A book of Dorothy Parker's stories and poems lived on my parents' bookshelves, surrounded by all the impossibly intellectual ones. It had an inscription inside, in dark fountain pen ink, to my mother. The date showed it had been given to her at the end of her student years at Yale -- the same age I was when I first found the book.
The inscription alone was fascinating. "For Claire, A bitter laugh for a somewhat bitter time. - Philip"... Who was this Philip? What did the words mean? I studied the i's in both "bitters"wondering if either were actually an "e." What was this "bitter time" Philip shared with my mother?
I never found out, but I loved the book. I was then living a bohemian life in New York City, and indulging in tremendous, dramatic angst. I reveled in Parker's sense of self deprecation, self pity, and sardonic wit. I started writing my own (awful) poems clearly inspired by hers.
Here's one by the divine Ms Parker that suits my mood lately.
Neither Bloody nor Bowed
They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice.
And though to good I never come --
Inseparable my nose and thumb!
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