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Into Your Tent I'll Creep
"Fiction by satirical American novelist Peter De Vries "
- GenresFiction
244 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1971
About the author
Peter De Vries
56 books168 followersPeter De Vries is responsible for contributing to the cultural vernacular such witticisms as "Nostalgia ain't what it used to be" and "Deep down, he's shallow." He was, according to Kingsley Amis, "the funniest serious writer to be found on either side of the Atlantic." “Quick with quips so droll and witty, so penetrating and precise that you almost don’t feel them piercing your pretensions, Peter De Vries was perhaps America’s best comic novelist not named Mark Twain. . .” (Sam McManis, Sacramento Bee).
His achievement seemed best appreciated by his fellow writers. Harper Lee, naming the great American writers, said, “Peter De Vries . . . is the Evelyn Waugh of our time". Anthony Burgess called De Vries “surely one of the great prose virtuosos of modern America.”
Peter De Vries was a radio actor in the 1930s, and editor for Poetry magazine from 1938 to 1944. During World War II he served in the U.S. Marines attaining the rank of Captain, and was seconded to the O.S.S., predecessor to the CIA.
He joined the staff of The New Yorker magazine at the insistence of James Thurber and worked there from 1944 to 1987. A prolific writer, De Vries wrote short stories, reviews, poetry, essays, a play, novellas, and twenty-three novels, several of which were made into films.
De Vries met his wife, Katinka Loeser, while at Poetry magazine. They married and moved to Westport, Connecticut, where they raised 4 children. The death of his 10-year-old daughter Emily from leukemia inspired The Blood of the Lamb, the most poignant and the most autobiographical of De Vries's novels.
In Westport, De Vries formed a lifelong friendship with the young J. D. Salinger, who later described the writing process as "opening a vein and bleeding onto the page." The two writers clearly "understood each other very well” (son Derek De Vries in "The Return of Peter De Vries", Westport Magazine, April 2006).
De Vries received an honorary degree in 1979 from Susquehanna University, and was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters in May 1983.
His books were sadly out of print by the time of his death. After the New Yorker published a critical reappraisal of De Vries’ work however (“Few writers have understood literary comedy as well as De Vries, and few comic novelists have had his grasp of tragedy”), The University of Chicago Press began reissuing his works in 2005, starting with The Blood of the Lamb and Slouching Toward Kalamazoo.
His achievement seemed best appreciated by his fellow writers. Harper Lee, naming the great American writers, said, “Peter De Vries . . . is the Evelyn Waugh of our time". Anthony Burgess called De Vries “surely one of the great prose virtuosos of modern America.”
Peter De Vries was a radio actor in the 1930s, and editor for Poetry magazine from 1938 to 1944. During World War II he served in the U.S. Marines attaining the rank of Captain, and was seconded to the O.S.S., predecessor to the CIA.
He joined the staff of The New Yorker magazine at the insistence of James Thurber and worked there from 1944 to 1987. A prolific writer, De Vries wrote short stories, reviews, poetry, essays, a play, novellas, and twenty-three novels, several of which were made into films.
De Vries met his wife, Katinka Loeser, while at Poetry magazine. They married and moved to Westport, Connecticut, where they raised 4 children. The death of his 10-year-old daughter Emily from leukemia inspired The Blood of the Lamb, the most poignant and the most autobiographical of De Vries's novels.
In Westport, De Vries formed a lifelong friendship with the young J. D. Salinger, who later described the writing process as "opening a vein and bleeding onto the page." The two writers clearly "understood each other very well” (son Derek De Vries in "The Return of Peter De Vries", Westport Magazine, April 2006).
De Vries received an honorary degree in 1979 from Susquehanna University, and was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters in May 1983.
His books were sadly out of print by the time of his death. After the New Yorker published a critical reappraisal of De Vries’ work however (“Few writers have understood literary comedy as well as De Vries, and few comic novelists have had his grasp of tragedy”), The University of Chicago Press began reissuing his works in 2005, starting with The Blood of the Lamb and Slouching Toward Kalamazoo.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
October 29, 2009
My wife tells me she can always tell when I'm reading Peter DeVries because it's the only time I continually laugh out loud while reading. It only took the first sentence of "Into Your Tent I'll Creep" for her to know this time: "It wasn't until I had become engaged to Miss Piano that I began avoiding her." What man doesn't understand that impulse?
Actually I read this book for the first time close to twenty years ago, as I did most of DeVries' books. This was a reread but I had forgotten the marvelous first sentence. For some, the 1960's suburban situations and attitudes of DeVries' books may seem dated, but to others (like me) they may be a breath of fresh air. But it doesn't really matter what DeVries' books are about. What matters are his unique prose style, his wit, and his humanity, i.e. his understanding of human nature and his compassion for human failings. And of course, his riotous humor. Sometimes he goes way out of his way to set up the gag but the payoff is worth it. He also may be the most epigrammatic writer of the past fifty years: every page seems to have something quotable, something the reader can steal (guilty, your honor) and use as his own. For instance, when his lover, an amateur painter in the modern style, presents Al Banghart (the hero of the book in whose voice the story is told) with some of her "art", we get this:
"I want to look at paintings. I don't want to look at paint. Which is what I mean by color arrangements that have made no progression from the lumps of pigment they originally were on the artist's mortarboard, like those musical compositions that are indistinguishable from the orchestra tuning up to play them."
I've used the "I want to look at paintings. I don't want to look at paint," line as an indictment of modern art. I've also used the modified "the composition was indistiguishable from the orchestra tuning up to play it. I couldn't tell when the one ended and the other began," line at a concert I attended as a judgement on modern orchestral music. Okay, I fessed up afterwards that I stole the lines from DeVries but that made them no less enjoyable.
DeVries, who died in 1993, was once very popular during the late 1950's through the 1970's. Now, he is barely read and it's a shame. Only a few of his books are still in print but if you can get your hands on any of them the read will be worth it. "Madder Music," "Consenting Adults," "Peckham's Marbles," "Slouching Towards Kalamazoo," and "The Mackeral Plaza" are probably my favorites but they are all wonderful.
One last note. DeVries wrote 23 novels, 22 of which can be considered comic novels. The other, "The Blood of the Lamb," is probably considered his finest book. DeVries lost a daughter to leukemia at the age of ten and "The Blood of the Lamb" is the novel that came out of that ordeal. Be forewarned, it'll rip your heart out.
Actually I read this book for the first time close to twenty years ago, as I did most of DeVries' books. This was a reread but I had forgotten the marvelous first sentence. For some, the 1960's suburban situations and attitudes of DeVries' books may seem dated, but to others (like me) they may be a breath of fresh air. But it doesn't really matter what DeVries' books are about. What matters are his unique prose style, his wit, and his humanity, i.e. his understanding of human nature and his compassion for human failings. And of course, his riotous humor. Sometimes he goes way out of his way to set up the gag but the payoff is worth it. He also may be the most epigrammatic writer of the past fifty years: every page seems to have something quotable, something the reader can steal (guilty, your honor) and use as his own. For instance, when his lover, an amateur painter in the modern style, presents Al Banghart (the hero of the book in whose voice the story is told) with some of her "art", we get this:
"I want to look at paintings. I don't want to look at paint. Which is what I mean by color arrangements that have made no progression from the lumps of pigment they originally were on the artist's mortarboard, like those musical compositions that are indistinguishable from the orchestra tuning up to play them."
I've used the "I want to look at paintings. I don't want to look at paint," line as an indictment of modern art. I've also used the modified "the composition was indistiguishable from the orchestra tuning up to play it. I couldn't tell when the one ended and the other began," line at a concert I attended as a judgement on modern orchestral music. Okay, I fessed up afterwards that I stole the lines from DeVries but that made them no less enjoyable.
DeVries, who died in 1993, was once very popular during the late 1950's through the 1970's. Now, he is barely read and it's a shame. Only a few of his books are still in print but if you can get your hands on any of them the read will be worth it. "Madder Music," "Consenting Adults," "Peckham's Marbles," "Slouching Towards Kalamazoo," and "The Mackeral Plaza" are probably my favorites but they are all wonderful.
One last note. DeVries wrote 23 novels, 22 of which can be considered comic novels. The other, "The Blood of the Lamb," is probably considered his finest book. DeVries lost a daughter to leukemia at the age of ten and "The Blood of the Lamb" is the novel that came out of that ordeal. Be forewarned, it'll rip your heart out.
May 29, 2013
"…whose head protruded from the edge of a booth like a cuckoo stuck in a clock" (6).
"My behavior I justify by remembering how she spells it 'bus--short for omnibus--as she writes 'phone because it's short for telephone. Can you be happy with a woman who does that, to say nothing of love letters infested with semi-colons?" (7-8).
"Hearing some cat from New York speaking about the local port authority I naturally thought he was talking about another wine expert" (10).
"...brushing not only my teeth but my tongue, as doctors now recommend for personal hygiene and social closeups. When I woke up the next morning with the hangover you can imagine, the nap on it looked like a problem in lichen identification. I still brush my tongue till I gag, twice a day, rain or shine. It's a good habit to get into, provided you don't let the organ in question, a pretty odd number, become an obsession, as it did with me when I first discovered it, there in my mouth. For weeks I was conscious of it flipping around in other people's when they talked, no aid to paying serious attention to what they're saying. One entire Shakespearean production was reduced to absurdity by the thought of all that exalted verse hinging on this pink tab flipping away in everyone's head onstage" (11).
"This is the story of a man glad to beat all the dirt he has to out of his rug provided you leave undisturbed what he's swept under it" (18).
"Men who pride themselves on knowing women like the back of their hand have probably go the back of one of theirs at one time or other, not a bad source of instruction" (18).
"Betty had a touch as delicate as strudel crust…" (18).
"Unintelligibility was his third abrasive, but you were grateful for that after catching a few snatches of the lyrics he sang, which were his own composition" (20).
"…had attended an eastern women's college where her accent was bevelled down by a speech department using diction recordings like emery wheels on its charges… (21).
"…that made me extra content to write her off" (21).
"…she darts me occasional glances to see whether I note her unladylike battle with extruding fragments of bacon and tomato, to say nothing of the colored toothpicks never intended by nature to rivet the likes of that together" (24).
" 'What's your objection to marriage?'
" 'The long hours'" (25).
"The general trend of the conversation was such that your pinky began to lift of its own accord as you sipped your coffee--" (26).
"…near a couch as loaded with cushions as Cleopatra's must have been, on that barge that burned on the water like a somethinged throne" (32).
"Develop that negative and you come up with nights when she must" (33).
"She carried my brimming glass to me like a picnicker in an egg race, then settled herself with her own drink with the same care in another part of the room" (35).
"…a woman I knew who, on learning that a rival hostess had a bidet in her bathroom, said she disapproved of hanging art there" (39).
"Her smile was friendly, but it had just a twist of lemon in it" (52).
"…mustard-colored pants that you hoped for his sake were not part of a suit" (80).
"…I ran into our minister, Shorty Hopwell, out shopping for religious supplies, such as red Burgundies august enough to be our Lord's propitiatory blood" (112).
"Miss Tompkins' tail was like a summer cold. She couldn't seem to shake it" (115).
"…a row of three windows with drawn shades edged with slivers of muffled light" (151).
"…where four girls in feathery negligees sat around under lamps with gaudy shades but dim bulbs, giving wickedness an air of strangled gaiety" (153).
"…the wang-house patron…" (177). *What a term.
"…letting myself be sucked into a bog of schmaltz because I suppose I was in the mood for it" (181).
"Did I know Corneille and Racine were on French paper money? Imagine finding an artist on an American five or ten dollar bill!" (188-189).
"My behavior I justify by remembering how she spells it 'bus--short for omnibus--as she writes 'phone because it's short for telephone. Can you be happy with a woman who does that, to say nothing of love letters infested with semi-colons?" (7-8).
"Hearing some cat from New York speaking about the local port authority I naturally thought he was talking about another wine expert" (10).
"...brushing not only my teeth but my tongue, as doctors now recommend for personal hygiene and social closeups. When I woke up the next morning with the hangover you can imagine, the nap on it looked like a problem in lichen identification. I still brush my tongue till I gag, twice a day, rain or shine. It's a good habit to get into, provided you don't let the organ in question, a pretty odd number, become an obsession, as it did with me when I first discovered it, there in my mouth. For weeks I was conscious of it flipping around in other people's when they talked, no aid to paying serious attention to what they're saying. One entire Shakespearean production was reduced to absurdity by the thought of all that exalted verse hinging on this pink tab flipping away in everyone's head onstage" (11).
"This is the story of a man glad to beat all the dirt he has to out of his rug provided you leave undisturbed what he's swept under it" (18).
"Men who pride themselves on knowing women like the back of their hand have probably go the back of one of theirs at one time or other, not a bad source of instruction" (18).
"Betty had a touch as delicate as strudel crust…" (18).
"Unintelligibility was his third abrasive, but you were grateful for that after catching a few snatches of the lyrics he sang, which were his own composition" (20).
"…had attended an eastern women's college where her accent was bevelled down by a speech department using diction recordings like emery wheels on its charges… (21).
"…that made me extra content to write her off" (21).
"…she darts me occasional glances to see whether I note her unladylike battle with extruding fragments of bacon and tomato, to say nothing of the colored toothpicks never intended by nature to rivet the likes of that together" (24).
" 'What's your objection to marriage?'
" 'The long hours'" (25).
"The general trend of the conversation was such that your pinky began to lift of its own accord as you sipped your coffee--" (26).
"…near a couch as loaded with cushions as Cleopatra's must have been, on that barge that burned on the water like a somethinged throne" (32).
"Develop that negative and you come up with nights when she must" (33).
"She carried my brimming glass to me like a picnicker in an egg race, then settled herself with her own drink with the same care in another part of the room" (35).
"…a woman I knew who, on learning that a rival hostess had a bidet in her bathroom, said she disapproved of hanging art there" (39).
"Her smile was friendly, but it had just a twist of lemon in it" (52).
"…mustard-colored pants that you hoped for his sake were not part of a suit" (80).
"…I ran into our minister, Shorty Hopwell, out shopping for religious supplies, such as red Burgundies august enough to be our Lord's propitiatory blood" (112).
"Miss Tompkins' tail was like a summer cold. She couldn't seem to shake it" (115).
"…a row of three windows with drawn shades edged with slivers of muffled light" (151).
"…where four girls in feathery negligees sat around under lamps with gaudy shades but dim bulbs, giving wickedness an air of strangled gaiety" (153).
"…the wang-house patron…" (177). *What a term.
"…letting myself be sucked into a bog of schmaltz because I suppose I was in the mood for it" (181).
"Did I know Corneille and Racine were on French paper money? Imagine finding an artist on an American five or ten dollar bill!" (188-189).
August 22, 2019
Really bad book about love affairs in small town. Few decent satirical thoughts served on the plate with a lots of dad's jokes sprinkled with a lot of chauvinism.
The only worthy part is when main character decides to become a writer. It was a delightful sequence, indeed.
The only worthy part is when main character decides to become a writer. It was a delightful sequence, indeed.
August 6, 2011
Boy has girl as high school French teacher. Boy graduates and sees girl at diner he frequents and asks her out (just for sex, mind you). Girl calls boy on looking for a one night stand, so to prove he’s not all about “that thing” he proposes to marry her. They marry, and to show how women’s lib they are, he stays home while she works… and he shags the neighbor. Girl gets upset, so boy gets a job as a traveling salesman. Boy decides this isn’t good enough so goes for the gold of becoming an author. To get a more authentic take on his subject (prostitutes), he visits a whore house and falls in love with a hooker, whose heart belongs to another man. In a fit of depression, boy tries to kill himself, fails, then makes another attempt in the hometown of his estranged wife (girl). The local news sees his suicide attempt as a heroic act (jumping off a boat to save the other passengers), and this gets girl’s attention. They live happily ever after, with boy philandering on girl all along.
Quotes:
Miss Tompkins’ tail was like a summer cold. She couldn’t seem to shake it.
There are said to be a lot of suicides in the Yuletide days, quite understandable as a sort of fatal overdose of feelings, a gorge of childhood memories and indigestible make-believe, a stew of myth and escape that makes real life all the worse for our having wallowed in it.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
August 27, 2008
DeVries is always a DeLight.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews