Happy Birthday, Dorothy Parker!

There’s a wonderful moment in Ellen Gilchrist’s short story, “Music,” about a teenage girl encountering Dorothy Parker for the first time:

Oh, God, this is good, she thought. She sat up straighter, wanting to kiss the book. Oh, God, this is really good. She turned the book over to look at the picture of the author. It was a photograph of a small bright face in full profile staring off into the mysterious brightly lit world of a poet’s life.

Dorothy Parker, she read. What a wonderful name. Maybe I’ll change my name to Dorothy, Dorothy Louise Manning. Dot Manning. Dottie, Dottie Leigh, Dot.

Rhoda pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her purse, tamped it on the dashboard, opened it, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with a gold Ronson lighter. She inhaled deeply and went back to the book.

We won’t do the “she would have been 345 years old today!” thing, because, when you think about it, that’s a really weird convention. If your aunt had balls, she’d be your uncle; if Dorothy Parker were alive, we’d have great election commentary to enjoy. But she isn’t, and we miss her dearly.