Tag Archives: Maeve Brennan


. . . As I came near the Latin Quarter, a girl appeared in the crowd, walking alone. She wore a tight white crêpe dress, much whiter than flesh and she had a small, fluffy white mink stole around her shoulders and her bosom. She was very slim, and she walked like two snakes, while her hemline slithered around her knees. She was much too clever to wear a very short dress. She showed her knees, and left the rest to her audience, to us — to all of us. We all looked. Her dress was more than very tight. It was extremely tight. Nobody looked at her knees. Everybody looked at her lap. Her hair was gold and it glittered, and so did her slippers, which were of transparent plastic edged with gold. She carried a small handbag, also of transparent plastic edged with gold, but it contained nothing except a gold lipstick, which rolled about like dice. I thought at first she must have some money tucked away in the tops of her stockings or somewhere, but as far as I could make out she had nothing at all under her dress. We all stared at her, in our different ways, and from our attention she drew the air of indifference which made her a star. She cast swift glances right and left to show us how she despised us all, and then she vanished, leaving us but nothing to look at but ourselves.

Maeve Brennan, The Long-Winded Lady, Maeve Brennan (1917 –1993)[1] was an Irish short story writer and journalist. She moved to the United States in 1934 where she wrote a column for The New Yorker, The Long-Winded Lady

(from here) 


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