Better than illicit sex. Honey on toast. Chocolate and beer.
Maybe not chocolate and beer.
Sweet is the unputdownable book in which sod all happens.
…life was like that for most of us – the small unpleasantnesses rather than the great tragedies; the little useless longings rather than the great renunciations and dramatic love affairs of history and fiction.
Thriller writer Raymond Chandler said if you’re ever stuck on what happens next, get someone to walk in with a gun in their hand.
Well, Pym’s self-effacingly unattached protagonist Mildred Lathbury does it with a pot of tea.
But first, why Excellent [Women]? Try shrewd, modest, appreciative, funny.
Here she is on spaghetti, being late, eggs, and, of course, the nectar of the gods.
Perhaps long spaghetti is the kind of thing that ought to be eaten quite alone with nobody to watch one’s struggles. Surely many a romance must have been nipped in the bud by sitting opposite someone eating spaghetti?
She’s not wrong. Try it naked in front of a mirror. Not a good look.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she smiled, and I heard myself murmuring politely that I had arrived too early, as if it were really my fault that she was late.
So true. Like apologising when someone bumps into you, or drops one.
… I had a fresh egg to poach… delving for it in the bubbly water where the white separated from the yolk and waved about like a sea anemone.
Gripping stuff. 1952. Rationing. Egg. Fresh. Indulgent. Can make a day.
[with a distressed friend]… she stammered in a burst of tears. I was astonished that I could think of nothing to say, but wondered irrelevantly if I was to be caught with a teapot in my hand on every dramatic occasion.
Love the astonished there. Love the irrelevantly. Don’t wave it about like that Milly, it might go off.
The tea was made now and it was as strong as it had been weak on the day Helena left him. I wondered why it was that tea could vary so, even when one followed exactly the same method of making it. Could the emotional state of the maker have something to do with it?
Yep. It’s my Oolong, doctor.
Thanks for being here.
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2 thoughts on “Excellent Women by Barbara Pym (1952)”
Hehe. Fair enough. Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald or Larry McMurtry for you, then!
Wouldn’t work for me. There’d be a new gun-toter every other page.