This slim novel was Kindle-gifted to me by my stepmom at the end of our fall break in Boston and New York City this year. The book is narrated by an unnamed woman, who is celebrating her birthday with her best friend Gay, Gay’s husband Len, and the narrator’s former lover, Wes. Gay and the narrator met in college in the 1930s and have maintained a 3o-year friendship despite their dramatic differences.
Now, it’s 1960s Boston, and there’s lots of talk of martini lunches, affairs of the heart, betrayals of friendship, books and feminism. Gay is straight and narrow, the narrator is not. They are the yin to each other’s yang, and despite the narrator’s unreliability, I really liked her. She’s full zingers and quotes that could appear on the next Anne Taintor notepad. She struck me as the person you would sit next to at a party if you didn’t have anything nice to say about anyone—she would love to talk with you.
Here are some of my favorite passages:
Describing a college acquaintance:
“But having missed being pretty she settled for being kind and merry, which is not the worst settlement a girl can make.”
About her college major:
“Like many old English majors, we don’t hold staunch opinions about anything much but books.”
On her ability to be trusted:
“Nobody–except for Gay– has ever trusted me. And for good reason.”
Speaking about girls who got pregnant in college:
“Everyone I knew who got caught got married, but only after a lot of tears and a lot of snotty remarks from the dean.”
On sex:
“In those days we were pretty sure sex stopped at about thirty-five.”
On Gay’s grandmother:
“Gay’s grandmother was a formidable woman, but you didn’t see it right away because she was pretty.”
“As it turned out, the grandmother was a rampant feminist who rejoiced in any female victory. It wasn’t really that Grandmother didn’t like the uncles; but she saw all men as dolts. In spite of all her sons–perhaps because of them–she was not much in favor of sexual congress. It was untidy and had dire results and took a lady’s mind off more important things. Like sonnets.”
“In spite of the grandmother’s stern admonition, the bathroom was obviously a library. Everyone in that house liked to read; not that they were all scholars; the just liked to read, and there was no corner of that big house that was not littered with literature, as though they were all afraid that they might be caught at any moment without print.”
On her love of books and reading… and drinking:
“But you can’t very well lug an encyclopedia around hotels. Fortunately, I did have my flask.”
On loss and lust:
“So after that, if the fellow and the time were right, I started having an occasional affair, which is less debilitating than grief and a lot more fun.”
I could go on… but what kind of review just reprints the whole book? The book is not perfect, by any means. But it’s a gem. Our lushy narrator can ramble at times; however, the she propels the story forward nicely, throwing in her share of secrets and some of Gay’s as well. The Last Night at the Ritz does a swell job unfolding a story of a complicated life-long friendship in one night’s time, across a number colorful stories and cocktails.
Rating: 3 stars
Pages: 196
Genre: Fiction
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