Books in Brief

The Naked Martini, by John Leonard (Delacorte, $3.95). It was inevitable that John Leonard should go through this book (a novel of blasé youth, deracinated, talkative), and I am glad it is over both because he has produced as good, probably a better book than any of that family; and because, having mastered the genre, he will probably not again be tempted to spend himself on it. This I venture because Mr. Leonard is the kind of writer, and the kind of person, who outgrows the temptation to dissipate his literary career on the road. The Naked Martini is about the most boring hero who ever graduated from Harvard, full of a sort of detached self-pity which he massages by opening his mouth under a spigot of alcohol while coupling with the nearest female around. It is all made bearable by the groovy small talk. He: “All night long I read French novels, and I listen to these old John McCormack records. That’s the kind of guy I am, Jill. I smoke non-filter-tip cigarettes because I want to live dangerously. I’m even thinking of growing a mustache.” “My father hates Tom Dewey.” “Well, then, in that case I won’t grow a mustache. Would you like another martini?” No, one naked martini is quite enough. But it was very good indeed, thank you.

W. F. BUCKLEY JR.

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The Naked Martini, by John Leonard (Delacorte, $3.95). It was inevitable that John Leonard should go through this book (a novel of blasé youth, deracinated, talkative), and I am glad it is over both because he has produced as good, probably a better book than any of that family; and because, having mastered the genre, he will probably not again be tempted to spend himself on it. This I venture because Mr. Leonard is the kind of writer, and the kind of person, who outgrows the temptation to dissipate his literary career on the road. The Naked Martini is about the most boring hero who ever graduated from Harvard, full of a sort of detached self-pity which he massages by opening his mouth under a spigot of alcohol while coupling with the nearest female around. It is all made bearable by the groovy small talk. He: “All night long I read French novels, and I listen to these old John McCormack records. That’s the kind of guy I am, Jill. I smoke non-filter-tip cigarettes because I want to live dangerously. I’m even thinking of growing a mustache.” “My father hates Tom Dewey.” “Well, then, in that case I won’t grow a mustache. Would you like another martini?” No, one naked martini is quite enough. But it was very good indeed, thank you.

W. F. BUCKLEY JR.