Fathers and Sons: an anti-celebration

Ivy Compton-Burnett's Mother and Son, Part 3

Tonight I'll read Part Three of Ivy Compton-Burnett's acid-washed comedy of manners, her 1955 award-winning novel Mother and Son.

Ivy Compton-Burnett's "Mother and Son" Part Two

Tonight I’ll read Part Two of Ivy Compton-Burnett’s 1955 novel Mother and Son.

Ivy Compton-Burnett's "Mother and Son" part 1

Ivy Compton-Burnett (1884-1969) is one of the great geniuses of fiction. Her novels, while seeming to be constrained and small, are in fact the opposite: they freely explore and reveal the wide intelligences and feelings among people. Reading them is a deep and addicting pleasure. Compton-Burnett is a novelist one wishes were still alive to write another book.  Mother and Son is the only one of her 20-odd novels to have received a prize, the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, upon its publication in 1955. It is one of my favorite novels.

Fathers and Sons: an anti-celebration

Tonight I’ll read my anti-celebration of Father’s Day, a text I’ve compiled over many years that was inspired by the late works of novelist David Markson. “Fathers and Sons” presents fathers and fatherhood at their worst. I realize, of course, that not all fathers are execrable and a precious few are exemplary if not even virtuous. I am blessed to have an unofficially adopted father who has saved my life countless times and is the person I go to for answers when I’m most at a loss. He has never failed me, and I salute Dennis Snell in Dayton, Ohio. He has my lifelong devotion and love. I hope you, too, have a good father figure in your life. Biological fathers in my own experience have been more trouble than they were worth, and the text I’ll read now proves it. I hope you’ll enjoy the story even if there’s little in it that’s enjoyable. It’s meant, among other things, to be funny. So I invite you to lie down and get comfortable, settle in, close your eyes, and get some good, literate sleep.

Quentin Crisp's "Manners from Heaven"

To celebrate Pride month worldwide, tonight I’ll read two short essays by Quentin Crisp from his 1984 book “Manners from Heaven.” I had dinner once with Mr. Crisp many years ago, so I can attest that he was as well-mannered in life as he still is in print. I recall him asking few, if any, questions and listening attentively while focusing on the meal that was provided to both of us for free. He had just given a talk at the New York Public Library, and it was I who had urged the director of the series, a close friend, to invite him. It was a pleasant evening.  I wouldn’t normally bother to celebrate Gay Pride, but nowadays one must do what one can to kick against the pricks.