 |
|
|
 |
Looking
east towards Bryant Park (with The New York Public Library in
the background) from 41st and Sixth Avenue. 8:05 PM. Photo: JH.
|
They
held a memorial service for George Plimpton last week at St.
John the Divine. We didn’t make the service but among the
many who attended was a writer named Daphne Matalene who
filed this dispatch for the Diary.
Daphne describes herself as “one of the legions of young women
who went to Paris Review parties, and they were fantastic fun - great
reminders of why One moves to New York in the first place.” She
wrote the following as a “reflection on the end of an era” for
so many, especially writers, young and old, in New York. |
Demonstrating
one final time his preternatural gift for socializing, George
Plimpton nearly filled St. John the Divine yesterday.
The damp, chilly air inside the unfinished stone behemoth accentuated
the aroma of mothballs given off by the hundreds of ancient
WASPs who’d come to pay their respects. They squeezed
their tatty raccoon coats into seats alongside New York media
swells like Dominick Dunne and Harry
Evans, between clusters of young, pedigreed blondes
mourning the end of Mr. Plimpton’s Paris Review parties.
 |
George
Plimpton and Sara Whitehead Dudley at the PEN Literary
Gala at The Pierre. April, 2003.
|
|
I was one of
those pedigreed blondes; one who’s struggling to graduate
to the ranks of the media swells. So I arrived early and made sure
I got an aisle seat with a good view. But lest we forget the “pedigreed” part,
I wasn’t actually planning to buttonhole Liz Smith at
a funeral. I wanted to express my gratitude to the surviving Plimptons
for covering their pool table and serving crudités to my
cohorts and me, and for being so nonchalant about the hordes of
strangers crowding into their living room to hear T. C.
Boyle.
Still, I was thrilled when David Remnick spotted
the empty seat next to me and asked if he could sit there. As I stood
up to make room for him, a million-year-old lady teetered over and
elbowed him aside. I bit my tongue (almost all the way off) and sat
back down.
A moment later, the organ music ended and Total Praise, a black gospel
choir, began the service. They walked silently up the central aisle,
resplendent in simple black clothes – some with cowrie shells
tinkling in their dreadlocks. As they passed, my neighbor turned
to me and whispered “This must be the family – I’ve
not met his grown children; I don’t know what they look like.” I
looked at her incredulously; surely she’d been kidding? But
she wasn’t – she’d just forgotten her glasses.
I coughed discreetly, stifling a guffaw.
The choir was terrific – they even convinced a few stuffy white
people to chime in with a “Yes, Lord.” And even the most
jaded journos in the crowd must have been impressed with Norman
Mailer’s touching eulogy, delivered without notes.
From family members to bird watchers to John le Carré (read
by a Paris Review editor), each speaker recalled Mr. Plimpton’s
tremendous sense of fun.
Feeling philosophical on the subway afterwards, I pondered what a
huge hole there is now in the social lives of young wordsmiths in
New York. We don’t have enough street cred to hang out at Elaine’s
yet, we’re never going to get invited to one of Tina
Brown’s dinner parties, and MediaBistro events – while
useful – are much more carefully stage-managed than Paris
Review parties ever were. They were great while they lasted – so
here’s a final toast to George Plimpton and his sprezzatura. |
|
|
|
|
