Girls, If You Have Not Read "The Bostonians," You Simply MUST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                   Oh, my God, darlings!

                                    I first read "The Bostonians," back around 1984, after having seen the movie,
with Vanessa Redgrave (how did they make her so ugly?) as Olive Chnacellor, Christopher Reeve, as a perfectly handsome Basil Ransom, even if he was out of his acting comfort zone, and the pig snouted Madeline Potter, who was not nearly pretty enough for the role of Verena Tarrant.

                                      What a difference 36 years can make.  On a second reading, this is one of the best sexual comedy of manners, if not the best.  And only I, darlings, would associate this with "What Ever Happened To Baby Jane?," which shall eventually be explained.

                                          Olive Chancellor, without Henry James--oh, the language, the sentences, the breadth and depth of his prose, and the wit of his sentences, which makes for another reason to read the book--saying a word, is literature's most repressed lesbian.  I am telling you, Stephen in Radclyfffe Hall's "The Well Of Loneliness," does not even come close!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                           Olive is smitten with this little martinet named Verena Tarrant.  She is a pubescent lass, who should be pretty, like a young Kate Winslet, and, with her parents as her
jailers, performs these loquacious speeches, as she is somehow gifted with this talent.  Here is where the 'Baby Jane' thing comes into play--the Tarrants knowingly and willingly exploit their daughter, because when Olive offers money to take Verena off their hands, so she can live with her, offering financial recompense for this, the parents jump at the chance.

                                            Poor Verena.  You have to feel sorry for her, darlings!  She is being torn apart in all directions by her parents and Olive.  Then along comes a young Southern man, Basil Ransom, who sort of awakens Verena to her sexuality, and begins to have her question the merit of what she is actually doing.

                                              The situation is both comic and tragic.  This poor girl is allowed to have no real identity, yet four people are tearing her apart to find the right one to suit themselves, not her.

                                                Only Henry James could write it.  And his last sentence is a real stinger; it defines the solution perfectly.  When I closed the book, I said, "He's right!"

                                                   So, girls, get out your lace tablecloths, your tea pot, cozy, cup and saucer, milk, lemon or sugar, and curl up with this deliciously acerbic take on sexual empowerment, and what defines the sexes.  It is one of James' forgotten books, but it deserves to be remembered, and re-examined.

                                                   Because, darlings, it is a blast!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!