Life, 1921-06-02 · page 14 of 44
Life — June 2, 1921 — page 14: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is Dorothy Parker's satirical poem attacking American social gatherings, particularly country club parties and bridge tournaments. The poem mocks the tedium and social pretension of these events: forced games, awkward conversation, and the obligation to attend despite their dullness. The five illustrated panels at the bottom appear to show a sequence of dinner party scenes with exaggerated, somewhat grotesque figures around a table under a bell jar—suggesting claustrophobia and artificiality. The caption "A fair exchange is no robbery" hints at the transactional, hollow nature of these social obligations. Parker's satire targets middle-class aspiration and the performative nature of leisure activities that supposedly bring joy but actually "bring out the worst in me."
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
HYMN OF HATE by Dorothy Parker ¥ I Hate Parties: They bring out the worst in me. "THERE is the Novelty Affair, Given by the woman Who is awfully clever at that sort of thing. Everybody must come in fancy dress; There are always eleven Old-Fashioned Girls, And fourteen Hawaiian gentlemen Wearing the native costume Of last season's tennis clothes, with a wreath around the neck The hostess introduces a series of clean, home Each participant is given a fair chance To guess the number of seeds in a cucumber, Or thread a needle against time, Or see how many names of wild tlowers he knows. Ice cream in trick formations, And punch like Volstead used to make Buoy up the players after the mental stra’ You have to tell the hostess that it’s a riot, And she says she'll just die if you don’t come to her next part If only a guarantee went with that! "THEN there is the Bridge Festival. The winner is awarded an arts-and-crafts hearth-brush, And all the rest get garlands of hothouse raspberries. You cut for partners And draw the man who wrote the game. He won't let bygones be bygones; After each hand He starts getting personal about your motives in leading clubs. And one word frequently leads to another. Ac the next table You have one of those partners Who says it is nothing but a game, after all. He trumps your ace And tries to laugh it off. And yet they shoot men like Elwell. HERE is the Day in the Country; It seems more like a week. All the contestants are wedged into automobiles, And you are allotted the space between two ladies Who close in on you. The party gets a nice early start, Because everybody wants to make a long day of it, — They get their wish. Everyone contributes a basket of lur Each person has it all figured out That no one else will think of bringing hard-boiled eggs. There is intensive picking of dogwood, And no one is quite sure what poison ivy is like; They find out by the next day. Things start off with a rus Everybody joins in the old songs, And points out cloud effects, And puts in a good word for the color of But after the first fifty miles, Nature doesn’t go over so big, And singing belongs to the lost arts. There is a slight spurt on the homestretch, And everyone exclaims over how beautiful the lights of the city low FU say they do. Ae there is the informal little Dinner Party; The lowest form of taking nourishment. The man on your left draws diagrams with a fork, Illustrating the way he is going to have the new sun-parlor bi And the one on your right Explains how soon business conditions will be better, and why When the more material part of the evening is over, You have your choice of listening to the Harry Lauder record Or having the hostess hem you in And show you the snapshots of the baby they took last summer, Just before you break away, You mutter something to the host and hostess About sometime soon you must have them over,— Over your dead body. I Hate Parties: They bring out the worst in me. A FAIR EXCHANG IS NO ROBBERY, comicbooks.com