“But, then, one goes to a nightclub to think, to be alone, to be comfortable, to eat a haddock.”
I like that sentence immensely, but really I just can’t get along with the rest of Michael Arlen’s The Green Hat. (1924). It gives a very florid picture of post-war rootlessness, and so I ought to be interested by it – but the style is so… lubricious, that’s the word – constantly licking its lips and hinting at scandalous revelations, but never going beyond a hint. I have quite an appetite for popular fiction of the twenties, but this is one I may leave unfinished.