In our essay
published earlier, The Gluttony of Delicacy, we gave a candid-camera account of an actual instance of this phenomenon (thus dubbed by C.S. Lewis),
which took place not long ago; in that case, it concerned a subaltern. But the spectrum of these wilting blossoms comes in various tints.
Herewith some
literary forerunners.
~
‘Will it be
long before it’s ready, Bailey?’ asked Mercy.
‘No,’ said
Baily, ‘it is cooked. When I come up, she was dodging among the tender pieces with a
fork, and eating of ‘em.’
-- Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit (1844)
In his splendid novel
Hard Times (which deserves a wider readership than it enjoys), Dickens
portrays a variant of the type, a Mrs Sparsit: one who, objectively, is now subaltern, but who is
bristlingly aware of having come down in the world, and of living now beneath
her station. (Actually she
was never so high as she and her patronizing patron Mr Bounderby pretend, nor
he so low; their pretenses are
mirror images). She
expresses her immense resentment in all sorts of passive-aggressive ways, by
simmering-simpering protestations of her own lack of any claim to even ordinary
comforts in her present, splendiferously humble (read: humiliated) state, disdaining even
publically to take lunch (while gorging privately on dainties).
'For the present,
Loo Bounderby,' said her husband, 'here's Mrs. Sparsit to look after. Mrs.
Sparsit's nerves have been acted upon by this business, and she'll stay here a
day or two. So make her comfortable.'
'Thank you very much, sir,' that discreet lady observed, 'but pray do not let My comfort be a consideration. Anything will do for Me.'
It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle in the laundry.
'Thank you very much, sir,' that discreet lady observed, 'but pray do not let My comfort be a consideration. Anything will do for Me.'
It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had a failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was that she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to be a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle in the laundry.
-- Charles Dickens, Hard Times
(1854)
(This personnage is
chillingly well-impersonated by master reader Frederick Davidson, on Blackstone Audiobooks.)
~
Dorothy Parker, Here Lies (1939), p. 85:
She told people, in little bursts
of confidence, that she loved flowers.
There was something almost apologetic in her way of uttering her tender
avowal, as if she would beg her listeners not to consider her too bizarre in
her taste.
Dorothy Parker, Here Lies (1939), p. 314:
The
maid returned with an octagonal tray supporting a decanter of brandy and a wide, squat, heavy glass. Her [mistress Lily’s] head twisted on
her neck in a spasm of diffidence.
“Just
pour it for me, will you, my dear?” said Lily … “And leave the pretty, pretty
decanter here, on this enchanting little table.”
That mute immutable detail of the squat glass hints at what is really going on
beneath the flutter and titter. On
the next page we read:
She grasped the decanter; and again
the squat glass was brown to the brim.
(This is how Parker
habitually writes: a
poetess in prose.)
Dorothy Parker, Here Lies (1939), p. 360:
Her heart, soft and sweet as a
perfectly made crème renversée …
[Note: the Murphy Brothers, two-fisted private eyes, once had to deal with such a client ... and did so in an unexpectedly tender way: "Don't Mention It". Available on Kindle, Nook, or in hard-copy as part of the story collection I Don't Do Divorce Cases.]
~
A former CP activist, working his passage as a
“workaway” on a passenger-ship
headed to Russia (where peasants were starving):
I went up willingly to carry trays
of cakes to the passengers … I held the tray under their noses, but they took
so long to decide what kind of cake they wanted, that I got sicker and
sicker. Suddenly I put down the tray on the serving
table and ran out to the railing. Vomiting, and feeling a fresh wind in
my face, relieved me sufficiently
to go back to the dining room
and resume serving tea …
-- Bertram Wolfe, A Life in Two Centuries (1981),
p. 309
That was
first-class. By contrast,
Waiting on the
tourist class was easy. … They didn’t pick at their food, but had real
appetites, and ate everything on their plates, even mopping up the gravy with a piece of bread.
-- Bertram Wolfe, A Life in Two Centuries (1981),
p. 311
~
(This one is more a matter of narcissism than the gluttony-of-delicacy, but there are similarities nonetheless.)
Headline in the American media, Dec 2011:
Headline in the American media, Dec 2011:
The
Pampered Chef
Discover
the chef in you !
[Update 7 January
2014] Along with the
gluttony of delicacy, there is the delicacy of gluttony -- chef-fetishism, eliciting
gurgles of glurge. The following
might have been penned by The Onion;
but it is the featured article on this evening’s New York Times website:
Making the
Restaurant Part of the Family
By SUSAN
HERRMANN LOOMIS
Some talented
young French chefs, like Sylvain Sendra of Michelin-starred Itinéraires, above,
are bucking tradition by insisting on a private life.
Buck away, by all
means, buck away.
[Update 3 May 2014] The latest excrescence: the Princess sues the Pea:
.
[Update 3 May 2014] The latest excrescence: the Princess sues the Pea:
http://www.lefigaro.fr/international/2014/05/02/01003-20140502ARTFIG00135-la-responsable-de-l-accident-reclame-15-million-de-dollars-a-ses-victimes.php
Responsable d'un accident, elle porte plainte contre ses victimes
Malade depuis l'accident de
voiture, une Canadienne demande 1,5 million de dollars aux parents de
l'adolescent qu'elle a tué.
«C'est une tragédie pour les
garçons mais c'est aussi un tragédie pour Sharlene Simon», a déclaré son avocat
au Toronto Star . La plainte explique que les adolescents «n'ont pas utilisé
correctement les freins» et «étaient des cyclistes incompétents».
Les parents de Brandon Majewski, le
jeune de 17 ans tué dans l'accident, n'en reviennent pas. «Je suis sous le
choc», a déclaré la mère de Brandon, Venetta, au Toronto Sun . «Elle a tué mon
enfant et maintenant elle veut en profiter? Elle dit qu'elle souffre? Dites-lui
de regarder dans ma tête et elle verra de la souffrance, elle verra des cauchemars.»
Sharlene Simon n'a pas été
inquiétée. L'enquête a conclu que c'est un manque de visibilité qui a empêché
la conductrice de voir les cyclistes. Mais elle aurait reconnu avoir dépassé la
limitation de vitesse, roulant à 90km/h sur une route limitée à 80km/h. Aucun
test d'alcoolémie n'a été pratiqué après l'accident par les policiers. Le rôle
joué par son mari, un officier de police qui suivait sa femme dans un autre
véhicule lors de l'accident, reste flou: dans le rapport de police le fait
qu'il ait été témoin est tout juste mentionné.
.
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