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And then there's the sex. As Tynan's health deteriorated (hereditary emphysema, exacerbated by heavy smoking), his anally-fixated sado-masochistic sexual demands, already related in his first wife Elaine Dundy's autobiography, Life Itself!, increased, as did his preoccupation with death. In truth, the diaries were his Green Room, a rehearsal space for the aphoristic nuggets with which he studded his public writing. Too intellectually uptight, perhaps, to be an artist, Tynan's tragedy was to realise this, and these gilded, chastening diaries allow us a voyeuristic, thrilling glimpse at the ever-absorptive reflection of this grand, inconsolable narcissist. --David Vincent --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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There is a great deal here about Tynan's inability to write. This is hard to figure out, because particularly in the letters he is always coming up with really wonderful ideas for serious writing projects, yet he is always looking for reasons not to work on them and takes refuge in projects which are short-term in nature and apparently of much less significance in the longer term. Then there are the movies, and the plays such as Oh! Calcutta! which may have seemed quite daring at the time, but which I don't think anyone will remember. He also speaks a lot about politics, but his arguments in favour of socialism are just not convincing. This is not because they couldn't have been convincing, but rather because they are all heat and little light, and this is because he never really developed them in any kind of depth. It is as if writing came very easily to Tynan, yet after his days at Oxford I am not sure he really developed his gift. Maybe the knowledge that he could have been much better and wasn't because he was always having to worry about keeping a roof over his head and that of his family, as well as the frustration of dealing with the politics and cliques and backstabbing at the National Theatre, which led him to the sort of socialism which was strongly felt but not quite so well developed or expressed.
Let me close by saying that reading the letters and the diaries left me wishing for the publication of Tynan's New Yorker pieces, his Playboy pieces, and perhaps his reviews for The Observer.
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