Dear World: Lighten Up. Sincerely, Groucho Shalom Auslander believes that life is short and silly and probably ought to be treated that way — which is why he keeps a copy of The Groucho Letters on his bedside table.
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Dear World: Lighten Up. Sincerely, Groucho

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Dear World: Lighten Up. Sincerely, Groucho

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Dear World: Lighten Up. Sincerely, Groucho

Dear World: Lighten Up. Sincerely, Groucho

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Cover of 'The Groucho Letters: Letters from and to Groucho Marx'

Shalom Auslander is the author of Foreskin's Lament and Beware of God: Stories. He lives in the woods in a small house that is surrounded by poo. It isn't dog poo. It isn't bear poo. But every night he removes it, and every morning there it is again. He doesn't know what the poo is, other than an unfortunately apt metaphor for life. Patrik Andersson hide caption

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Patrik Andersson

Groucho Marx on impressing T.S. Eliot

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A Letter From Goucho To Gummo About T.S. Eliot

TO GUMMO MARX

June, 1964

Dear Gummo:

Last night Eden and I had dinner with my celebrated pen pal, T.S. Eliot. It was a memorable evening.

The poet met us at the door with Mrs. Eliot, a good-looking, middle-aged blonde whose eyes seemed to fill up with adoration every time she looked at her husband. He, by the way, is tall, lean and rather stopped over; but whether this is from age, illness or both, I don't know.

At any rate, your correspondent arrived at the Eliots' fully prepared for a literary evening. During the week I had read "Murder in the Cathedral" twice; "The Waste Land" Three times, and just in case of a conversational bottleneck, I brushed up on "King Lear."

Well, sir, as cocktails were served, there was a momentary lull — the kind that is more or less inevitable when strangers meet for the first time. So, apropos of practically nothing (and "not with a bang but a whimper") I tossed in a quotation from "The Waste Land." That, I thought, will show him I've read a thing or two besides my press notices from vaudeville.

Eliot smiled faintly — as though to say he was thoroughly familiar with his poems and didn't need me to recite them. So I took a whack at "King Lear." I said the king was an incredibly foolish old man, which God knows he was; and that if he'd been my father I would have run away from home at the age of eight-instead of waiting until I was ten.

That, too, failed to bowl over the poet. He seemed more interested in discussing "Animal Crackers" and "A Night at the Opera." He quoted a joke — one of mine — that I had long since forgotten. Now it was my turn to smile faintly. I was not going to let anyone-not even the British poet from St. Louis-spoil my Literary Evening. I pointed out that King Lear's opening speech was the height of idiocy. Imagine (I said) a father asking his three children: Which of you kids loves me the most? And then disowning the youngest-the sweet, honest Cordelia-because, unlike her wicked sister, she couldn't bring herself to gush out insincere flattery. And Cordelia, mind you, had been her father's favorite!

The Eliots listened politely. Mrs. Eliot then defended Shakespeare; and Eden, too, I regret to say, was on King Lear's side, even though I am the one who supports her. (In all fairness to my wife, I must say that, having played the Princess in a high school production of "The Swan," she has retained a rather warm feeling for all royalty.)

As for Eliot, he asked if I remembered the courtroom scene in "Duck Soup." Fortunately I'd forgotten every word. It was obviously the end of the Literary Evening, but very pleasant none the less. I discovered that Eliot and I had three things in common: (1) an affection for good cigars and (2) cats; and (3) a weakness for making puns — a weakness that for many years I have tried to overcome. T.S., on the other hand, is an unashamed — even proud — punster. For example, there's his Gus, the Theater Cat, whose "real name was Asparagus."

Speaking of asparagus, the dinner included good, solid English beef, very well prepared. And, although they had a semi-butler serving, Eliot insisted on pouring the wine himself. It was an excellent wine and no maitre d' could have served it more graciously. He is a dear man and a charming host.

When I told him that my daughter Melinda was studying his poetry at Beverly High, he said he regretted that, because he had no wish to become compulsory reading.

We didn't stay late, for we both felt that he wasn't up to a long evening of conversation-especially mine.

Did I tell you we called him Tom? — possibly because that's his name. I, of course, asked him to call me Tom too, but only because I loathe the name Julius.

Yours,

Tom Marx

From Groucho Letters by Groucho Marx. Copyright 1967 by Groucho Marx. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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