John Crace reduces Swift’s story of stains, secret love and pork pies to 800 words
Once upon a time. In her later years when she was a famous novelist, Jane Fairchild would have been happy to start a book that way, confident her readers would have understood the sophistication she brought to the cliched opening line. But this was 30 March 1924. Mothering Sunday. Jane was not yet a writer and her story was being told by Graham, who was not so certain of his readership. Once upon a time. That was better. A second usage surely could not be mistaken as anything but deliberate.
While Graham was struggling over his opening paragraph (don’t panic Graham, he told himself, a novel need not be a doorstop – even in 1924, the novella was quite acceptable) Jane lay naked on the bed playing with her cunt. She had yet to read DH Lawrence, for her self-improvement was but in its infancy. Indeed Mr Lawrence had yet to write Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but when he did get round to doing so, and she had got round to reading it, she would not have been afraid of using such a word.
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