Links: the good, the bad, the interesting, the annoying, and the downright bonkers
Let's all get out our codfish for Polly Vernon and the sex guru she's writing about, the 'Belgian-born' Esther Perel (whose views remind me, weirdly, of interwar Dutch sex guru Theodor van de Velde, especially his 1931 Sex Hostility in Marriage):
If sex - or rather, the lack of sex - in long-term relationships isn't a hot topic, it's because no one dares talk about it. Or admit to it. Until now.
Mariella Frostrup has sensible riposte.
Le sigh. What's the best novel in the past 25 years? On the eve of this year's Booker Prize, we asked 150 literary luminaries to vote for the best British, Irish or Commonwealth novel from 1980 to 2005. I think it takes more than 25 years for litrep to settle down and clarify. The article actually makes that point:
What might a similar exercise look like for 1880-1905? Ask that question and you get a sense of the complexity of such surveys.
Time is a ruthless critic.
Though then goes and sets up some entirely meaningless either/or choices for the period in question. Embrace the power of AND, guys. I confess, I've read very, very, few of the recent novels in question: one only in the top ten (even the Fitzgerald is one I haven't yet got around to), because by the time I've read the reviews of most modern litfic, my desire to read the actual book has reached an all time low.
It was the decade of love and peace. But without its irreverent free press, the Sixties would never have changed the world. Rosie Boycott takes a trip back to the birth of the counterculture and remembers quite a lot of it, considering the state she alleges she was in for much of the time. However, the concluding paragraph claiming 'Today, the original feminist beliefs of sisterhood, tolerance and a better world for both the sexes are all but forgotten, except on the net, where blogs unite women living in societies where they have no rights.' makes me want to bang her head against the wall, or at the very least introduce her to Mr Codfish.
Barbara Ellen is agreeably scathing about the male 'imperative to stray' and concludes:
All of which leads us to the oldest, most hoariest excuse of all - that being 'The Human Male's Biological Destiny'. As the rationale goes, men would love to be faithful, but unfortunately evolution has other ideas for their 'little swimmers', a grand plan no less, hopefully involving lots of nubile blondes and room-service champagne. Oh, these men say, these dreadful urges, the horror, the shame of it all, if only they could stop this madness. But sadly, they can't. Biological destiny, and all that.
First of all, respect to the male gender - they have been shamelessly peddling this man-gotta-go-a-hunting BS for absolute aeons now, and for the most part getting away with it. In fact, it has probably had its day as the male sexual 'Get Out of Jail Free' card. Think about it: did you ever see a man turning off the television at a crucial point in a sporting tournament, running out of the room and crying, 'Oh no, I have an uncontrollable urge to pursue my biological destiny.' No you haven't, because men can control themselves when they want to - a lot of them simply don't want to. Then again a lot of women don't want to either. Indeed, what's ultimately so annoying is that women appear to have been cast as the designated victims in this unmerry dance of sexual boredom. But it's the 21st century. Time for women to make it clear - one man is simply not enough. In fact, two might be the absolute minimum - one for the fun stuff, one to fetch the Jaffa Cakes.
Alex Clark on something every book-owner can appreciate (unlike those damn precious shelves in the design section last week): Not reading but drowning:
There is no longer room for me in my life. Well, there's certainly no longer room for me in my sitting room, anyway.
....
So, the shelves were finally up, in all their 15ft-long, floor- to-ceiling glory, and the books were on them, revelling in the combination of self-sufficiency, DIY bravado and outright love extended to them by their owner. What could possibly go wrong?
Of course there was book creep; there's always book creep. Of course they didn't all fit, and naturally latecomers started being slotted in horizontally on top of their chippy mates, and then even that didn't work any more and new arrangements had to be made.
....
Until finally, they faced each other reproachfully, books on shelves and books gathered into teetering piles opposite, the only moment they stood shoulder to shoulder when a foolhardy human being attempted to run the gamut between them and escape to the outside world.
Review of Fiona MacCarthy's book on the last of the debutantes, by a participant observer:
MacCarthy is well placed to write an elegy, albeit not a terribly mournful one, for this particular moment because she knows, and understands, both the old world (of the debs and their mothers, engaged in an exhausting battle for eldest sons) and the new (the one embodied by John Osborne, and that ironing board he stuck up there on stage). As a historian, she is never anything less than scrupulously fair. But as a woman, she is still, even after all these years, relieved to have made her escape.