This sober, unintentionally funny record of a strange literary career might have been called “Portrait of the Artist as a Shlimazl.” Its author, Harold Loeb, was a leading spirit in the expatriate literary activities of the 1920’s. A pleasant, conscientious, well-meaning heir to a modest fortune, he decided one day to become a man of letters, mainly because he liked the company of writers. In return, writers liked having him pay their bills.