At almost 1,000 pages and covering almost forty years, this book is quite overwhelming. Kessler was a magnificent writer and had the uncanny ability to meet everyone worth meeting, and go everywhere worth going, not to mention being in the audience for Cyrano, Peter Pan and Nijinsky. He managed to get to Verlaine and Nietzsche before they died. The mere list of people that he met is astonishing, and the fact that he knew many of them intimately is all the more impressive. He was at the very center of the action. We are given a tour of the world early on -- the Alamo, the Taj Mahal, the pyramids -- and he describes the crowds in New York, in Paris, in Berlin, in London, in Constantinople, the world of the Belle Epoque, of Proust, of Wilhelmine Germany, all the French artists, the Austrian and German and British cultural worlds, it just goes on and on -- until the Archduke is shot and Europe is drenched in blood. His description of battlefields littered with ghastly corpses is Dantesque in its power. There is also homosexuality here, for Kessler was gay, although he only speaks of others and not of himself. I get the impression that Maillol was a repressed bisexual. I was surprised to learn that Verlaine claimed that his liaison with Rimbaud was platonic. Was this in the same category with Whitman's denial to Symonds? There was another volume of the diary that appeared in English forty years ago, but it failed to make a splash. Hopefully this volume will place Kessler where he belongs -- among the greatest German writers.