14 December, 2005
A Suckle of Honey
I wanted to share this snippet from Stephen Fry's The Hippopotamus, without interjecting my own commentary. The "speaker" is the narrator, ficticious poet and curmudgeon Ted Wallace.
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Quote:
Nature, it seemed to me, was sure to right Clara's defects in time without Davey's mystical interference. Look at American girls. At the age of fourteen they look as if they're recovering from a traffic accident: their mouths are caged with wire, their legs and backs strain in corrective stockings and splints, their skin is lumpy from acne, their upper lips fuzz with down, their sad little bras are stuffed with Kleenex and their eyes slither indeoendantly in all directions but forwards. Yet by the time they reach eighteen they have become almost too beautiful to bear, with teeth like indigestion tablets, eyes to dive into, skin you want to lick all over, fresh boobs and postures new. No armpit hair, however, which I believe to be a calamitous error. Have you ever let honey-suckle live up to its name? ever drained its honey? When you take the flower and pull the stamen through, a delicate drop of nectar swells up at its head. A bead of sweat bulging at the tip of a woman's axillary hair is as beautiful. Your true conoisseur of women delights in the great meaty reek of the female essence, not the sterile lemon top-notes of deodorants and creams. The French understand this, about the only thing they do understand - apart from French, of course. Think of those giddy Baudelairean amants burying their heads in comedy actresses' sweat soaked how-dare-yous. Haaa...
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Quote:
Nature, it seemed to me, was sure to right Clara's defects in time without Davey's mystical interference. Look at American girls. At the age of fourteen they look as if they're recovering from a traffic accident: their mouths are caged with wire, their legs and backs strain in corrective stockings and splints, their skin is lumpy from acne, their upper lips fuzz with down, their sad little bras are stuffed with Kleenex and their eyes slither indeoendantly in all directions but forwards. Yet by the time they reach eighteen they have become almost too beautiful to bear, with teeth like indigestion tablets, eyes to dive into, skin you want to lick all over, fresh boobs and postures new. No armpit hair, however, which I believe to be a calamitous error. Have you ever let honey-suckle live up to its name? ever drained its honey? When you take the flower and pull the stamen through, a delicate drop of nectar swells up at its head. A bead of sweat bulging at the tip of a woman's axillary hair is as beautiful. Your true conoisseur of women delights in the great meaty reek of the female essence, not the sterile lemon top-notes of deodorants and creams. The French understand this, about the only thing they do understand - apart from French, of course. Think of those giddy Baudelairean amants burying their heads in comedy actresses' sweat soaked how-dare-yous. Haaa...
Comments:
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Yes, Mr. Fry is indeed of the persuasion, but he is first and foremost a brilliant author of fiction, and the character who narrated those words is a fastaffian grump of the most enjoyable kind.
I've re-authored the post to include a little background info.
I've re-authored the post to include a little background info.
Oh my darling, you and your drama obsession. I do nothing but work in the office.
If only my wireless signal at home were more reliable.
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If only my wireless signal at home were more reliable.
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