Jean Kerr, American Humorist

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Jean Kerr (1922-2003)

“Who is your favorite humor writer of the 20th century?”  

 Your mind goes blank. Humor? You remember humor. You may, if you’re lucky, blurt out Dorothy Parker and J. S. Perelman.  They were famous, and they wrote for The New Yorker.  

But, honestly, are they your favorites? Well, no.  I am a great aficionado of women’s humor columns, the kind published in the Ladies’ Home Journal and the Saturday Evening Post in the 20th century.

My favorite is Jean Kerr (1922-2003), a playwright, humorist, and the wife of Walter Kerr the drama critic. She was, and is, one of the wittiest American humor writers.

First, let me say I am a great fan of the film version of Kerr’s play, Mary, Mary.

And I am mad about her humor books.  I recommend How I Got to Be Perfect, a collection of essays, most from her previous books, Please Don’t Eat the Daisies, The Snake Has All the Lines, and Penny Candy.

 In the introduction to How to Be Perfect, Kerr reflects wittily on reading and writing.

“As a matter of fact, I will read anything rather than work.  And I don’t mean interesting things like the yellow section …  The truth is that, rather than put a word on paper, I will spend a whole half hour reading the label on a milk of magnesia bottle.”

I was fascinated to learn that she does “about half” of her writing in the car, where there is nothing to read except Chevrolet manuals.

I have tried writing on mass transit, to no avail. I tried to write an essay on a train once, but there was no room to spread out the necessary books. I have, however, read widely on planes. Recommendations: E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View or Gerald Heard’s mystery, A Taste for Honey.

Reading in public is possible, though not without its hair-raising moments.  On a recent bike ride, I carried three books in my panniers, because I might require three reading choices when I sat down to take a break. And then suddenly a woman yelled repeatedly at me, “Stop, stop! There’s an eagle.”  

I am not interested in eagles.  I saw one once.  It was enough.

When I stopped reluctantly, she put her hand firmly on my arm and attempted to pull me off my bike. Something was off: no stranger has ever gripped my arm before – and then there was the undeniable fact that there was no eagle.  I left, despite her repeated orders: “Turn around. Here, here.” I biked away.. Captain Nemo suggested she was after my billfold.  

Anyway, it was a forgettable, if unpleasant, incident. I took refuge in Kerr’s humor columns, as I often do, because nothing is ever too awful in her world. and if it is, she makes fun of it.  

I laughed aloud over “Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall, I Don’t Want to Hear a Word from You,” in which she wittily recounts her husband’s skepticism about beauty products. 

“He is always trying to explain to me that dermatologists have proven that lard, or even bacon drippings, will do just as much or just as little to lubricate the human skin as any cosmetic invented…. When I consider the dreadful samples of lumbering humor I am subjected to when I apply the merest dab of Formula 22 (“Oh, you’re coming to bed?  With all that grease, I thought you were getting ready to swim the Channel”) I can’t bring myself even to contemplate the low-comedy scenes we’d have if I came to bed covered with bacon fat.”

I’d love to live in Jean Kerr’s world.  She turns disappointments and irritations into funny, charming episodes.  There’s nothing quite comparable to Jean Kerr’s columns today. There’s plenty of humor, but this is a different time.

The Condition of “Mrs. Bridge”

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The other day, I came across a first edition of Evan S. Connell’s Mrs. Bridge (1959) in the mud room. “I didn’t know we had this!” I exclaimed.

The ’50s cover art is whimsical: the old-fashioned black phone on a white table, dwarfed by a large pink mass (Mrs. Bridge’s knitting? A hat?), and white gloves and a white scarf tucked beneath the pink. The white paper cut-outs are juxtaposed and contrasted with the black table legs.

“I adored this when I read it, ” I said. Back then I related to Mrs. Bridge, a housewife in Kansas City, who has ups and downs. and becomes less conventional as the year pass. I have nothing in common with Mrs. Bridge, but that’s the wonderful thing about fiction: sometimes we become the characters as we read.

I found a handwritten receipt tucked inside the cover.  I bought the book on Jan. 12, 1991, at an antiquarian bookshop. I suppose it closed long ago.

And the price of the book was $9.

“You got robbed,”   said the captain.   “This isn’t in good condition.”

 I didn’t think about condition when I bought used books back then. 

I wonder what I would think about Mrs. Bridge now.  I reread it some years back in a paperback and was less enthusiastic.  At different stages of life, we read things differently.

But I am inspired by the old-fashioned jacket copy.  This writer says, “Mrs. Bridge is a totally delightful reading experience.  It brings in turn the wry smile, the outright laugh, and shows the pang of a deep and willing sympathy.”

That’s a book I want to read.

Responsibility and Abandonment:  Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”

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Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus, is a timely novel.  In this horror classic, published in 1818, Shelley describes a hubristic scientist’s abandonment of the life-form he assembles from corpses and electricity.  Affectionate and innocent, the new creature is so hideous that Frankenstein himself rejects it.  The lonely monster, who terrifies all humans, becomes a murderer to avenge himself.

There are two ways to approach this, first, as a traditional horror novel (it is that), second as a dark commentary on Darwinism, the Prometheus myth, and the dangers of abstractions.

The theme of loneliness overrides all abstraction, though.  Frankenstein himself is, ironically, blessed with social skills and not lonely.  But Captain Walton, who rescues Frankenstein from a melting iceberg (long story!), is as lonely as Frankenstein’s creature. In fact, Captain Walton has no friends on his ship.

The novel is framed by letters from Captain Walton to his sister.  In an early letter he confides. “I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans.”

This letter could be a personals ad, and a perfect dating match for the Creature, who is even lonelier than Walton. The creature does beg Frankenstein to make a mate for him, but Frankenstein refuses, and he has his reasons, but… Was it ethical to refuse and doom him to loneliness?

The creature is at first filled with wonder and longs to make friends, but human beings are terrified of him.  He hides in a shack attached to the cottage of a poor genteel family who love music and books . By watching and listening through a crack in the wall, he learns language and the rudiments of history.  He is inspired by their stories about the Greeks and Romans, and chivalry and Christianity.  He wonders, “Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and base?”  Alas, when he reveals himself to the family, they scream and run away. 

The novel is layered with references to philosophy, Shelley was influenced by Clement of Alexandria, a second-century gnostic.  The following quote certainly illuminates her thoughts about the birth of Frankenstein’s Creature.

What liberates is the knowledge of what we were, what we became; where we were, whereinto we have been thrown; whereto we speed, wherefrom we are redeemed; what birth is, and what is rebirth.

Shelley, the daughter of the feminist Mary Wollstonecraft and the political philosopher William Godwin, was a radical intellectual whose storytelling is interwoven with subtle philosophical observations. Her father, William Godwin, a political philosopher, was eloquent about social-psychological theory. He emphasized the necessity of putting esponsibility before abstractions.

“..Knowledge, and the enlargement of the intellect, are poor, when unmixed with sentiments of benevolence and sympathy… and science and abstraction will soon become cold, unless they derive new attractions from ideas of society.”

This is a great read – I galloped through it – and it raises pertinent questions.

The Past Recaptured: Valerie Perrin’s “Forgotten on Sunday”

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Valerie Perrin’s charming novel, Forgotten on Sunday, translated from French by Hildegarde Searle, affirms the power of storytelling. The narrator, Justine, a 21-year-old assistant nurse at an old people’s home, loves the residents and is fascinated by their stories.

Justine explains, “For me, it was there that everything began: they told us stories.  And old folks, since they have nothing else to do, tell the past like nobody else.”

Justine grew up in a house without stories.  Orphaned when her parents and aunt and uncle died in a car accident, Justine and her cousin Jules are raised by their grandparents. Gran and Gramps seldom talk to each other and never tell stories. They bury the past.

So when Justine buys a notebook to write down the story of 95-year-old Helene, her favorite patient, she herself begins to feel more connected to her own past.  Eventually, she looks up records of the police investigation of the car accident, which gives her clues about the relationship between her grandparents. 

Helene’s story is central to the novel:  When Helene, who cannot read, meets a handsome young man, Etienne, the son of a blind man, he solves the problem of her dyslexia by teaching her braille.  They are a happy couple until the Germans invade France.  The Nazis drag Etienne away to a concentration camp.  He is tortured and forgets his past. Helene sends letters to hospitals but cannot find him.

Justine is very moved by Helene’s story, and begins to feel emotions for a man she sleeps with, whom she calls What’s-his-Name.   She has always been nonchalant about relationships with men. Now she begins to feel love.

This layered novel, published by Europa, is a page-turner. A commentary on the importance of memories, too.

The Best of Thornfield Hall: The Biblio-Anarchist

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I have decided to begin my Best of Thornfield Hall series by explaining my philosophy of blogging. I enjoy writing about classics and old books, am fascinated by Victorian grammar, and if not for a love of book reviews, would never read anything published after the 20th century.

This post was first published on March 19, 2024.

The Biblio-Anarchist:  Book Blogging in 2024

In 2018, I decided to create a new book blog,  Thornfield Hall. I planned to do  “alternative” writing about books, but sometimes on personal subjects.

Blogging was not always so tranquil as it is at Thornfield Hall. Dear Reader, how was I to know that grammar was a political issue? At my old blog I wrote a piece about the habit of using the third-person plural pronoun, “they,” where the singular pronoun, “he” or “she,” was correct. There was indignation:  I was told about the “singular they.” I had never head of the word non-binary, and had no idea that trans people often prefer to use plural pronoun, “they.”  

This Is What Comes of Not Keeping Up.

The form of the blog, or weblog, dates back to the late ‘90s, when I did not properly have the internet.  My modem took ten minutes to power up – one drank coffee or took a short walk while it struggled and made an eerie buzzing noise  – and it was could not upload pages with too many images. But I enjoyed simple book boards where people discussed books. 

There were many enthusiastic readers online. There were gatherings in New York, California, and the South.  I was impressed with the kindness and intelligence of the online community. I enjoyed having coffee with them in person, shopping for books, and going to readings.

After we got Wifi,  I began to read blogs.  I enjoyed the informal writing more than traditional reviews. 

I tend to read old books and classics. Occasionally I write about new books, but only when I admire them.

Far better to stick to the classics.  Is this biblio-anarchy?  It doesn’t seem radical, but perhaps it is.  I try to limit screen time, too, because I get so many recommendations at blogs and Bookstagram that I become a super-consumer.

That’s why I want to become a biblio-anarchist. I don’t want to destroy anything, but I want to stop my “production-consumer” cycle.

Happy reading!

What Will She Do?  Storm Jameson’s “A Day Off”

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Moving is an emotional experience. I would have lived in the same apartment forever if the ceiling hadn’t fallen in.

Then we moved into an old, rambling house, which was our modest version of Howards End. Housing issues dominate my favorite novel by E. M. Forster. The heroine, Margaret Schlegel, must find a house for her family when their lease runs out, and though she looks at many houses, she can’t find affordable housing in London. The controversial solution might be Howards End, a house impulsively left to Margaret by a woman she had met only a few times.

In Storm James’ novella, A Day off, published in a single volume or a Virago collection of novellas, Women against Men, there is also a couple called the Schlegels. The unnamed heroine worked as a maid at a hotel when she was young, and remembers Mr. and Mrs. Schlegel, a kind couple who rented a room.   In the morning another employee discovers that the Schlegels have committed suicide.  The heroine is so overcome with grief that she leaves her job. 

The Schlegels’ death is significant, not only because it shocks the heroine, but because suicide would be one of her options in her late forties, except that, fortunately, her vitality is too strong. : But like Forster’s Schlegels, she worries about losing her home, a shabby rented room where she has lived for a number of years. George, the man who supports her (she is his mistress), hasn’t written or sent her a check in five weeks.   Well, she puts a good face on it – an aging face – and she wills herself to believe the letter will arrive today.

“A Day Off” is included in this collection of novellas.

Jameson’s prose is hard and unsentimental. This is not Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day or The Provincial Lady in London. The heroine is a lower-class version of Jean Rhys’s heroines, sad women who don’t know how they’ll survive without men.   Rhys and Jameson were both writing in the 1930s, but their styles are very different:  Rhys’s prose is spare and sad, and her lost women have no one to turn to.  Jameson’s style is vigorous and alert: she sees alternatives for her characters. The heroine of A Day Off may be going down – but not yet. 

She decides to forget about George for a few hours and take a day off at Hampstead Heath. She enjoys the scenery, the deer and the wild flowers, and takes a long, much needed nap. But hers is not the sleep of youth; she drools and has lines of her face.  A group of young people laugh at her, and when she wakes up, she scolds them, mostly because she realizes she isn’t young anymore. 

She decides to spend the rest of her money on a meal.  Her feet hurt, and she has blisters, but she walks slowly, painfully downhill to a tearoom she remembers.  She sits at a table with a lonely older woman who shares her pastry and confides that she is splurging because she had a windfall of eight pounds.  And then, alas, we see the ugly side of our heroine:  she steals the purse while the woman is in the restroom.

Desperation has driven her, but she also is jumpy and afraid of her action.  We despair for her.  And then she commits another desperate act. But the heroine is resilient. Perhaps she’ll get back on her feet. Perhaps she’ll go into retail: she met George while she worked in a shop that sold gloves. We hope for the best. We know that whatever job she takes, her feet will be killing her! But it’s sad that George, or his successor, will never marry her.

Storm Jameson’s Novella, “Delicate Monster”

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“You’ve had so many men.  You might have left me mine,” I said ridiculously. — “Delicate Monster,” by Storm Jameson

Women Against Men, by Storm Jameson

Storm Jameson is a brilliant, often political, writer, best-known for her trilogy, The Mirror in Darkness.  If Virago had not reissued the trilogy along with Women Without Men, my generation would not have have read her.  Unfortunately, the Viragos are out-of-print.

Women against Men, a collection of three novellas, is a good place to start. The title is striking, though it does not apply to the first novella, Delicate Monster, in which two women writers, Fanny and Victoria, are pitted against each other. One writes literary fiction, the other best-selling blockbusters.

There is jealousy from the start. The narrator, Fanny, and her rival, Victoria, grow up in the same small town. Their teacher considers Victoria the better writer, but Fanny ignores her and continues to write.   It is not until the girls move to London that they become close friends.  They go to parties together and deride the behavior of the eccentric guests, until Victoria’s success with the literati divides the two girls.

Storm Jameson is a brilliant, often political writer, best-known for her trilogy, The Mirror in Darkness.  If Virago, the women’s publisher founded in the UK in 1978, had not reissued the trilogy and a collection of novellas, my generation would not have discovered Jameson.  Unfortunately, the Viragos are out-of-print now.Jameson’s Women Against Men is a good place to start. The title, however, does not apply to the first novella, “Delicate Monster.” In this fictional treatise on jealousy, two women writers are pitted against each other. 

Fanny is a serious literary writer, while beautiful, promiscuous Victoria gains success by writing trashy best-sellers (part bodice-ripper, with a tad of family saga, and scenes borrowed from her friends’ lives).  Soon charming Victoria is feted by critics, writers, celebrities and the upper-classes. 

Fanny struggles. She writes very slowly.  She continues to be an underrated and underread writer of literary fiction. Her books don’t sell: she can’t make a living writing. Eventually she finds a a job at a publishing company. Part of the job is dealing with egotistical writers.   She observes, “Novelists are rarely tolerable. I say nothing of their vanity (‘A little vanity does no harm in life’), but novelists are almost alone in expecting to be paid highly for doing what they like.”

And she goes on: “… we have eight million authors, of which five thousand are writers on serious subjects, ten thousand dramatics, fifty are practicing poets, and the remnant (7,984,950) novelists.” (Very funny! Are the numbers still the same proportionately?)

It is easy to see quiet Fanny coping at her job and soothing the writers’ feathers.  But her married life is rocky:  she is shattered when she finds a love letter from Victoria in her husband’s raincoat pocket.   And when Fanny approaches her, Victoria is impatient. “Oh, that!” And then Fanny learns that the two are still having an affair.

Fanny gets over it – the marriage is soon over – but can one be surprised that she is pleased when Victoria’s daughter Camilla visits to ask advice? 

 Victoria reminds me of the indelicate monster in Max Beerbohm’s satirical novel, Zuleika Dobson. The beautiful Zuleika drives hundreds of men to suicide, including an entire class at Oxford.  (Well, perhaps it’s the whole university. I can’t remember!)

Delicate Monster is a haunting, realistic look at friendship, with its moments of joy and terrible sadness.

About the quote at the top:  yes, it’s melodramatic, but if your friend steals your boyfriend, you might as well say this as anything else, because nothing will do any good!

 The Weight and Balance of “War and Peace” 

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“War and Peace is a hymn to life. It is the Iliad and the Odyssey of Russia.” – Rosemary Edmonds, Introduction to War and Peace (Penguin,1978)

Leo Tolstoy is my favorite writer.  Well, that’s not quite true: I’m not the kind of gal who takes one book to a desert island. I have many favorite writers, including Charlotte Bronte, Dickens, and Doris Lessing. 

Yet I always come back to War and Peace.  I have read this immense, breathtaking novel – 1,444 pages in Rosemary Edmonds’ translation (Penguin) – twelve times.  Each time I marvel at the dramatic scenes of love and domesticity contrasted with the excitement and horrors of war. 

Some year ago, there was a three-day public reading of War and Peace in a university town. I wasn’t quite fanatical enough to make the journey, but I loved the idea. The characters are so vivid that when I read I become Natalia Rostov, a young fashionista who fusses over what her mother and cousin will wear to the ball; or her brother. Nikolai, who, wounded on the battlefield, realizes that the French might kill him – he, whom everyone loves! I am also fond of Marya Bolkonsky, an awkward heiress who devotes herself to religion.  And my favorite hussar officer is Denisov, who has an endearing lisp.

This month I have dipped into my favorite parts of W&P, but having sprained my wrist on Middlemarch, it has been an awkward experience. Ouch!  What I need is a six-volume set. Lots of slim volumes, if they weren’t so ancient, beat-up, and expensive!   Or I  need to rip my paperback into two parts, but I don’t have the strength.

And so I have a paperback-on-a- pillow system, combined with yoga exercises, too complicated to explain without diagrams, maps, and the Grateful Dead playing in the background. Since I don’t feel up to diagramming today, I will comment on the advantages and disadvantages of three paperback editions of War and Peace.

I’m an old-fashioned reader, and my favorite translators are, alas, dead: Aylmer and Louise Maude were friends of Tolstoy, who recommended their translation; Rosemary Edmonds was famous for her translations of Tolstoy; and Constance Garnett was the first translator of many 19th-century Russian writers.  Edmonds is my favorite but unfortunately her translation is out-of-print. 

The Oxford Maude translation is the best buy,  This wins the three-way contest in terms of background material.  The Maudes’ translation is elegant, and I’m also impressed by their scholarly introduction, lists of Dates of Principal Events, Principal Characters, footnotes, and maps. All the background you want and need.

The Penguin paperback Rosemary Edmonds translation (1978) is out-of-print but you can find used copies.   Penguin now publishes Anthony Briggs’ excellent 2005 translation, which comes with all the s fixin’s: maps, lists, and historical material.

translated by Rosemary Edmonds

It’s not that I don’t recommend Briggs – I do – but Edmonds happens to be my favorite Russian translator.  I highly recommend this if you can find it. It has a good introduction by Edmonds but no notes. There were fewer notes in 20th-century Penguins, I think.

 The Modern Library Constance Garnett translation is available in paperback or a a used hardcover. Garnett is a graceful writer, and I have loved her translations of other Russian writers as weel. Some people rant about Garnett’s mistakes, but if there are mistakes, only the most learned readers will know.  I love this edition, but again, no background material other than the introduction.  Double-check on that:  it’s been a long time since I’ve looked at this edition.

If you want a modern translation, I highly recommend Briggs’ in the 2005 Penguin. 

LET ME KNOW YOUR FAVORITE TRANSLATIONS!

The Good-to-Better News Cycle

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I am a fan of light news.  On Sunday I riffled through the newspaper, looking for the editorial section because there is always at least one light essay or sensible letter to the editor.  Alas, the editors had substituted a special section on Trump.

Don’t we get tired of politics? I wish they’d print old Cathy cartoons and humor columns in the style of Cornelia Otis Skinner.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to find better news. I have scrawled a few notes on the “good-to-medium” news cycle: Democrats and some Republicans have asked Kristi Noem, secretary of Homeland Security, to resign for ICE’s heinous crimes;  Kanya West apologized in the Wall Street Journal for anti-semitism; a Moby-Dick Marathon took place in January at the New Bedford Whaling Museum; and, for soap fans, trouble is brewing for Mariah, Devon, and Abby on The Young and the Restless.

You can take your notes on the better news in a special notebook, or type it on a vintage typewriter. You can make a ‘zine – remember ‘zines? – and distribute them at coffeehouses.

 Everything made more sense when it was on paper.

Exercises with “Anna Karenina” for the Avid Reader

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Anna Karenina or weight-lifting?

If you’re a constant reader, and carry a book wherever you go, you will not need to lift weights. That’s what I thought.  Walking, jogging, and calisthenics surely strengthen the muscles and improve flexibility, but it is not enough: I’ve sprained or strained my wrist while reading!

Do I need to lift weights? Honestly, I do have some pink 3-pound dumbbells – but that’s what reading Anna Karenina is for!  Two hours of reading Anna Karenina must be more than the equivalent of 5 minutes with the weights. Anyway, I hope so: I prefer my smooth, soft arms to the gym-induced muscles.

 Actors in old films seem more attractive than the perfectly-toned actors of today.  They are glamorous, but look softer somehow – should I use the word “real,” or “relatable”?   While watching a film about the space program in the 1960s, I noticed the crowd at a rocket launch at Cape Canaveral had that soft-limbed, approachable look. They were not glamorous: some wore polyester! Plaid shorts! Culottes! There was a different ethos then:  polyester freed our mothers and other housewives from ironing.  Of course I wore cotton and natural fabrics later, but I remember being decked out in a pink polyester minidress, fishnet stockings, and a white faux fur coat.  Not a natural fiber in the outfit!

This winter, I’m finally observing the effects of a “bookish” strained or sprained wrist. Holding up the hardcover of Middlemarch made one of my wrists ache.  I  switched to a paperback copy – still huge, but much lighter- and the ache is less noticeable.

Few hardbacks strain my wrist.  It’s those 900+-page books that are challenging. Fortunately, used paperbacks are a cheap alternative. 

Captain Nemo suggests that I should walk around carrying an Evelyn Waugh trilogy (bought second-hand on eBay ). It would be a challenging alternative to the three-pound pink dumbbells.  And hauling Dickens’ books, whether hardback or paperback, works up a sweat.

But I fear I’ll have to resort to the pink dumbbells. It’s inevitable.  Soon you’ll envy my biceps.  It should strengthen my wrists, too.

I need to apply heat or cold, or put on an Ace bandage on the wrist. I’d better look that up! Any suggestions?