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The phrase “It’s a marathon, not a sprint” aptly describes the harmony of endurance and wit that can be our refuge during stressful times. Two women authors—one a famed literary figure of the past and the other a fresh voice in fiction—offer their unique perspectives to lighten our spirits.
Whenever an unwelcome letter arrives in our mailbox, like those from the Department of Motor Vehicles, someone inevitably quips, “What Fresh Hell Is This?” This line encapsulates the witty genius of Dorothy Parker, whose legacy extends far beyond this memorable phrase.
Parker’s contributions to literature—spanning poetry, short stories, and incisive reviews for renowned publications such as Vanity Fair and The New Yorker—established her as a defining voice of the Roaring Twenties. Her style was marked by a blend of sharp humor and a touch of risqué, all delivered with an effortlessly cool demeanor.
While it’s often noted that Parker’s humor is best appreciated in person—particularly during her spirited sessions at the Algonquin Round Table—the essence of her wit can also be found in her poetry, characterized by brevity and sharpness. The Everyman’s Library has recently published a compact edition titled Poems, which draws from her acclaimed collections Enough Rope and Sunset Gun. Much of her poetry reflects on the challenges a clever and celebrated writer faced in her quest for love, but it’s also delightful to uncover lesser-known pieces that exude sass and confidence. One such poem, “Fighting Words,” steers clear of the archetype of female suffering:
Say my love is easy had,
Say I’m bitten raw with pride,
Say I am too often sad, —
Still behold me at your side.
Say I’m neither brave nor young,
Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tongue, —
Still you have my heart to wear.
But say my verses do not scan,
And I get me another man!
If Parker exemplifies the spirited banter of the 1920s, British novelist Camilla Barnes brings her own brand of humor, rooted in the subtle, psychological observations reminiscent of Barbara Pym’s work. Barnes’ debut novel, The Usual Desire to Kill, explores the complex dynamics between two sisters, Charlotte and Miranda, as they navigate visits to their peculiar and demanding parents living in a dilapidated farmhouse in rural France.
Their mother, who Miranda describes as resembling “a piece of low-slung Victorian furniture,” and their father, a former philosophy professor immersed in his thoughts, provide a rich backdrop for the narrative. Miranda reflects humorously on her father’s relationships with the farm’s animals:
They were not pets, … He didn’t interfere in their lives, in the same way he didn’t interfere in his daughters’ lives. He was just not very good at being interested in other living creatures, particularly if they only had two legs. The more legs the better, he would say. He would be happier living with a spider than with Mum, if the spider could cook. A millipede would be paradise.
Miranda and her parents met during their years at Oxford in the early ’60s and eventually married following an unplanned pregnancy that dramatically altered their trajectory. For over five decades, their relationship has evolved into a complex interplay of stubbornness and pedantry.
What makes reading The Usual Desire to Kill a joy is Barnes’ inventive language. She likens a hard mattress to “sleeping on old toast” and describes dried eggs from her father’s past as tasting “a bit like dandruff.” As the sisters decipher their parents’ histories through letters and narratives, it becomes apparent that while they have often felt invisible to their eccentric parents, they, in turn, possess a limited understanding of their lives—a common theme for many who scrutinize the selective memories of past generations.
Both Parker and Barnes illustrate a poignant truth: humor often emerges from pain. Their distinct yet complementary styles have the power to uplift, providing much-needed relief and insight that resonates with readers, reminding us of the healing qualities of laughter.
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