s arguments with his publisher, Eliot’s boring job in the Bank of England and Maynard Keynes’s sex life. I also don’t need to be reminded what a nasty person Bertrand Russell was.
(Side note; it’s never a good sign when the footnotes seem to take up more space than the main text)