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Reuben, Reuben
Clifton Fadiman says of Peter De Vries, “There is something wrong with the world, and this man . . . knows. He expresses his knowledge, not by caterwauling, but through farce, parody, language-play and a kind of commedia dell'arte manipulation of absurd characters and situations. His wacky art reflects the fact that our condition is as preposterous as it is terrifying." A world in which "nobody knows how to live" is "hilariously and classically recorded in the comic morality plays that are his novels." In this one, nobody knows how to love. "The human botch of mating," as one character calls it, is the central theme of an intimate closeup of several interlocking romances, both sacred and profane. The setting is again that swatch of eastern seaboard De Vries has made his own, but this time seen through the eyes of three a Connecticut chicken farmer helplessly bewitched by the invading New York culture; a visiting Scotch poet named McGland, whose quenchless amorous thirst is as sad as it is funny; and a handsome young Englishman named Mopworth who falls in love with the farmer's granddaughter, thus bringing the action full circle. The follies of our de-romanticized time are perhaps best satirized in the woes of poor Mopworth, whose zest for women leaves his intellectual friends no conclusion but that he must be fighting inversion. Minor characters include a doctor without a car who hitchhikes to his patients, and a man known as C.B.S., a communications tycoon who can't communicate, at least with his wife, one of McGland's mistresses. Reuben, Reuben is certainly the mature best of one who, ruefully as he views a world of increasing sexual isolation, in which "the Individual prospers at the expense of the Pair," always makes his point with mirth. We may see ourselves as we watch a few of our fellow mortals paint themselves into a corner while the door to love stands open.
435 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1964
65 people are currently reading
331 people want to read
About the author
Peter De Vries
54 books164 followersPeter De Vries is responsible for contributing to the cultural vernacular such witticisms as "Nostalgia ain't what it used to be" and "Deep down, he's shallow." He was, according to Kingsley Amis, "the funniest serious writer to be found on either side of the Atlantic." “Quick with quips so droll and witty, so penetrating and precise that you almost don’t feel them piercing your pretensions, Peter De Vries was perhaps America’s best comic novelist not named Mark Twain. . .” (Sam McManis, Sacramento Bee).
His achievement seemed best appreciated by his fellow writers. Harper Lee, naming the great American writers, said, “Peter De Vries . . . is the Evelyn Waugh of our time". Anthony Burgess called De Vries “surely one of the great prose virtuosos of modern America.”
Peter De Vries was a radio actor in the 1930s, and editor for Poetry magazine from 1938 to 1944. During World War II he served in the U.S. Marines attaining the rank of Captain, and was seconded to the O.S.S., predecessor to the CIA.
He joined the staff of The New Yorker magazine at the insistence of James Thurber and worked there from 1944 to 1987. A prolific writer, De Vries wrote short stories, reviews, poetry, essays, a play, novellas, and twenty-three novels, several of which were made into films.
De Vries met his wife, Katinka Loeser, while at Poetry magazine. They married and moved to Westport, Connecticut, where they raised 4 children. The death of his 10-year-old daughter Emily from leukemia inspired The Blood of the Lamb, the most poignant and the most autobiographical of De Vries's novels.
In Westport, De Vries formed a lifelong friendship with the young J. D. Salinger, who later described the writing process as "opening a vein and bleeding onto the page." The two writers clearly "understood each other very well” (son Derek De Vries in "The Return of Peter De Vries", Westport Magazine, April 2006).
De Vries received an honorary degree in 1979 from Susquehanna University, and was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters in May 1983.
His books were sadly out of print by the time of his death. After the New Yorker published a critical reappraisal of De Vries’ work however (“Few writers have understood literary comedy as well as De Vries, and few comic novelists have had his grasp of tragedy”), The University of Chicago Press began reissuing his works in 2005, starting with The Blood of the Lamb and Slouching Toward Kalamazoo.
His achievement seemed best appreciated by his fellow writers. Harper Lee, naming the great American writers, said, “Peter De Vries . . . is the Evelyn Waugh of our time". Anthony Burgess called De Vries “surely one of the great prose virtuosos of modern America.”
Peter De Vries was a radio actor in the 1930s, and editor for Poetry magazine from 1938 to 1944. During World War II he served in the U.S. Marines attaining the rank of Captain, and was seconded to the O.S.S., predecessor to the CIA.
He joined the staff of The New Yorker magazine at the insistence of James Thurber and worked there from 1944 to 1987. A prolific writer, De Vries wrote short stories, reviews, poetry, essays, a play, novellas, and twenty-three novels, several of which were made into films.
De Vries met his wife, Katinka Loeser, while at Poetry magazine. They married and moved to Westport, Connecticut, where they raised 4 children. The death of his 10-year-old daughter Emily from leukemia inspired The Blood of the Lamb, the most poignant and the most autobiographical of De Vries's novels.
In Westport, De Vries formed a lifelong friendship with the young J. D. Salinger, who later described the writing process as "opening a vein and bleeding onto the page." The two writers clearly "understood each other very well” (son Derek De Vries in "The Return of Peter De Vries", Westport Magazine, April 2006).
De Vries received an honorary degree in 1979 from Susquehanna University, and was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters in May 1983.
His books were sadly out of print by the time of his death. After the New Yorker published a critical reappraisal of De Vries’ work however (“Few writers have understood literary comedy as well as De Vries, and few comic novelists have had his grasp of tragedy”), The University of Chicago Press began reissuing his works in 2005, starting with The Blood of the Lamb and Slouching Toward Kalamazoo.
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Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews
July 22, 2017
A hundred years ago Hester Prynne of The Scarlet Letter was given a A for adultery. Today she would rate no better than a C-plus.
Frank Spofford is a humble chicken farmer. Born and raised in a small Connecticut town, he's spending his Golden Years grousing about the "commuters" who have moved in from the city and people the split-levels and phony Cape Cods that have been built in housing developments where there used to be farms and woodlands.
I got displaced by staying put.
I stayed on at the old homestead and saw the town where I was born grow from 1800 neighbors to 20,000 strangers - strangers who regard me as the outsider.
When Geneva Spofford, Frank's beloved granddaughter, is unceremoniously dumped by the son of one of the newcomers, the Spoffords exact their vengeance by refusing to sell poultry and eggs to any and all commuters.
Then Frank hatches a plan to infiltrate "high society," ensuring that Geneva can get in with quality and have a brighter future. He becomes a handyman/gardener/babysitter/all-around-go-to-guy for the commuters. Spofford already knows where all the bodies are buried. Soon he will know who has a skeleton in the closet and whose skeletons are bumping pelvic bones with other skeleton's spouses.
Throw into the mix a boozy, Lothario of a visiting poet, Gowan McGland, or as one resident's husband describes him - ". . . a lying, cheating, wenching, swilling drunken son of a bitch." Though perpetually poor and somewhat unhygienic, McGland manages to charm his way into the beds of a number of local wives. This may, in the end, prove to be his downfall.
This book started out as a five-star winner. And indeed, the first 180 pages are perfect; dreamy, lovely prose that's delightful to read outdoors with a glass of iced tea. There are more quotable passages than you can shake a stick at:
Given a little money, education and social standing, plus of course the necessary leisure, any man with any style at all can make a mess of his love life.
"The world is full of women and of hankering. They rouse more of it than they could possibly satisfy, and that's the godawful and everlasting Nature's truth of it. But I guess we're meant to hanker. Without it there wouldn't be no art or poetry or music. No nothing. I sometimes think it's all one great mating cry, mostly out of season."
"I don't hold with reserve. Reserve is for Scandinavians," my father said. "If we can't express the emotions God gave us then we don't deserve them. We're only on loan to one another, so let's show our feelings while we can."
The next third of the book is taken up with Gowan McGland's backstory, in other words, how-he-got-that-way. This section was all right, though I truly missed Frank Spofford's wit and wisdom.
DeVries inexplicably chose to end the book with a plot line centering on the two least interesting characters in the book - Geneva and McGland's biographer. This section was honestly a chore to read and I thought it would never end.
The book was made into a film in 1983, with the McGland character bumped to the forefront as a vehicle for Tom Conti.
Watch the wonderful Roberts Blossom deliver Spofford's speech here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK2Mx...
Or, watch the entire film - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7m4Tm...
This is one of the few cases where I believe the movie far outshines the book. Either read the book and stop after the McGland chapter or just enjoy the film. (I recommend the last one.)
Frank Spofford is a humble chicken farmer. Born and raised in a small Connecticut town, he's spending his Golden Years grousing about the "commuters" who have moved in from the city and people the split-levels and phony Cape Cods that have been built in housing developments where there used to be farms and woodlands.
I got displaced by staying put.
I stayed on at the old homestead and saw the town where I was born grow from 1800 neighbors to 20,000 strangers - strangers who regard me as the outsider.
When Geneva Spofford, Frank's beloved granddaughter, is unceremoniously dumped by the son of one of the newcomers, the Spoffords exact their vengeance by refusing to sell poultry and eggs to any and all commuters.
Then Frank hatches a plan to infiltrate "high society," ensuring that Geneva can get in with quality and have a brighter future. He becomes a handyman/gardener/babysitter/all-around-go-to-guy for the commuters. Spofford already knows where all the bodies are buried. Soon he will know who has a skeleton in the closet and whose skeletons are bumping pelvic bones with other skeleton's spouses.
Throw into the mix a boozy, Lothario of a visiting poet, Gowan McGland, or as one resident's husband describes him - ". . . a lying, cheating, wenching, swilling drunken son of a bitch." Though perpetually poor and somewhat unhygienic, McGland manages to charm his way into the beds of a number of local wives. This may, in the end, prove to be his downfall.
This book started out as a five-star winner. And indeed, the first 180 pages are perfect; dreamy, lovely prose that's delightful to read outdoors with a glass of iced tea. There are more quotable passages than you can shake a stick at:
Given a little money, education and social standing, plus of course the necessary leisure, any man with any style at all can make a mess of his love life.
"The world is full of women and of hankering. They rouse more of it than they could possibly satisfy, and that's the godawful and everlasting Nature's truth of it. But I guess we're meant to hanker. Without it there wouldn't be no art or poetry or music. No nothing. I sometimes think it's all one great mating cry, mostly out of season."
"I don't hold with reserve. Reserve is for Scandinavians," my father said. "If we can't express the emotions God gave us then we don't deserve them. We're only on loan to one another, so let's show our feelings while we can."
The next third of the book is taken up with Gowan McGland's backstory, in other words, how-he-got-that-way. This section was all right, though I truly missed Frank Spofford's wit and wisdom.
DeVries inexplicably chose to end the book with a plot line centering on the two least interesting characters in the book - Geneva and McGland's biographer. This section was honestly a chore to read and I thought it would never end.
The book was made into a film in 1983, with the McGland character bumped to the forefront as a vehicle for Tom Conti.
Watch the wonderful Roberts Blossom deliver Spofford's speech here - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK2Mx...
Or, watch the entire film - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7m4Tm...
This is one of the few cases where I believe the movie far outshines the book. Either read the book and stop after the McGland chapter or just enjoy the film. (I recommend the last one.)
March 20, 2012
Peter DeVries should be regarded as a national treasure. Instead every one of his many fine books is out of print. This is inexplicable to me. He’s known mostly as a comic novelist but this does him a great disservice. He IS very funny. (“A writer is like the pencil he uses. He must be worn down to be kept sharp.”) Perhaps only Wodehouse is funnier but Wodehouse’s delightful books are rich desserts where DeVrie’s work makes for a more solid meal. In general I am a big fan of the roué novel and this is one of the best. It also may be DeVries’ best and that’s saying something. Here he strikes just the right balance between comedy and drama and the well-structured story is satisfying and entertaining at the same time.
June 13, 2013
*Really 4.5 stars. Thank you, Peter DeVries.
*Note: all misspellings are due to the narrator, not me (at least for Part I of the book).
“ ‘I don’t hold with reserve. Reserve is for Scandinavians,’ my father said. ‘If we can’t express the emotions God give us then we don’t deserve them. We’re only on loan to one another, so let’s show our feelings while we can’” (4).
“He busted more guys in the jaw than you could shake a stick at. I mean the heavy hickory cane he always carried on the walks around town...(4).
“What they do over lunch I don’t know unless its think up some more slogans like ‘From the depths of a tranquil monastery comes the secret of a superb relish’ to be run under a picture of some guy from the model agency praying in a ski parka with the hood well up around the ears for extra reverence and his hands folded” (7).
“(I’m tall and angular as a carpenter’s rule, with a lantern jaw and eyes the color of a grass stains. Well thats over with.)” (8).
“ ‘Reading Tennyson, ‘I says with a air of aphorism, ‘is like drinking liqueur. Your likelier to get sick on it than drunk’” (9).
“Subtleties go by them like the Jags past the farm” (11).
“George has one virtue, he’s modest, and the edge is taken off that by the fact that theres no point in being anything else” (11).
“You may of observed to yourself that sour people often are not selfish, while ‘nice’ ones are often the most egotistical? I give you a moment to go down your list of friends and acquaintances...Through?” (12).
"The chip she has on one shoulder for her daughter is balanced by one on the other side for her mother. Like epaulets" (21).
“Mexican food should taste like a mouthful of bees...” (26).
“In caricaturing myself I was secretly mocking them. At least that was the idea” (30).
“ ‘We’ve got to apply in everyday life the Relativity our philosophers and scientists have discovered for us. We’ve got to purge Aristotle from our system.’
“ ‘I’ve never read him so why do I have to purge him from my system?’
“ ‘It’s proof of his grip on Western Man that he dominates the thinking of people who have never heard of him’” (33).
"The blues, the real blues that are beyond singing about, had their hooks in me as I walked outside to my car" (46).
" 'Oh, Gawd,' I said heading for the icebox and beer. 'I mean her stories are longer than Lent'" (61).
"Sometimes the way people look makes what they say not half as bad as it sounds; a mitigating expression or gesture, a twist of pain across the face. Because what life does to all of us in some measure excuses or explains what we do to each other" (73).
"'You've heard your mother's old clinker about how if we all of us put our troubles in a pile and looked them over with a chance to take our pick, we'd each of us make off with his own again. It's a rather trite little wheeze but has its point'" (75).
"Their faces were such a comical blend of anxious inquiry and plundered sleep that I had to laugh" (75).
"'She's in a foreign climb, woman!'" (76).
"There are 2 kinds, those acquired lying in the sun and those acquired working in it" (78). *And these days, those acquired by paying to bake in a bed.
"This time she would pass mustard" (79).
"Evidently failing to have celebrities in tow was her fort" (80).
"His need for praise was second only to his sexual craving. He fed on every fresh reminder of the vogue that put both within his reach, and turned this country into one vast playground for him" (88).
"Now I was on my knees, nearly on a level with them. Oh, I was climbing fast!" (89).
"Before I could be ordered to my feet I sprang to them" (89).
"McGland told us that in Wales spoons had a definite folk significance. 'They're a courtship symbol,' he said, and jammed his suggestively into the pudding" (89).
"He didn't have spats on but he didn't need them. He was so British I thought he was kidding" (116).
"It was so muggy the potato chips made no noise when eaten" (120).
"This was pretty spry on the uptake for someone as rich in limitations as Mrs. Punck..." (126).
"...before throwing myself into the breech" (130).
" 'The ball is the egg to be fertilized. The nine innings...'" (131).
"The standards for immorality are getting progressively steeper, for life and art both. A hundred years ago Hester Prynne of The Scarlet Letter was given a A for adultery. Today she would rate no better than a C-plus" (135).
"His mulled blood sent up a howl for himself and all the uselessly roused..." (136).
" 'The world is full of women and of hankering. They rouse more of it than they could possibly satisfy, and that's the godawful and everlasting Nature's truth of it. But I guess we're meant to hanker. Without it there wouldn't be no art or poetry or music. No nothing. I sometimes think it's all one great mating cry, mostly out of season'" (143).
"Mrs. Beau saw the book open on the counter and swung it around to read the title. 'Vanity Fair. How are you liking it?'"
" 'All right. I thought it sort of drug in the middle, like the Old Testament'" (145).
" 'Very much. Some of the lines take a little doing--sort of Amiguitysville--but then that's par for the course'" (145).
" 'Now, Mrs. Beau,' I said, 'some of us have to stay home so the rest of you can be exclusive'" (145).
"One of these was a fat man who stood waist-deep in the water holding a martini, not so much it seemed because he enjoyed doing this as to give a formal expression to the principle of extreme Fun" (153).
"...with a last look at the fat guy still allegorically representing Gaiety" (154).
"...lighting a Havana cigar, often a defective one from a box he said had proved on opening to be worm-eaten but not therefore harmed in quality, putting his fingers on the holes so it would draw as on the stops of a flute, so that we would watch fascinated as he puffed, 1/2 expecting melodies to issue from it..." (158).
*And now we begin Part II.
"...reviving again the mystery of the hangover: why the same number of drinks could mean purgatory one morning and a head clear as a bell another" (167).
"The whole conversation was like a lace valentine" (168).
"His parents fought and bred in about equal measure" (170).
"The feeling for words comes at an early age--or rather it is lost in most cases at any early age, leaving the rest poets" (170). *I quite like this.
"She had a knack, if not a genius, for manipulating the precise moment when the maximum in moral reimbursements could be exacted" (179).
"She was, if not affectionate, at least amorous. Or, if not amorous, certainly erotic. She put her hair to pleasant and often astonishing uses" (179).
"Thus nothing if more characteristic than behaving 'out of character'" (180).
"No one went on more abrupt holidays from his official nature than McGland" (180).
"He felt no bitterness toward the girl, only a fresh installation of a chronic outrage at human trials on both their behalfs" (185).
"With his removable bridgework out he looked like a jack-o'-lantern; he smiled to prove it, recovering to himself thereby the sense of outrage. What did Edith have to complain about, even if this did befall her? She was beautiful. Her teeth were like a flock of sheep which go up from the washing, whereof every one beareth twins, and none is barren among them" (185).
"A mania for stratification seemed to have seized this democracy..." (193).
"McGland never used the typewriter except to press his neckties with" (197).
"...tidying up what he longed only to dishevel with her" (198).
“‘Hell, no. What do I want to read all the classics for? Man is groaning under a terrible hoax about the classics. Screw the classics’” (206).
“That, more than the social amenities, required that he appear quite unriled by the fracas” (210).
“For a speed reader, Haxby took some time over the menu” (212).
“ ‘No, said McGland. ‘I figure we in the British Isles are from fifteen to twenty years behind the cultural decline going on everywhere else in the world’” (213).
“A spasm of anger stirred his murky misery, seizing him with the desire to outrage. He drew out a pocket comb, dipped it into his beer, and began to comb his hair” (219). *That’ll show ‘em.
“Why did she go on day after day, year after year, to eke out the tail end of existence that had no longer any substance or meaning? Because she represented human worth at its highest: virtue in a void. That final courage which consists in knowing courage to be useless” (225).
"...we take people as they are, with charity and if necessary amused affection: we ride the punches; we enjoy what we have in the best and most human way we should" (238).
"Scandal made them what virtue could not: people who mattered" (254).
"How could a chap as nice as he be such a bastard?" (268).
"…relieved only by an occasional unframed specimen of those canvases that seem not so much to have been painted as puked…" (270).
" 'Why do people expect to be happily married when they are not individually happy?'" (285).
"…which some failure of the faculty of disgust enabled him to eat" (302).
"The discovery that he was an ass remained yet to be made--perhaps never would be made, in keeping with those protections to the ego all women must maintain in marriage" (308).
" 'Men want their wives to be understanding. That's not the same as being understood, is it?'" (351).
"...kind as a woodcutter in a fairy tale..." (352).
"...a picture of Fritz Reiner, the conductor, sitting inexplicably alone with his baton in a field of knee-high grass" (355).
"Mopworth let this go, aside from a glance he exchanged with himself in a wall glass in passing" (356).
"High spirits are not infectious, only low. She would make him miserable, he could not make her happy" (357).
"...recalling a specific Currier and Ives print, though of course the young people were speeding away from the old homestead rather than toward it" (361).
"At such moments the Beauty and the Shrew blended together in her face, and you saw what you might on canvas had the Pre-Rapaelites painted bitches" (366).
"…Tallyrand's dictum that God gave people tongues in order that they might conceal their thoughts" (372).
" 'Another woman,' or man, is low on the list of causes for divorce. Infidelity has probably stabilized more marriages than it has shaken. It is from its discovery that the trouble arises" (374). *That's an uncomfortable notion.
"What was behind the human botch of mating?" (393).
"One thing was certain. When it comes to sex we talk a good game, but that's about all. We're no better off with our freedom than the Victorians were with their tyranny. Ours seems a world in which the Individual prospers at the expense of the Pair. Maybe the price of the one is the decline of the other" (394).
"In any case, there's an eternal truth, for male and female alike. It's only the privileged who complain" (394).
*Note: all misspellings are due to the narrator, not me (at least for Part I of the book).
“ ‘I don’t hold with reserve. Reserve is for Scandinavians,’ my father said. ‘If we can’t express the emotions God give us then we don’t deserve them. We’re only on loan to one another, so let’s show our feelings while we can’” (4).
“He busted more guys in the jaw than you could shake a stick at. I mean the heavy hickory cane he always carried on the walks around town...(4).
“What they do over lunch I don’t know unless its think up some more slogans like ‘From the depths of a tranquil monastery comes the secret of a superb relish’ to be run under a picture of some guy from the model agency praying in a ski parka with the hood well up around the ears for extra reverence and his hands folded” (7).
“(I’m tall and angular as a carpenter’s rule, with a lantern jaw and eyes the color of a grass stains. Well thats over with.)” (8).
“ ‘Reading Tennyson, ‘I says with a air of aphorism, ‘is like drinking liqueur. Your likelier to get sick on it than drunk’” (9).
“Subtleties go by them like the Jags past the farm” (11).
“George has one virtue, he’s modest, and the edge is taken off that by the fact that theres no point in being anything else” (11).
“You may of observed to yourself that sour people often are not selfish, while ‘nice’ ones are often the most egotistical? I give you a moment to go down your list of friends and acquaintances...Through?” (12).
"The chip she has on one shoulder for her daughter is balanced by one on the other side for her mother. Like epaulets" (21).
“Mexican food should taste like a mouthful of bees...” (26).
“In caricaturing myself I was secretly mocking them. At least that was the idea” (30).
“ ‘We’ve got to apply in everyday life the Relativity our philosophers and scientists have discovered for us. We’ve got to purge Aristotle from our system.’
“ ‘I’ve never read him so why do I have to purge him from my system?’
“ ‘It’s proof of his grip on Western Man that he dominates the thinking of people who have never heard of him’” (33).
"The blues, the real blues that are beyond singing about, had their hooks in me as I walked outside to my car" (46).
" 'Oh, Gawd,' I said heading for the icebox and beer. 'I mean her stories are longer than Lent'" (61).
"Sometimes the way people look makes what they say not half as bad as it sounds; a mitigating expression or gesture, a twist of pain across the face. Because what life does to all of us in some measure excuses or explains what we do to each other" (73).
"'You've heard your mother's old clinker about how if we all of us put our troubles in a pile and looked them over with a chance to take our pick, we'd each of us make off with his own again. It's a rather trite little wheeze but has its point'" (75).
"Their faces were such a comical blend of anxious inquiry and plundered sleep that I had to laugh" (75).
"'She's in a foreign climb, woman!'" (76).
"There are 2 kinds, those acquired lying in the sun and those acquired working in it" (78). *And these days, those acquired by paying to bake in a bed.
"This time she would pass mustard" (79).
"Evidently failing to have celebrities in tow was her fort" (80).
"His need for praise was second only to his sexual craving. He fed on every fresh reminder of the vogue that put both within his reach, and turned this country into one vast playground for him" (88).
"Now I was on my knees, nearly on a level with them. Oh, I was climbing fast!" (89).
"Before I could be ordered to my feet I sprang to them" (89).
"McGland told us that in Wales spoons had a definite folk significance. 'They're a courtship symbol,' he said, and jammed his suggestively into the pudding" (89).
"He didn't have spats on but he didn't need them. He was so British I thought he was kidding" (116).
"It was so muggy the potato chips made no noise when eaten" (120).
"This was pretty spry on the uptake for someone as rich in limitations as Mrs. Punck..." (126).
"...before throwing myself into the breech" (130).
" 'The ball is the egg to be fertilized. The nine innings...'" (131).
"The standards for immorality are getting progressively steeper, for life and art both. A hundred years ago Hester Prynne of The Scarlet Letter was given a A for adultery. Today she would rate no better than a C-plus" (135).
"His mulled blood sent up a howl for himself and all the uselessly roused..." (136).
" 'The world is full of women and of hankering. They rouse more of it than they could possibly satisfy, and that's the godawful and everlasting Nature's truth of it. But I guess we're meant to hanker. Without it there wouldn't be no art or poetry or music. No nothing. I sometimes think it's all one great mating cry, mostly out of season'" (143).
"Mrs. Beau saw the book open on the counter and swung it around to read the title. 'Vanity Fair. How are you liking it?'"
" 'All right. I thought it sort of drug in the middle, like the Old Testament'" (145).
" 'Very much. Some of the lines take a little doing--sort of Amiguitysville--but then that's par for the course'" (145).
" 'Now, Mrs. Beau,' I said, 'some of us have to stay home so the rest of you can be exclusive'" (145).
"One of these was a fat man who stood waist-deep in the water holding a martini, not so much it seemed because he enjoyed doing this as to give a formal expression to the principle of extreme Fun" (153).
"...with a last look at the fat guy still allegorically representing Gaiety" (154).
"...lighting a Havana cigar, often a defective one from a box he said had proved on opening to be worm-eaten but not therefore harmed in quality, putting his fingers on the holes so it would draw as on the stops of a flute, so that we would watch fascinated as he puffed, 1/2 expecting melodies to issue from it..." (158).
*And now we begin Part II.
"...reviving again the mystery of the hangover: why the same number of drinks could mean purgatory one morning and a head clear as a bell another" (167).
"The whole conversation was like a lace valentine" (168).
"His parents fought and bred in about equal measure" (170).
"The feeling for words comes at an early age--or rather it is lost in most cases at any early age, leaving the rest poets" (170). *I quite like this.
"She had a knack, if not a genius, for manipulating the precise moment when the maximum in moral reimbursements could be exacted" (179).
"She was, if not affectionate, at least amorous. Or, if not amorous, certainly erotic. She put her hair to pleasant and often astonishing uses" (179).
"Thus nothing if more characteristic than behaving 'out of character'" (180).
"No one went on more abrupt holidays from his official nature than McGland" (180).
"He felt no bitterness toward the girl, only a fresh installation of a chronic outrage at human trials on both their behalfs" (185).
"With his removable bridgework out he looked like a jack-o'-lantern; he smiled to prove it, recovering to himself thereby the sense of outrage. What did Edith have to complain about, even if this did befall her? She was beautiful. Her teeth were like a flock of sheep which go up from the washing, whereof every one beareth twins, and none is barren among them" (185).
"A mania for stratification seemed to have seized this democracy..." (193).
"McGland never used the typewriter except to press his neckties with" (197).
"...tidying up what he longed only to dishevel with her" (198).
“‘Hell, no. What do I want to read all the classics for? Man is groaning under a terrible hoax about the classics. Screw the classics’” (206).
“That, more than the social amenities, required that he appear quite unriled by the fracas” (210).
“For a speed reader, Haxby took some time over the menu” (212).
“ ‘No, said McGland. ‘I figure we in the British Isles are from fifteen to twenty years behind the cultural decline going on everywhere else in the world’” (213).
“A spasm of anger stirred his murky misery, seizing him with the desire to outrage. He drew out a pocket comb, dipped it into his beer, and began to comb his hair” (219). *That’ll show ‘em.
“Why did she go on day after day, year after year, to eke out the tail end of existence that had no longer any substance or meaning? Because she represented human worth at its highest: virtue in a void. That final courage which consists in knowing courage to be useless” (225).
"...we take people as they are, with charity and if necessary amused affection: we ride the punches; we enjoy what we have in the best and most human way we should" (238).
"Scandal made them what virtue could not: people who mattered" (254).
"How could a chap as nice as he be such a bastard?" (268).
"…relieved only by an occasional unframed specimen of those canvases that seem not so much to have been painted as puked…" (270).
" 'Why do people expect to be happily married when they are not individually happy?'" (285).
"…which some failure of the faculty of disgust enabled him to eat" (302).
"The discovery that he was an ass remained yet to be made--perhaps never would be made, in keeping with those protections to the ego all women must maintain in marriage" (308).
" 'Men want their wives to be understanding. That's not the same as being understood, is it?'" (351).
"...kind as a woodcutter in a fairy tale..." (352).
"...a picture of Fritz Reiner, the conductor, sitting inexplicably alone with his baton in a field of knee-high grass" (355).
"Mopworth let this go, aside from a glance he exchanged with himself in a wall glass in passing" (356).
"High spirits are not infectious, only low. She would make him miserable, he could not make her happy" (357).
"...recalling a specific Currier and Ives print, though of course the young people were speeding away from the old homestead rather than toward it" (361).
"At such moments the Beauty and the Shrew blended together in her face, and you saw what you might on canvas had the Pre-Rapaelites painted bitches" (366).
"…Tallyrand's dictum that God gave people tongues in order that they might conceal their thoughts" (372).
" 'Another woman,' or man, is low on the list of causes for divorce. Infidelity has probably stabilized more marriages than it has shaken. It is from its discovery that the trouble arises" (374). *That's an uncomfortable notion.
"What was behind the human botch of mating?" (393).
"One thing was certain. When it comes to sex we talk a good game, but that's about all. We're no better off with our freedom than the Victorians were with their tyranny. Ours seems a world in which the Individual prospers at the expense of the Pair. Maybe the price of the one is the decline of the other" (394).
"In any case, there's an eternal truth, for male and female alike. It's only the privileged who complain" (394).
April 23, 2019
The Tom Conti movie was based on one aspect of this book...and made it difficult not to picture him while reading. Somewhat enjoyed the book up until the last segment, "Mopworth" -- which I felt tried to address too much; De Vries had a lot to say here (mid-60s) about feminism and the sexual revolution, but crammed it into dialogue and circumstances which strained credulity in the characters and conversations. I also felt he made young 20-somethings too suddenly wise way beyond their years.
Some snort-out-loud-even-when-reading-alone humor, rare for me.
Some snort-out-loud-even-when-reading-alone humor, rare for me.
September 13, 2024
Very funny, laugh-out-loud book, with double entendres, amusing characters and a hilarious spoof of Dylan Thomas - a randy poet named McGland.
Of course, in the 1960s mode of Updike etc, the point of view is sometimes offensive and sexist – taken for granted in that culture and a little painful for someone having grown up with it.
Of course, in the 1960s mode of Updike etc, the point of view is sometimes offensive and sexist – taken for granted in that culture and a little painful for someone having grown up with it.
June 14, 2011
Of all the De Vries I’ve read, this is probably my least favorite; however, it is still better than the average read, full of wit, irony, and solid storytelling.
Once again De Vries satirically targets the upper echelon of the East Coast. His three-part storytelling structure semi-equally divides his attention to the middle class/locals of upstate New York, the “commuters” of New York City, and just to keep it fresh, a couple of limeys from across the pond. De Vries spares no one with his satire, going after all groups in equal force, mocking the locals who are trying to be commuters, locals who are discriminating against commuters, commuters who think they are king of the world, and Brits who think they are superior to Americans.
I think it would have been a fine novel if De Vries would have just left his targets as such, the class structure and its ensuing comedies. However, just when the first section (about a 61 year old local who starts to embed himself in the higher-class get-togethers) gets going, the second section is total change, focusing on a completely separate character, a British poet/man-whore with bad teeth. Then after that section a third, following a biographer of said poet, and his life and struggles with his wife. There are loose threads connecting these three sections, such as the biographer’s wife is the 61 year old’s granddaughter, who the poet nailed first. They all live in the same town or surrounding area. But what gets me is the shift in subject matter, seemingly switching from “commuter prejudice” to “man-whoring” to “typical suburbia Man Men domestic struggles and affairs.” Plus, at 435 pages, this is longest De Vries I’ve read by nearly 200 pages, and it read a lot slower than his others. Did he forget to trim the fat?
I always appreciate De Vries style, and I did enjoy the Mad Men vibe running throughout this whole novel. By no means is this a bad novel, and I plan to keep right up with his ouerve (what’s he got, 23 novels? Work to do…), but I was a bit let down by this one. Even though, it was a decent read and better than a lot of other works.
Once again De Vries satirically targets the upper echelon of the East Coast. His three-part storytelling structure semi-equally divides his attention to the middle class/locals of upstate New York, the “commuters” of New York City, and just to keep it fresh, a couple of limeys from across the pond. De Vries spares no one with his satire, going after all groups in equal force, mocking the locals who are trying to be commuters, locals who are discriminating against commuters, commuters who think they are king of the world, and Brits who think they are superior to Americans.
I think it would have been a fine novel if De Vries would have just left his targets as such, the class structure and its ensuing comedies. However, just when the first section (about a 61 year old local who starts to embed himself in the higher-class get-togethers) gets going, the second section is total change, focusing on a completely separate character, a British poet/man-whore with bad teeth. Then after that section a third, following a biographer of said poet, and his life and struggles with his wife. There are loose threads connecting these three sections, such as the biographer’s wife is the 61 year old’s granddaughter, who the poet nailed first. They all live in the same town or surrounding area. But what gets me is the shift in subject matter, seemingly switching from “commuter prejudice” to “man-whoring” to “typical suburbia Man Men domestic struggles and affairs.” Plus, at 435 pages, this is longest De Vries I’ve read by nearly 200 pages, and it read a lot slower than his others. Did he forget to trim the fat?
I always appreciate De Vries style, and I did enjoy the Mad Men vibe running throughout this whole novel. By no means is this a bad novel, and I plan to keep right up with his ouerve (what’s he got, 23 novels? Work to do…), but I was a bit let down by this one. Even though, it was a decent read and better than a lot of other works.
November 12, 2008
Has anyone else heard of this wonderful satire? De Vries is a genius, and I think Gowan McGland is one of the most hilarious, heartbreaking characters in 20th century literature (and one to which I think A Confederacy of Dunces may owe a considerable debt).
Read it.
Read it.
February 16, 2024
Screaming like a bored gorilla.
Saw this one on sale and remembered the author's name from a funny story in James Thurber's "The Years With Ross." Thurber claims to have discovered De Vries in Chicago and introduced him to New Yorker Magazine head Harold Ross as "the perfect New Yorker writer." According to Thurber, Ross (without reading De Vries' work) tried to push him into the editorial staff. Asked if he could oversee some department, De Vries replied, "No, but I can scream like a wounded gorilla." (Having done so on a Chicago radio program.)
De Vries ended up writing for the New Yorker and producing novels about life in Connecticut suburbs as lived by NYC ex-pats. As a prospective reader can see in the GoodReads blurb, he was a popular, well-respected writer of fiction in the 1950's and 60's. Then he was forgotten and his books fell out of print.
Having read every page of this very long novel, I suspect De Vries fell out of favor because his books became dated and irrelevant. They were topical at the time, giving an incisive look into up-scale suburban life in New England during post-WWII America when the economy was booming but people weren't as happy as they expected to be.
Perhaps my dislike of this book is because the author's take on the problems is heavy-handed and exclusively male. To him, the problem is that woman (at least in the upper-income brackets) are getting college degrees. Since there are no jobs for them, they become dissatisfied with their traditional female roles and (in turn) make their husbands miserable, too.
De Vries' was himself married to a poet and father of a large Baby Boomer brood. Did his wife's writing interfere with his creature comforts? No way of knowing, but it's clear from this book that he places no blame for the modern misery on the husbands. They simply want the traditional system (which worked to their favor) to continue. Who can blame them?
Like Gaul, the book is divided into three parts. The first part is told by a semi-illiterate Connecticut chicken farmer whose life is turned upside down by the influx of sophisticated, high-income New Yorkers into his formerly peaceful rural village. Deciding he can't beat them so he might as well join them, he inserts himself into the newcomers' circle. If you don't mind the silly spelling, it's very entertaining.
The second part tells the story of a Welsh poet (a heavy drinker and determined womanizer) who's taken up by trendy American housewives and turned into a social "lion." I think this character is based on the poet Dylan Thomas, who created a big stir on his American tour before his death in NYC in 1953. Like the fictional McGland, Thomas was always getting himself into drunken messes, which were forgiven because "he's a poet." It's probably an accurate look at how idiotic people can be when they have too much money and nothing much to do with their time.
The third part concerns McGland's publicity agent and general dog's-body, Englishman Alvin Mopworth. This character was probably based on John M Brinnin, a poet and critic who accompanied Dylan Thomas on his American adventures and eventually wrote a biography of him. Brinnin was openly gay and Mopworth starts out being decidedly fey. But the author needs him to marry the Connecticut chicken farmer's expensively educated granddaughter so he can bring the saga full circle. So Mopworth becomes a MAN and a suburban husband and father.
They're miserable, of course, because she's dissatisfied with being female. And so the story drags on until the end. It IS well-written and it IS witty, but it makes the same point over and over and over again. How many times do you need to be told? Personally, once was enough for me.
I really prefer older books, but (to me) even the author's talent and humor can't overcome the fact that this book hasn't aged well. If you're a literate In-cel and long for the Good Old Days, then it's for you. Otherwise, skip it.
Saw this one on sale and remembered the author's name from a funny story in James Thurber's "The Years With Ross." Thurber claims to have discovered De Vries in Chicago and introduced him to New Yorker Magazine head Harold Ross as "the perfect New Yorker writer." According to Thurber, Ross (without reading De Vries' work) tried to push him into the editorial staff. Asked if he could oversee some department, De Vries replied, "No, but I can scream like a wounded gorilla." (Having done so on a Chicago radio program.)
De Vries ended up writing for the New Yorker and producing novels about life in Connecticut suburbs as lived by NYC ex-pats. As a prospective reader can see in the GoodReads blurb, he was a popular, well-respected writer of fiction in the 1950's and 60's. Then he was forgotten and his books fell out of print.
Having read every page of this very long novel, I suspect De Vries fell out of favor because his books became dated and irrelevant. They were topical at the time, giving an incisive look into up-scale suburban life in New England during post-WWII America when the economy was booming but people weren't as happy as they expected to be.
Perhaps my dislike of this book is because the author's take on the problems is heavy-handed and exclusively male. To him, the problem is that woman (at least in the upper-income brackets) are getting college degrees. Since there are no jobs for them, they become dissatisfied with their traditional female roles and (in turn) make their husbands miserable, too.
De Vries' was himself married to a poet and father of a large Baby Boomer brood. Did his wife's writing interfere with his creature comforts? No way of knowing, but it's clear from this book that he places no blame for the modern misery on the husbands. They simply want the traditional system (which worked to their favor) to continue. Who can blame them?
Like Gaul, the book is divided into three parts. The first part is told by a semi-illiterate Connecticut chicken farmer whose life is turned upside down by the influx of sophisticated, high-income New Yorkers into his formerly peaceful rural village. Deciding he can't beat them so he might as well join them, he inserts himself into the newcomers' circle. If you don't mind the silly spelling, it's very entertaining.
The second part tells the story of a Welsh poet (a heavy drinker and determined womanizer) who's taken up by trendy American housewives and turned into a social "lion." I think this character is based on the poet Dylan Thomas, who created a big stir on his American tour before his death in NYC in 1953. Like the fictional McGland, Thomas was always getting himself into drunken messes, which were forgiven because "he's a poet." It's probably an accurate look at how idiotic people can be when they have too much money and nothing much to do with their time.
The third part concerns McGland's publicity agent and general dog's-body, Englishman Alvin Mopworth. This character was probably based on John M Brinnin, a poet and critic who accompanied Dylan Thomas on his American adventures and eventually wrote a biography of him. Brinnin was openly gay and Mopworth starts out being decidedly fey. But the author needs him to marry the Connecticut chicken farmer's expensively educated granddaughter so he can bring the saga full circle. So Mopworth becomes a MAN and a suburban husband and father.
They're miserable, of course, because she's dissatisfied with being female. And so the story drags on until the end. It IS well-written and it IS witty, but it makes the same point over and over and over again. How many times do you need to be told? Personally, once was enough for me.
I really prefer older books, but (to me) even the author's talent and humor can't overcome the fact that this book hasn't aged well. If you're a literate In-cel and long for the Good Old Days, then it's for you. Otherwise, skip it.
December 20, 2024
Three Books in One
Reuben, Reuben is an unusually long book for De Vries. It actually reads like three novels that are interconnected. I particularly enjoyed the opening section on Spofford the curious and mischievous father/grandfather. The other sections focus on a Scottish poet and an English writer/actor and their struggles to comprehend the perplexing nature of love and relationships. De Vries’ ever humorous takes on the complexities of a silly society are always a treasure.
Reuben, Reuben is an unusually long book for De Vries. It actually reads like three novels that are interconnected. I particularly enjoyed the opening section on Spofford the curious and mischievous father/grandfather. The other sections focus on a Scottish poet and an English writer/actor and their struggles to comprehend the perplexing nature of love and relationships. De Vries’ ever humorous takes on the complexities of a silly society are always a treasure.
October 28, 2016
Not really sure when I read this, but was reminded of it last month when I read "Straight Man," by Richard Russo. DeVries has (as I recall) much the same style. VERY funny!
March 1, 2017
This was painful to read. I first read this years ago and thought it was so funny. The first part was hilarious but that was about it. The second part, the voice of a poet, and the last part were so tiresome and tedious. It is filled with misogyny and sexual repression, indicative of the times. Shouldn't have ruined my own memory of this book.
October 16, 2012
This is an excellent book with some fantastic writing. When I first started it, five years ago, I hadn't noticed the publishing date(1956). I just assumed it was close to the date the film came out and I thought it was relevant, even for the late 70s, early 80s. It's amazing how the writing and themes hold up. Spofford is one of the best characters I have ever read and I can totally imaging Melvyn Douglas playing him on stage, though Roberts Blossom, in the film, was perfection. Part one, with Spofford, was incredible and part two, with McGland was good but I was left disappointed with Mopworth's third.
January 17, 2024
"What the boys noticed was a strapping girl with hair like ripe wheat and rousing breasts, standing in sawed-off denim slacks and bare feet, at which they must of promptly in spirit knelt, moaning her name while their arms encircled thighs that were like pillars of a temple. There is no aphrodisiac like innocence." p130
"It was only one in her range of rather exotic caresses, for she was a women who made up in passion what she may have lacked in warmth. 'She's cold, but damn it, she's hot." "..some long suppressed feminine essence seemed literally to squirt from her in all directions, like juice from a bitten apple." (p388)
"It was only one in her range of rather exotic caresses, for she was a women who made up in passion what she may have lacked in warmth. 'She's cold, but damn it, she's hot." "..some long suppressed feminine essence seemed literally to squirt from her in all directions, like juice from a bitten apple." (p388)
October 9, 2025
A nearly forgotten tragi-farce, to use a De Vries-ism, set in Westport, Conn., here dubbed Woodsmoke, in the days when settler colonialists from Manhattan, like De Vries himself, were moving in alongside the rock-ribbed Yankees who had run the place since the 1600s. This was also John Cheever and John Updike territory, but as far as I'm concerned De Vries (speaking of nearly forgotten) was the one with the wit, verbal pyrotechnics and deeply curdled outlook on life to make great, hilarious literature out of post-WWII suburbia.
Somewhere, a dog barked.
Somewhere, a dog barked.
May 26, 2012
No writer was more adept at providing biting explorations of the life of white middle class suburbia in the middle/end of the twentieth century. Peter de Vries was able to satirize the "sturm and drang" of the self important; and I fear that he is a talented writer who will be largely forgotten by future readers.
March 31, 2009
This is a great writer - why don't we hear of him more?
Want to read
November 25, 2009Saw the movie and loved it.
June 20, 2012
Great 60's sex satire.
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