Life, 1922-03-30 · page 10 of 34
Life — March 30, 1922 — page 10: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical poem attacks the literary and social pretensions of 1920s Manhattan's cultural elite. Parker ridicules: **"The Younger Set"** — wealthy young people with literary ambitions who attend fashionable parties and readings but lack genuine talent or substance. **"The Male Flappers"** — young men who frequent trendy nightclubs (drinking "Orange Pekoe"), attend parties, and claim sophistication while being essentially frivolous and untalented. **"The Heavy Thinkers" and "Black Sheep"** — those who affect intellectual superiority, discuss philosophy pretentiously, and condescend to others. The cartoon at the top shows five representatives of these groups. Parker's satire mocks their posturing, wastefulness, and hollow intellectualism — the gap between their pretensions and actual accomplishment. It's a scathing critique of Jazz Age social climbers.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Hymn of Hate Dorothy Parker HATE the Younger Set: They harden my arteries. There are the Boy Authors; The ones who are going to put belles lettres on their feet. Every night before they go to sleep They kneel down and ask H. L. Mencken To bless them and make them good boys. They are always carrying volumes with home-cut pages, And saying that after all, there is only one Remy de Gourmont ; Which doesn’t get any dissension out of me. They shrink from publicity As you or I would From the gift of a million dollars. At the drop of a hat They will give readings from their works— In department stores, Or grain elevators, Or ladies’ dressing-rooms. It is pretty hard to get them to show you their work; Sometimes you even have to ask them to. They are constantly backing you into corners, And asking you to glance over some little things That they just dashed off in a spare year— Read ’em and weep! HEN there are the Male Flappers; The Usual Dancing Men. They can drink one straight Orange Pekoe after another, And you’d never know that they had had a thing. Four débutante parties a night is bogie for them, And their talk is very small indeed. They never claimed to go so big at a desk, But they can balance a plate of chicken salad, a cup of bouillon, And a guest-room-size napkin, And make gestures with the other hand. They are mean boys when the orchestra starts; ‘They work in so many wise steps That you can’t tell whether it’s a waltz or a track-meet. No one can tie them, at a charity entertainment; They say they have often been told That with their talent And the way they can wear clothes They are simply wasting time on the amateur stage,— I can’t give them any argument on that one. HERE are the Black Sheep; The Boys with the Nasty Records. They are always giving you glimpses of the darker side of life— Telling you what time they got to bed yesterday morning And*how many people passed out cold, And where they went from there. They virtually admit That if they ever turned over a new leaf The bootlegging industry would go straight to smash. They are so inured to alcohol, That as soon as they’ve had one cocktail, They want to go right out and address the Senate. They are always consulting little red notebooks, Containing names, telephone numbers, and authors’ notes, And it is an open secret that they have met an actress. They tell you they know they are going the pace that kills, And then they laugh bitterly, And: say, “But what does it matter ?”— They took the words right out of my mouth, ND there are the Heavy Thinkers; The Gluttons for Head-Work. They have got up a lot of novel ideas About everybody having a right to live his own life, And about marriage being just a few words Muttered over you by a minister. They say that there may be ~ Some Supreme Force back of the universe; They will look into that when they get the time. Just stand back and give them room, And they will drop the conventions for the count. They are pretty low in their minds about America; They hint that its civilization Is practically plucking at the coverlet, And that the Other Side is the only place for intellectuals— Bon voyage! I hate the Younger Set; They harden my arteries. peac time Eng TI pape jour OF « pora dow: acut geth start own Ame the | Atla the comicbooks.com