by Willie Morris
Morris' memoir of one of America's most successful war novelists paints a vivid sketch of Paris in the '60s, when Jones and his wife, Gloria, entertained visiting writers, beggars, preachers and passing-through poker players with grace, a drink and sometimes a cash loan. But Morris writes best of Jones' later years when, after moving to Long Island for reasons of failing health, Jones devotes himself to his final work, Whistle, and a few treasured friends. One was Morris, who posthumously finished Whistle. The memoir is, understandably, affectionately partial. If Jones had any faults beyond an occasional burst of blasphemy, they don't show up here. (Doubleday, $8.95)
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