However, if you go to a Paris Review party on White Street, or an N+1 party, you will still find the young male novelist, now ironic, self-deprecating, exquisitely confident, in his plaid shirt and glasses, just back from Buenos Aires, maybe, and the girls who eagerly orbit him. So there is still a certain amount of accommodating, affirming female energy circling the male editors and writers; a certain male radiance to be fed off of and deferred to and seduced. The dynamic is different, definitely more subtle and fashionably post-feminist, but it would be dishonest if I said that the Paris Review party circa 1964 was entirely unrecognizable to me.
I read one of Anne Roiphe’s memoirs years ago.. It came in the mail, sent by the publisher. I didn’t know why and was too shy to write to the author about how interesting I’d found it. Ever since, it’s been on my mind. Click on the link above for an interesting take on her latest.