This Is on Me

By Katharine Brush
KATHARINE BRUSH’S autobiography is proof that you can no more choke off a rousing urge for storytelling with too much money than you can kill a cat with butter. In the heyday of the speak-easy Miss Brush did as neat a fictional job on the current lost generation as Scott Fitzgerald had done a few years earlier. And then, so the story goes, she got lost herself—lost in a fabulous soundproof writing room in a fabulous New York penthouse. All set for uninterrupted production — and not a damned thing to say. The pages of the popular magazines saw her no more, and agents wrote her off as one more fallen from the ranks. Now we have This Is On Me — and though the book is more a scrapbook than a contender for the title against, say, the Journals of Sir Walter Scott, it does hold promise that Katharine Brush may have struggled out of the chromium and white leather with a maturer talent, and hope of more to come.