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January 26, 2006

OF COURSE JOYCE WAS DRUNK AND PROUST KEPT HOGGING THE COOKIES

We are absolutely, totally, utterly suckers for this kind of story:

On 18 May 1922, at the luxurious Majestic hotel in the Avenue Kléber in Paris, Proust, Joyce, Picasso, Stravinsky and Diaghilev sat down to dinner together for the first and last time. They had been gathered there by the British writer Sydney Schiff and his wife Violet, ostensibly to mark the premiere of Stravinsky's ballet Le Renard, performed by Diaghilev's Ballets Russes. But, as Richard Davenport-Hines reveals in his new book, A Night at the Majestic, the gathering was much more than an "after party" - it came to represent the high point of European Modernism, and one of Paris's defining moments as a cultural capital.

Posted at 12:01 AM in Litlinks |

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Comments

Brian Gilmore

I remember reading that Joyce was struck by Proust because neither had any interest in talking about writing--they spoke of truffles for a few minutes, then parted company.

Posted by: Brian Gilmore | January 26, 2006 at 08:27 AM

Jimmy Beck

The drinking games really got out of hand.

Posted by: Jimmy Beck | January 27, 2006 at 10:29 AM

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TEV DEFINED


  • The Elegant Variation is "Fowler’s (1926, 1965) term for the inept writer’s overstrained efforts at freshness or vividness of expression. Prose guilty of elegant variation calls attention to itself and doesn’t permit its ideas to seem naturally clear. It typically seeks fancy new words for familiar things, and it scrambles for synonyms in order to avoid at all costs repeating a word, even though repetition might be the natural, normal thing to do: The audience had a certain bovine placidity, instead of The audience was as placid as cows. Elegant variation is often the rock, and a stereotype, a cliché, or a tired metaphor the hard place between which inexperienced or foolish writers come to grief. The familiar middle ground in treating these homely topics is almost always the safest. In untrained or unrestrained hands, a thesaurus can be dangerous."

SECOND LOOK

  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

    Bs

    Penelope Fitzgerald's second novel is the tale of Florence Green, a widow who seeks, in the late 1950s, to bring a bookstore to an isolated British town, encountering all manner of obstacles, including incompetent builders, vindictive gentry, small minded bankers, an irritable poltergeist, but, above all, a town that might not, in fact, want a bookshop. Fitzgerald's prose is spare but evocative – there's no wasted effort and her work reminds one of Hemingway's dictum that every word should fight for its right to be on the page. Florence is an engaging creation, stubbornly committed to her plan even as uncertainty regarding the wisdom of the enterprise gnaws at her. But The Bookshop concerns itself, finally, with the astonishing vindictiveness of which provincials are capable, and, as so much English fiction must, it grapples with the inevitabilities of class. It's a dense marvel at 123 pages, a book you won't want to – or be able to – rush through.
  • The Rider by Tim Krabbe

    Rider_4

    Tim Krabbé's superb 1978 memoir-cum-novel is the single best book we've read about cycling, a book that will come closer to bringing you inside a grueling road race than anything else out there. A kilometer-by-kilometer look at just what is required to endure some of the most grueling terrain in the world, Krabbé explains the tactics, the choices and – above all – the grinding, endless, excruciating pain that every cyclist faces and makes it heart-pounding rather than expository or tedious. No writer has better captured both the agony and the determination to ride through the agony. He's an elegant stylist (ably served by Sam Garrett's fine translation) and The Rider manages to be that rarest hybrid – an authentic, accurate book about cycling that's a pleasure to read. "Non-racers," he writes. "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."

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