Viva la Repartee

Dr. Mardy Grothe

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061758447

For most of us, that perfect retort or witty reply often escapes us when we need it most, only to come to mind with perfect clarity when it's too late to be useful. The twentieth-century writer Heywood Broun described this all-too-common phenomenon when he wrote "Repartee is what we wish we'd said."

In Viva la Repartee, Dr. Mardy Grothe, author of Oxymoronica, has lovingly assembled a collection of masterfully composed -- and perfectly timed -- replies that have turned the tables on opponents and adversaries. This delightful volume is a celebration of the most impressive retorts, ripostes, rejoinders, comebacks, quips, ad-libs, bon mots, off-the-cuff comments, wisecracks, and other clever remarks ever to come out of the mouths -- and from the pens -- of people throughout history. Touching on all areas of human endeavor, including politics, the arts, literature, sports, relationships, and even the risqué, the book features contributions from Oscar Wilde, Mark Twain, Dorothy Parker, Mae West, Groucho Marx, Winston Churchill, Dolly Parton, and scores more.

As entertaining as it is intellectually enriching, Viva la Repartee is sure to capture the attention of language lovers and is the perfect antidote for anyone who's ever thought I wish I'd said that!

1

classic retorts, ripostes, & rejoinders

After the opening performance of Arms and the Man in London in 1894, playwright George Bernard Shaw joined the actors on stage to acknowledge a rousing, appreciative ovation. Amidst the sustained applause, a solitary voice cried out: “Boo! Boo!” Shaw looked in the direction of the voice and said:

I quite agree with you, my friend,
but what can we two do against
a whole houseful of the opposite opinion?

Shaw’s reply enthralled the audience and helped cement his reputation as a great wit. One of the most talented playwrights of all time, he proved in that moment that he was as skilled in the art of extemporaneous repartee as he was at the craft of witty dialogue for the characters in his plays.

A similar story is told about the reception Oscar Wilde received after one of his plays. After an extended period of warm applause, during which the author was presented with a number of floral bouquets from admiring fans, one disgruntled person in the audience threw a rotten cabbage at the playwright. Wilde simply leaned over, picked up the foul-smelling vegetable, and coolly replied:

Thank you, my dear fellow.
Every time I smell it,
I shall be reminded of you.

Both stories illustrate a familiar phenomenon. Someone hurls an insult or makes a critical remark. In that moment, the recipient of the attack is placed in what sociologists call a “one-down” position. Onlookers to such an interaction often describe a slight feeling of apprehension, as they try to imagine how the drama will unfold. Sometimes, the person being attacked descends to the level of the aggressor, goes on a counterattack, and everything goes downhill. Every now and then, though, the targets are able to come up with a few clever words that turn the tables on their opponents. Replies like this are called retorts, as we saw that term defined in the Introduction:

A sharp or incisive reply, especially one by which the first speaker’s statement or argument is in some way turned against himself.

In the language of repartee, though, the Shaw and Wilde comebacks could also be described by two other words: riposte and rejoinder.

The OED defines riposte (pronounced ruh-POST) this way: “To reply or to retaliate; to answer.” The word comes from the Italian risposta, meaning “to answer, reply.” The term was originally used in the sport of fencing, where it described a quick retaliatory thrust that is given after parrying an opponent’s lunge. In the mid-1800s, the word was extended to the arena of human interaction, where it began to be used to describe an effective verbal reply. Today riposte is virtually synonymous with retort, both words describing a quick and sharp response to an insult or attack. Historically used mainly as a noun, in recent years it has also begun to be used as a verb, “to deliver a riposte” (as in “He riposted.”).

Rejoinder is another term that has become virtually synonymous with retort and riposte. The best current definition appears in the Oxford American Dictionary (OAD), which says, “Something said in answer or retort.” The word comes from a fifteenth-century French legal term, rejoindre, meaning “to answer to a legal charge.” A few centuries ago, the word became a part of popular usage when it began to be used to describe a sharp and quick reply. While rejoinder is a commonly used noun, the verb rejoin (meaning “to say in reply”) is rarely used. When people deliver a rejoinder, though, it is technically correct to say that they rejoined, and not that they rejoindered.

Admiring stories about great retorts have been told from the very beginning of civilization. In the fifth century B.C., the aging Greek leader Pericles was engaged in a heated debate with his nephew Alcibiades over how Athens should be governed. The frustrated Pericles finally played the Age Card. “When I was your age, Alcibiades,” he charged condescendingly, “I talked just the way you are now talking.” Alcibiades’ reply stands as a model for all young people who’ve been similarly put down by a smug elder:

If only I had known you, Pericles,
when you were at your best.

While the ability to forge clever replies has always been useful in dealing with adversaries and opponents, it has proved invaluable in dealing with friends—especially when friends engage in the time-honored tradition of expressing their affection in a form of ritualized insult behavior. There are many words for this phenomenon: banter, razzing, kidding, jesting, ribbing, raillery, roasting, busting chops, and, of course, busting balls. Another word to describe this intriguing form of human interaction is badinage (BAD-uhnazh), which the OED defines as “light trifling raillery or humorous banter.”

The word derives from the French badin, meaning “joker,” and the phenomenon shows up mainly in the good-natured teasing and playful banter that people—especially men—engage in with one another. The word, which first appeared in English in 1658, shows up in an intriguing passage in Benjamin Disraeli’s 1880 novel Endymion: “Men destined to the highest places should beware of badinage.”

While badinage is not a particularly well-known word, the phenomenon is very common. We saw an example in the previous chapter when Marc Connelly’s friend ribbed him about his bald head. I also recall an episode of Frasier in 1997 in which Niles, with his pet parrot on his shoulder, greets his brother at the door. When Frasier says, “Good evening, Niles. Or should I say, ‘Avast ye, matey!’ ” Niles brushes aside the remark by saying, “I don’t have time for your badinage.” Surprised at hearing the word used in a TV sitcom, I recall saying to my wife, Katherine, “Honey, there are twenty million people watching this program tonight and maybe only a handful of people know what he just said.”

A classic badinage anecdote has been told for more than a century about Hermann Adler, the chief rabbi of London, and Herbert Vaughan, the Roman Catholic cardinal and archbishop of Westminster. At an official luncheon one day, Vaughan looked over at his Jewish colleague and said, “Dr. Adler, when may I have the pleasure of helping you to a slice of this most excellent ham?” Guests at the luncheon, aware of the Jewish prohibition about eating pork, were startled at what seemed like a lapse of sensitivity. Adler knew exactly what his colleague was up to, however, and brought gales of laughter to the relieved guests when he replied:

How about at Your Eminence’s wedding?

Another wonderful example showed up at a Manhattan party in the 1930s, attended by George Gershwin, Oscar Levant, and a number of musicians and show business personalities. Levant and Gershwin, good friends as well as musical colleagues, often engaged in friendly banter with one another. This particular evening, Levant said, “George, if you had to do it all over, would you fall in love with yourself again?” Even though everybody knew Levant was teasing, they waited eagerly to see how Gershwin would respond. The great songwriter ignored the remark and rejoined with a playful insult of his own:

Oscar, why don’t you play us a medley of your hit?

Whether they come from friends or enemies, insults and barbs have always been best dealt with by witty replies. And some of the best replies have achieved a kind of exalted, or classic, status. Let’s examine more replies that may be so designated.

After the death of England’s Protestant King Charles II in 1685, his Roman Catholic brother James II assumed the throne. Charles II’s son was James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth, who soon led an unsuccessful rebellion (called “Monmouth’s Rebellion”) against James II. The insurrection was short-lived and the rebels were quickly brought to trial before Chief Justice George Jeffreys, so notorious for his cruelty he was called “Hanging Judge Jeffreys.” At the trial, the judge stuck his cane in the chest of one of the rebels, charging, “There is a rogue at the end of my cane!” The insolent defendant, even though facing death on the gallows, still had his wits about him, replying:

At which end, my Lord?

In the late 1700s, the beautiful Sophie Arnould was lighting up the French stage, both as an actress and as an opera singer. A free spirit, Arnould frequented the salons of Paris, where she often stole the hearts of male admirers, many of whom became her lovers. The winds of revolution were beginning to blow in France as well as in America, and French authorities often found it hard to distinguish between political intrigue and amorous activities. One evening, Arnould was visited by a suspicious police lieutenant, who demanded the names of several high-ranking dinner guests she had entertained earlier that evening. The discreet Arnould said, “I’m sorry, lieutenant, but I can remember none of their names.” The incredulous police officer sneered, “But a woman like you ought to remember things like that.” Arnould replied:

Of course, lieutenant,
but with a man like you,
I am not a woman like me.

Lady Margot Asquith, the wife of English prime minister Herbert Asquith, was no demure politician’s wife. A vivacious and witty woman, she authored some of the most delicious barbs in English history, saying of David Lloyd George, “He could not see a belt without hitting below it,” and of English barrister, F. E. Smith (also known as Lord Birkenhead), “Lord Birkenhead is very clever but sometimes his brains go to his head.” She was also the recipient of a famous zinger, when Dorothy Parker said of her autobiography, “The affair between Margot Asquith and Margot Asquith will live as one of the prettiest love stories in all literature.” When Lady Asquith was introduced to Jean Harlow, the brassy American actress persisted in mispronouncing her first name as MAR-gut, as if it rhymed with “harlot.” It was a not-so-subtle put-down, and Lady Asquith could easily have taken offense. Instead, she crafted one of history’s most famous ripostes, sweetly replying:

My dear, the t is silent, as in Harlow.

In the years before the Civil War, Brooklyn preacher Henry Ward Beecher was an outspoken abolitionist. As the war got under way, he logged many miles speaking in favor of the Emancipation Proclamation and against the Confederacy. He even made a famous trip to England to drum up British support for the Union cause. While speaking in Manchester, however, he encountered a hostile crowd of Englishmen, many of whom supported the South. One heckler yelled out, “Why didn’t you whip the Confederates in sixty days, as you said you would?” Beecher, who knew the Revolutionary War was still a sensitive topic for many Britishers, hesitated only briefly before replying:

Because we found
we had Americans to fight this time,
not Englishmen.

Lilian Braithwaite was a Shakespearean actress who also made many films in the early days of cinema. One day, she ran into drama critic James Agate at London’s Savoy Grill. Agate, who had once said he considered Braithwaite the wittiest woman in London, said upon meeting her, “My dear Lilian, I have long wanted to tell you that, in my opinion, you are the second most beautiful woman in London.” Agate was undoubtedly trying to lure the actress into an inquiry about whom he considered the most beautiful, for which he had almost certainly prepared a witty reply. But Braithwaite refused to take the bait. Instead, she proved she was indeed one of the wittiest women in London when she sweetly replied:

Thank you so much, James.
I shall always cherish that,
coming from our second-best dramatic critic.

While she eventually became known as the Divine Sarah, the early stage efforts of the legendary actress Sarah Bernhardt were nothing special. However, the owner of the Odeon Theater, Felix Duquesnel, saw great potential in the young actress and decided to offer her a contract. There was one hitch, however. She had to be interviewed by his partner before the deal could be done. During the interview, Bernhardt did her best to impress, but she was turned off by the man’s imperious and condescending style. Near the end of the interview, he sighed dismissively, “If I were alone in this, I wouldn’t give you a contract.” Bernhardt retorted:

If you were alone in this, monsieur,
I wouldn’t sign.

In the mid-1600s, Richard Busby was emerging as a giant figure in English society. A bookish man of very slight stature, he headed London’s famed Westminster School, a training ground for the children of England’s elite. One day, Busby was seated in a crowded London coffeehouse. An Irish nobleman of enormous girth and questionable manners entered the establishment and tried to get past the diminutive Busby, saying in a mocking tone, “May I pass to my seat, oh giant?” Busby rose from his chair, allowing the man through, and replied in turn, “Certainly, oh pygmy.” When the Irishman noticed that the man he had mocked was the highly regarded Busby, he attempted a half-hearted apology. “My expression alluded to the size of your intellect,” he offered lamely. Busby’s reply has been celebrated for centuries:

And my expression to the size of yours.

Although not especially well remembered today, Ilka Chase was a familiar name in the 1930s and ’40s. A writer, actress, and radio celebrity, she starred in Broadway plays and Hollywood films, wrote numerous books, and hosted a number of popular radio shows. Soon after the publication of her 1942 autobiography Past Imperfect, she ran into an actor (some accounts say it was Humphrey Bogart) at a party. The actor congratulated Chase and said, “I thought your book was wonderful. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it. By the way, who wrote it for you?” Chase delivered the perfect riposte:

I’m so glad you liked it.
By the way, who read it to you?

While serving in Parliament early in his career, Winston Churchill dozed off as another member of the House of Commons delivered a long and rambling speech. Upset at the sight of a colleague sleeping during his speech, the enraged M.P. interrupted his speech to say in a booming voice, “Mr. Churchill, must you fall asleep while I’m speaking?” Churchill, hardly moving a muscle, replied with his eyes still closed:

No, it’s purely voluntary.

At a White House luncheon in 1943, Winston Churchill was challenged by Helen Reid, the sister of the anti-British owner of the Chicago Tribune. Referring to England’s colonization of India, she attacked him and the British for their treatment of the Indians. It was a tense moment, but Churchill coolly responded:

Before we proceed further, let us get one thing clear.
Are we talking about the brown Indians ...