This is another excellent diary of a German aesthete who knew everybody and did everything, covering his life from the end of World War l to his death in 1937. Unfortunately, the editing of this book is an abomination; not only are there errors of fact (Nicolai Nabokov was born in 1913?) but the footnotes are at the end of the book, forcing one to turn pages frequently rather than at the bottom as in the volume Journey to the Abyss.
Finally, vast tracts of French are interposed in the text because the count was multilingual. Unfortunately I don't read French so this was useless. ( )