Bemelmans draws a portrait in extremes, through apt descriptions, through hilarious anecdote, through surprisingly sympathetic and understanding bits of appreciation. Lady Mendl was an incredible person,- self-made in proper American tradition on the one hand, for she had been haunted by the poverty of her childhood, and the years of struggle up from its ugliness,- until she became synonymous with the exotic, exquisite, worshipper at beauty's whrine.

And his hostess was Lady Mendl (Elsie de Wolfe), arbiter of American decorating taste over a generation. For Bemelmans was 'the man who came to cocktails'. A curious (in all senses) performance-with echoes of the Message in the Bottle as well as Percy's novels.Īn extravaganza in Bemelmans' inimitable vein, but written almost dead pan, with sly, amusing, sometimes biting undertones, breaking through.

He can't quite fuse together the strains of social satire and intellectual confession, but he's marvelously knowledgeable and never dull. Elsewhere, Percy's take-it-or-leave-it, whistling-in-the-dark-night-of-the-soul wit has its moments. The weakest part of Percy's routine is undoubtedly the limp, predictable fantasy that it concludes with (two 'space odysseys,' involving such items as a handful of survivors from a nuclear holocaust taking refuge in Lost Cove, Tenn., and some heavy sexual doings on an 18-year starship flight). But while the spectacle of doomed efforts at 'reentry' into the cosmos offers plenty of targets for Percy's gallows humor, he obviously has a lingering sympathy for honest, old-fashioned modes of transcendence (e.g., Christianity and high art), and he rejects out of hand positivism, village-atheism, and various counsels of despair. attempts to communicate with chimps, manic plunges into sex, drugs, booze, and so forth. The self seems to be hopelessly alienated from the cosmos-whence the quest for E.T.s. For, as Percy notes in a long 'intermezzo' on semiotics, 'the self of the sign-user can never be grasped.' This variation on a familiar phenomenological theme (the self's irreducible subjectivity, you can't simultaneously know and perceive yourself knowing, etc.) leaves us with something like nihilism. a wasteland, its values decayed, its community fragmented, its morals corrupted, its cities in ruins,' with traditional religion so untenable and secular therapies so trivial, the self is inevitably driven inward, only to find a peculiar void. This rambling philosophical entertainment combines snappy little lectures, multiple choice questions, diagrams, 'thought experiments,' and bits of science fiction in a kind of rueful Percyflage about the fate of the self in a crazy, centrifugal world.

Lost in the cosmos by walker percy