David M. Earle
Autor von All Man!: Hemingway, 1950s Men's Magazines, and the Masculine Persona
Werke von David M. Earle
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Statistikseite
- Werke
- 3
- Mitglieder
- 38
- Beliebtheit
- #383,442
- Bewertung
- 3.4
- Rezensionen
- 3
- ISBNs
- 5
As the introduction explains it, “unlike the suffragettes before them, flappers were more interested in social and sexual equality than political.” I also love how the introduction explains how a movement “reductively identified with the white middle class drew inspiration from the jazz culture and perceived joyousness of African American society,” and how the collection reflects this, including several black authors whose only outlet for their work was in newspapers.
My favorite stories:
- The Clever Little Fool, by Dana Ames, from Snappy Stories, 6/15/26
- Bernice Bobs Her Hair, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, from Saturday Evening Post, 5/1/20
- Common Meter, by Rudoph Fisher, from Pittsburgh Courier, 2/8/30
- Night Club, by Katharine Brush, from Harper’s Magazine, 9/27. Brush would later write the novel that was made into the pre-Code classic Red-Headed Woman (1931)
- Not the Marrying Kind, by Dawn Powell, from Snapper Stories, 3/27
- Thou Shalt Not Killjoy, by Vina Delmar, from Snappy Stories, 12/20/23, my favorite of all, which quotes from a spicy fictional magazine, Hot Tamale, and satirizes conservative censors. Delmar was the author of Bad Girl (1928) and later the screenwriter for The Awful Truth (1937), which earned her an Oscar nomination.
- Monkey Junk, by Zora Neale Hurston, from Pittsburgh Courier, 3/5/27
- Why Girls Go South, by Anita Loos, from Harper’s Bazaar, 1/26, which was simply brilliant, and featured shifting attitudes towards over generations and an openly lesbian character.
Overall, great stuff, with no duds. Lots of slang and fun dialogue from the era, and wonderful to get this little window into the past.
Just a couple of quotes:
On aging, from Bernice Bobs Her Hair:
“People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look, at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.”
On a gold-digger, from The Chicago Kid: A Story of Cabaret Life:
“His hand was sliding the little strap down over the golden brown shoulder… Flora endured it, holding her breath, closing her eyes. A bit worse than she expected, but then… you can’t have everything. You can’t expect a perfect lover and a millionaire daddy to be rolled up in the same package. “You beautiful thing…” he was whispering huskily. He pressed closer, his hands almost burning her with their heat. His hands…hard not to shudder when they passed so intimately over her scantily clad body. But remember the millions…”… (mehr)