Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

How bad does it suck when you realize he’s talking about his Moleskine?  I didn’t have to finish reading it.  If you walk down Bedford Ave you wade through three or four feet of those complimentary Moleskine brochures that remind you how Picasso and Tim Curry and Charo all had them and could justify spending $18 on a leather bound burial ground for confessional poetry.