MY PARTY
"Nobody kills a party like a genius,"said the great party-giver Elsa Maxwell, and she should know. So no geniuses, at least if self-proclaimed.
So who can come? I'll confine myself to writers, since we know, or think we know, them best.
Chaucer, for one. He had wide experience, and a great sense of humor, earthy and a bit naughty.
Who else? The Greek playwright Aristophanes. He imagined an airy republic of the birds up in Cloud Cuckoo Land, would surely keep us in stitches.
Certainly our own Ben Franklin, who was witty and wise, and especially with the ladies, charming. He charmed the French court of Louis XVI, helped us get our independence.
Speaking of ladies, how about some? Madame de Sévigné, who wrote charming letters with a light touch. And Jane Austen, of course.
Any more Americans? Surely Mark Twain, with tales of his travels. And on a more serious note, Henry James, observant and worldly-wise, even if he uses ten words where three will do.
Who can't come? Milton: too sure of himself and everything. La Rochefoucauld: his Maxims, reducing everything to self-love, are too jaded, too sour. Dr. Johnson: a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, unflinchingly conservative. And Romantic poets generally: too weepy, too self-involved.
Shakespeare? Yes, though we don't really know him; we know his works. And Moliere, who knew lot about human nature.
That's enough, you get the idea. And you, my readers, are invited, too. A great time will be had by all.
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