S. J. Perelman (1904-1979) was probably the funniest American writer of the 20th century. He was a master of word-play and a cultural parodist without equal. Marshall Brickman wrote in eulogy to Perelman: "His genius defies criticism. He was the maestro, nonpareil, incomparable, beyond interpretation. As he himself once said, 'Before they made Perelman, they broke the mold.'"
Entering the warped world of SJ Perelman - the Marx brothers' greatest scriptwriter, amongst other things - is a unique comic experience. A satirist and parodist, his celebrated sketches lampoon the screaming absurdities of modern life and bring succour to that most persecuted minority of all: the embattled sane. The undoubted star of these sketches is Perelman's own put-upon fictional persona: all he craves is a little peace and quiet, yet he is continually pushed closer to the edge by those sent to try him. Written mainly for the New Yorker magazine, the sketches in this volume are a brand new selection of some of his finest pieces, many of which have been unavailable for decades. This collection covers every decade in which he wrote from the '30s to the '70s. His subversive wit seems as fresh today as it did when it first appeared and to many he is quite simply the most original and funniest humorist of the twentieth century.
"The Last Laugh", as its name suggests, is the last of Perelman's 20 books and shows the humorist at his very best. Includes 17 pieces never before collected and the opening chapters of the author's uncompleted autobiography.
In any consideration of S. J. Perelman-and S. J. Perelman certainly deserves the same consideration one accords old ladies on street cars, babies traveling unescorted on planes, and the feeble-minded generally-it is important to remember the crushing, the well-nigh intolerable odds under which the man has struggled to produce what may well be, in the verdict of history, the most picayune prose ever produced in America. Denied every advantage, beset and plagued by ill fortune and a disposition so crabbed as to make Alexander Pope and Dr. Johnson seem sunny by contrast, he has nevertheless managed to belt out a series of books each less distinguished than its predecessor, each a milestone of bombast, conceit, pedantry, and strutting pomposity. In his pages proliferate all the weird grammatical flora tabulated by H. W. Fowler in his Modem English Usage-the Elegant Variation, the Facetious Zeugma, the Cast-iron Idiom, the Battered Ornament, the BowerVBird Phrase, the Sturdy Indefensible, the Side-Slip, and the Unequal Yokefellow. His work is a museum of mediocrity, a monument to the truly banal. What Flaubert did to the French bourgeois in Bouvard and Pecuchet, what Pizarro did to the Incas, what Jack Dempsey did to Paolino Uzcudun, S. J. Perelman has done to American belles-lettres.
Perelman's hilarious testament to the joys of owning country property, as he transforms from city lazybones to country squire at the family farm, Rising Gorge. Line drawings.
