17
Loving; Living; Party Going, Henry Green
You should obviously be both reading these three, basically perfect English novels, and constantly trawling the interview archives at The Paris Review.
But, ultimately, it is the moment of perfection in which this two magnificent creations overlap that must occupy us:
This is now how I picture the foundational myths for Downton Abbey, Gosford Park, and Upstairs, Downstairs, obviously.
(The Paris Review, 1958)
Seriously! 1958!
And also The Remains of the Day.
"Cunty fingers" means exactly what I think it means, right?
@Chloe@twitter This is basically what I was going to say.
@Lily Rowan samesies. i am psyched for tonight!
@becky@twitter Ditto! Although now will there be rumours about cunty fingers at the Pinup??
@Lily Rowan cunty claws! the lobsta!
@becky@twitter Snort.
Great Stones album.
@Hot mayonnaise I prefer Sexile on Seine Street.
Jean Marsh has no time for your cunty fingers.
I love Henry Green! Here is my favorite interview exchange from him (with a Paris Review writer asking about whether he was an overly "subtle" writer):
INTERVIEWER
And how about "subtle"?
GREEN
I don't follow. Suttee, as I understand it, is the suicide–now forbidden–of a Hindu wife on her husband's flaming pyre. I don't want my wife to do that when my time comes–and with great respect, as I know her, she won't…
INTERVIEWER
I'm sorry, you misheard me; I said, "subtle"–that the message was too subtle.
(Of course, Green knew exactly what the Paris Review writer had said.)
There's a famous story about that passage involving former New Yorker editor (and father of Wallace), William Shawn: http://www.slate.com/id/3066/.
One of the funniest moments in Brendan Gill's 1975 memoir, Here at "The New Yorker," comes during a luncheon at the now vanished Ritz in Manhattan. At the table are Gill; William Shawn, then editor of The New Yorker; and the reclusive English writer Henry Green. Green's new novel, Loving, has just received a very favorable review in The New Yorker. Shawn–"with his usual hushed delicacy of speech and manner"–inquires of the novelist whether he could possibly reveal what prompted the creation of such an exquisite work. Green obliges. "I once asked an old butler in Ireland what had been the happiest times of his life," he says. "The butler replied, 'Lying in bed on Sunday morning, eating tea and toast with cunty fingers.' "
This was not the explanation Shawn was expecting, Gill tells us. "Discs of bright red begin to burn in his cheeks."
I guess that's better than eating cunt with buttered toasty fingers.
@jen325
The butter wouldn't hurt, but think of the crumbs!
@atipofthehat My thoughts, exactly!
I don't know about butter, but I did use margarine as lube once (when I was young I had a lubrication problem, go fig), and it worked quite well. Not with a condom, of course.
Loving was the book the New Yorker gave rave reviews for. Salinger was an even bigger fan of Green than William Shawn. In fact all of Salinger's work is chalk full of references and quotes from Henry Green!!
I'm afraid to Google "cunty" to see if it's some old British slang while I'm at work.