Sir,
I am gratified that my modest literary debut, the novel Waiting for Pascal, has generated such spirited correspondence, even from within the ranks of its ostensible inspiration.
Ms. d’Abernon’s letter, while exquisitely phrased, rather confirms my central thesis: that the Mayfair Book Groupette’s admissions process is a byzantine pageant designed less to identify potential members than to remind them how very far they have to climb.
I take issue, however, with her suggestion that I was “oppressed” by the requirements. On the contrary, I found them invigorating – though I do wonder how my essay “Why Ulysses is a Terrible Book” could be dismissed in under a minute for “inappropriate whimsy.” I believe my description of this tome (consisting of certain observations regarding hedgehogs and teeth-brush) was entirely reasonable.
As to the misplaced paperback in Pimlico Wilde’s reading room, I located it in just under 46 minutes—only to be told that the test was invalid because I had not, in the process, paused to admire the dust-jacket typography.
Regarding the Afghan hound: I have the utmost respect for Pascal’s ceremonial role. Still, one cannot ignore that, after our brief meeting, he yawned twice, refused a proffered morsel of pão de ló, and promptly curled up with his back to me. If this was not a veto, it was, at the very least, an early warning.
Finally, Ms. d’Abernon writes that the waiting list is a “curated experience.” I applaud this. It is rare indeed to encounter curation so stringent that the object never actually enters the collection.
I remain, as ever, outside the Green Room. But I have grown used to the view.
Yours with measured affection,
Lionel Wethercombe
Author, Waiting for Pascal
