Ironic that a book told from the point of view of a remarkable journalist would - literally - bury the lede. Which is why I give it four stars, not five.
This book was a riveting read, and I found myself completely engrossed in the life of this fascinating woman I knew very little about. I have always hated the term "artist in her own right," and this is the reason why. Martha Gellhorn's accomplishments at least come close to matching Ernest Hemingway's, and unlike Hemingway who chose alcohol and suicide, she chose to continue living, writing and engaging with the world - as the foremost war correspondent of the 20th century, no less. But sadly, history remembers her more often as Hemingway's third wife.
Clayton smartly avoids depicting the relationship between the two famous talented, headstrong, alcohol-abusing individuals as black-and-white abuser/victim. So it is compelling to read about, even though it's one of those stories you go into knowing the ending. It's the getting to the inevitable train wreck that is full of drama, humor, pathos, and a lot of nasty, insufferable nicknames.
Unfortunately, the ending, set during some of the most compelling events in history, got short shrift and felt rushed. (Dachau, for instance, gets barely a sentence.) This was frustrating because I'd been waiting the entire book to read this chapter, only to be left wanting more.
But all in all, I enjoyed being swept up into the dangerous, dazzling world of 1930s intellectuals, writers and revolutionaries. Makes me ask the question, were women just really more badass in the 30s?