{"id":92991,"date":"2015-12-17T12:20:27","date_gmt":"2015-12-17T17:20:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=92991"},"modified":"2015-12-17T13:22:49","modified_gmt":"2015-12-17T18:22:49","slug":"no-stranger-to-excess","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/12\/17\/no-stranger-to-excess\/","title":{"rendered":"No Stranger to Excess"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Terry Southern, as pictured on the cover of Yours in Haste and Adoration<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

A letter from Terry Southern to Fayette Hickox<\/em>, dated June 29, 1978, and sent to the offices of <\/em>The Paris Review. Southern, a novelist and screenplay writer, contributed often\u00a0to the<\/em>\u00a0Review; he died in 1995, and our humor prize is named after him.<\/em>\u00a0Hickox\u2014who is, as Southern was apparently unaware, a man\u2014was George Plimpton\u2019s assistant and a former managing editor of the magazine. Gene Andrewski, referred to below, was a former managing editor, too, and Maxine Groffsky ran the <\/em>Review\u2019s<\/em> offices in Paris from 1966 until it moved to New York in 1973. (The letter\u2019s original spelling and punctuation have been retained.)<\/em><\/p>\n

This letter appears in <\/em>Yours in Haste and Adoration: Selected Letters of Terry Southern<\/a>, edited by Nile Southern and Brooke Allen, out now from Antibookclub.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Dear Ms. Hickox:<\/p>\n

Many thanks for yours of the 5th instant.<\/p>\n

I can only assume<\/u> that the \u2018George\u2019 you refer to is George<\/u> Plimpton<\/u>\u2014since your letter bears the infamous\u00a0escutcheon\u2014\u2018carrion-vulture in hard hat<\/a> clutching quill torn from its body and dripping with<\/u> its<\/u> own<\/u>\u00a0venomous<\/u> spleen<\/u>!\u2019 (Arrgh! Ugh! Eech!) of a publication with which he is closely associated. (See \u2018Suzy Says\u2019 9\/17\/59.) If this is indeed the case, then in regard to your enclosed \u2018letter\u2019 from \u2018Margaret Phillips Ward,\u2019 I am very much afraid, my dear, that our Mr. Plimpton is merely toying with you\u2014as is, of course, ever his wont with lovely women, regardless of station. He<\/u> knows (and only too well!) who, and what, Meg Ward is! Thus, his quips and queries regarding her story, \u201cMrs. Ashley\u2019s Legacy,\u201d concerning, as it does, \u201ca delicate aging Madonna,\u201d are in the most dubious taste conceivable. For your own edification, however, and out of common decency, you should<\/u> be told the true facts. For many years, one of our senior staffers (like several of our staffers), a certain Gene Andrewski, functioned as a top operative in Paris with both the KGB and<\/u> the CIA, using the Review<\/u> Office and literary activities as his \u2018cover.\u2019 I first became aware of the whole cloak and dagger business at the Review when, as I was entering the offices one afternoon, I caught a fleeting glimpse of two figures, in trench<\/u> coats<\/u>, atop one of our large editorial desks, writhing in what was clearly an impassioned sexual embrace\u2014\u2018going at it,\u2019 in point of fact, like a pair of maddened wart hogs. Their conduct in itself was not unusual. The Review<\/u> offices were certainly no stranger to excess in every form\u2014indeed, the great din and clatter, the flailing and threshing, the ceaseless torrent of \u2018oohs\u2019 and \u2018aahs\u2019 emanating from Review offices, and audible to passersby and in adjacent shops, was a vrai scandale<\/em> and a source of the deepest chagrin to many of us. Great God, when I think back on the number of \u00e9clairs<\/em>, Napoleons, frou-frous and other delicacies vari\u00e9es<\/em> sent crashing to the floor of the neighboring p\u00e2tisserie<\/em>, from the hands of the startled customer or patronne, in response to the blood-curdling ecstatic shriek of Maxine Groffsky: \u201cLE VOILA! CA Y EST! AIEE-EEE!!<\/u><\/em>\u201d which all too frequently resounded from one end of rue du Rennes to the other … I should have perceived, however (and doubtless would<\/u> have, had not my senses been dulled to torpor by P. Matthiessen\u2014if, indeed, that is his name\u2014and his damnable wog-hemp!), that this \u2018coupling\u2019 was no casual \u201cbit of the old in-and-out,\u201d as our editor-in-chief called it, but more. Their garb\u2014trench<\/u> coats<\/u> (collars turned up, belted, buttoned\u2014partially buttoned) was, of course, the real clue. In my naivet\u00e9, however, I assumed that some of the more impressionable members of our crowd had fallen under the influence (hopefully brief) of the multi-national group known simply as \u2018Les Amis<\/em>,\u2019 or more fully as \u2018Les Amis du Toile Caoutchoutique<\/em>\u2019 [The Friends of Rubber Cloth] a rather odd lot, in my view, whose tastes and practices involving \u2018rubberized-canvas\u2019 were enjoying a certain vogue among the Quality Lit crowd.<\/p>\n

Presumably you have by now surmised that one of the two locked in tumultuous embrace was the aforementioned Gene Andrewski. To reveal the identity of the other would serve no useful purpose\u2014though should you have a genuine interest in that question, you might wish to refer to the \u201cSuzy Says\u201d columns of 7\/23\/62, 8\/6\/62, 2\/12\/63 and 4\/13\/71.<\/p>\n

En tous cas<\/em>, George Plimpton\u2014whether by design or by derangement is not for me to say\u2014entered a period of disorientation so acute that he began confusing the identities of various top staffers, but most particularly those of Gene Andrewski and Marion Capron.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A letter from Terry Southern to Fayette Hickox, dated June 29, 1978, and sent to the offices of The Paris Review. Southern, a novelist and screenplay writer, contributed often\u00a0to the\u00a0Review; he died in 1995, and our humor prize is named after him.\u00a0Hickox\u2014who is, as Southern was apparently unaware, a man\u2014was George Plimpton\u2019s assistant and a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":234,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1900],"tags":[11072,20628,20630,14,411,20631,20627,182,20626,20629,179,30,426],"class_list":["post-92991","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-correspondence","tag-cia","tag-fayette-hickox","tag-gene-andrewski","tag-george-plimpton","tag-humor","tag-indecency","tag-kgb","tag-letters","tag-magazine-history","tag-maxine-groffsky","tag-sex","tag-terry-southern","tag-the-paris-review"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nNo Stranger to Excess: Terry Southern on The Paris Review Offices<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In 1978, Terry Southern wrote to George Plimpton\u2019s assistant with a disturbing story about The Paris Review offices.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/12\/17\/no-stranger-to-excess\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"No Stranger to Excess by Terry Southern\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"December 17, 2015 \u2013 A letter from Terry Southern to Fayette Hickox, dated June 29, 1978, and sent to the offices of The Paris Review. 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