by Michael Frayn ‧ RELEASE DATE: May 10, 1963
For England's Michael Frayn there's nothing sacred under the sun, setting or not; everything from Castro and Gagarin, landed gentry and ad men, psychosomatics and prime ministers to women's magazines and coexistentialism is grandly drawn and quartered. In these columns culled from The Guardian, you'll find fables about Alsatians moodily sipping whisky-and-soda (a ""dog should always be introduced to people, otherwise it will feel shy and unwanted""); endless take-offs on the cinema (Rock Richmond playing Rock Hurricane playing Egbert, his twin); or TV (Turn up the Telly- I Can Hear What You're Saying); or Civil Defense (""Your suicide pill is in the oven, dear""); interviews with a stripper having artistic leanings and a cultured spouse (""Every time I see her perform"", he said, ""I feel like the curator of the Louvre""), and snippety satires of the mass production age: polythene roses, nylon delphiniums, rayon azaleas, and ""Oh, think, Baggy, our very own plastic baby!"", etc. In short, bloody good hatchet humor, among the best since Gibbs, Benchley and Woollcott gave up the ghost. New Yorker Americans should love it.
Pub Date: May 10, 1963
ISBN: N/A
Page Count: -
Publisher: Doubleday
Review Posted Online: N/A
Kirkus Reviews Issue: May 1, 1963
Categories: NONFICTION
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