This is -- to my way of thinking- a completely unnecessary book. It has nothing to recommend it, in my judgment. (Perhaps it is a book men will like better than women.) A strange book, written in almost stream of consciousness manner, as Baxter Bernstein, bemoaning his failure to get into the Spanish Civil War in time, tagging himself now a ""con"" (conscientious objector), now a ""deserter"", uncertain as to whether the war is his or not -- reviews the pattern of his amoral adventures, from New York to Mexico- via New Orleans. His fervid hours in New Orleans, drawn there by the lure of Fortune, now married to a jealous Italian, reads like an extended ""lost week-end"", with vice amplified and varied, outgrowth of alcoholic excesses and frustrated passions. In contrast, his Mexican interlude, which begins and ends his story, is pallid stuff, and the marriage Lisa seeks to thrust upon him fades out of the picture, as he completes his soul searching and turns back, towards New York. Unsavory reading. P.L.'s beware!