Word: chapping
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Make-Believe Alexander Pope must have been wrong, poor chap. The proper study of mankind is not man, but-in current fiction, at any rate-his phallus. Novelists are exploring ever more intimately, not to say enviously, the wondrous achievements of recognized bedroom supermen. In fact, everyone-heroes, authors, readers-seems to be getting rather exhausted. Perhaps that is why so many novels this season deal with sex in its most mechanized and dehumanized form. The dildo is the feature; everybody, apparently, uses an artificial penis, or else needs one badly...
...bound to have an insidious appeal: it can make a woman wallow in self-pity. The scene is a Paris rapidly becoming Americanized. The heroine is Laurence, the ultramodern career woman (advertising, of course) with a successful architect husband, two sweet little girls, and a lover always on tap (chap who works in her office). She is suffocating in a sea of materialism, false standards and social hypocrisy. Security is a cocoon. The sorrows of the world must not intrude; her sensitive eldest daughter must not be made aware that there is cruelty and hunger in the world...
Harry Palmer, the bland antiheroic secret agent of The Ipcress File and Funeral in Berlin, the chap who hates his job and doesn't care what kind of dry vermouth they put in his martinis, is back with his spectacles and his non-U English accent in Billion Dollar Brain. So is Michael Caine to play him in yet another thriller by Novelist Len Deighton. But in this third outing the law of diminishing returns has begun catching up with the team...
...That bloke Wodehouse. Dash it, Jeeves, one would think that at the age of 86 a chap who'd written 70 books about Bertram Wooster & Co. would do the decent thing and sheathe the sword at long last...
Automatic Shutoff. A graduate of Cambridge, Bird sharpened his claws in The Establishment, a satirical revue, and this year played character roles in three films. Off-camera, the short, puffy satirist is a disheveled and slightly laconic chap who retreats into the ranks of the anonymous. "He doesn't exist," says one of his few close friends, "except in his characters." He lives a secluded life in suburban Chiswick with his wife Anne, the daughter of former U.S. Ambassador to Ireland Grant Stockdale, reads highbrow literary criticism and, he says, sits pondering for hours over his electric typewriter that...