Rome and A Fella

The first time I saw Gore Vidal, almost nobody had ever heard of him. I was in college at Tulane and had been invited to one of those New Orleans literary parties. Vidal was, at that time, a genuinely young man, highly affected, and effete even by that soiree’s protocol. He was talking to a girl I knew named had a kind of crush on her at the time (she later forsook me to marry an Iraqi cabinet minister and help bridge that great gap between East and West) and asked her what she thought of Vidal. “He’s an unmitigated ass,” replied Marilyn.

The last time I saw Marilyn. I Gore Vidal, almost everybody had heard of him. I was out of college, in New York, and had been invited to one of those East Side literary parties. He had by this time evolved into what Angus Wilson calls “a rather old young man.” He had long since shaken the dust of New Orleans Kulturfest from his pumps, and was far more likely to be seen escorting Jacqueline Kennedy to the theater than arguing with the likes of Marilyn. In the interval he had penned eight novels, a book of short stories, God knows how many magazine pieces, seven movies, about forty television scripts and two smash hit plays. He had also run for Congress, and his new play, Romulus, was about to open on Broadway. But in spite of all this busyness, after listening in for a few minutes, I couldn’t help thinking that years ago, way down yonder, Marilyn (that Iraqi or no) got the picture. In spite of Marilyn’s camera eye, however, Gore Vidal had, in Visit to A Small Planet and The Best Man, brought two first-rate entertainments to the stage, and I looked forward to Romulus. But, as the late Yussel the Muscle said, “I should a stood in bed.”

NP

About the Author

Noel E. Parmentel Jr.

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The first time I saw Gore Vidal, almost nobody had ever heard of him. I was in college at Tulane and had been invited to one of those New Orleans literary parties. Vidal was, at that time, a genuinely young man, highly affected, and effete even by that soiree’s protocol. He was talking to a girl I knew named had a kind of crush on her at the time (she later forsook me to marry an Iraqi cabinet minister and help bridge that great gap between East and West) and asked her what she thought of Vidal. “He’s an unmitigated ass,” replied Marilyn.

The last time I saw Marilyn. I Gore Vidal, almost everybody had heard of him. I was out of college, in New York, and had been invited to one of those East Side literary parties. He had by this time evolved into what Angus Wilson calls “a rather old young man.” He had long since shaken the dust of New Orleans Kulturfest from his pumps, and was far more likely to be seen escorting Jacqueline Kennedy to the theater than arguing with the likes of Marilyn. In the interval he had penned eight novels, a book of short stories, God knows how many magazine pieces, seven movies, about forty television scripts and two smash hit plays. He had also run for Congress, and his new play, Romulus, was about to open on Broadway. But in spite of all this busyness, after listening in for a few minutes, I couldn’t help thinking that years ago, way down yonder, Marilyn (that Iraqi or no) got the picture. In spite of Marilyn’s camera eye, however, Gore Vidal had, in Visit to A Small Planet and The Best Man, brought two first-rate entertainments to the stage, and I looked forward to Romulus. But, as the late Yussel the Muscle said, “I should a stood in bed.”