1962 Archie via If Charlie Parker Was a Gunslinger . . .
Hey people. I’m off to the beach and likely won’t say hello until Monday at the earliest.
Beach reading to accompany your pink boombox:
The Element of Lavishness: Letters of William Maxwell and Sylvia Townsend Warner, 1938-1978. I’m going to do a post about this soon and I think you ought to read it in the meantime. A distinguished-looking English gentleman in a seersucker suit asked me about it on the subway the other day and I told him the same. I think I sold him on it because he told me I was “a precious source of information” about this sort of thing. Maxwell and Warner had tremendous affection for each other and were apparently never uninteresting.
Elinor Wylie, Mr. Hodge and Mr. Hazard. A 1928 novel about a summer in the life of a poet who — I am borrowing from the jacket here because I have got to go! — “is too liberal for the proper, prosperous England of his day.” I’m going to write something about Wylie soon-ish. Chapter titles include “Funeral of a Mouse,” “Ambush at the Breakfast Table,” “Camelopard at a Party,” “Reverie over an Apple-tart,” “Satan Finds Some Mischief Still,” “Unlacing of a Breastplate,” “Private View of the Invisible,” “A Deep Romantic Chasm,” “Unsubstantial Pageant Faded,” and “Crack of Doom in a Teacup.”
Harry Mathews, Singular Pleasures. Literary people need sex books to bring to the beach just the same as anyone else. This one is about masturbation.