The Group

The Group

3.1 18
by Mary McCarthy
     
 

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Mary McCarthy's most celebrated novel portrays the lives, and aspirations of eight Vassar graduates. "The group" meet in New York following commencement to attend the wedding of one of their members—and reconvene seven years later at her funeral. The woman are complicated, compelling, vivid, and, above all, determined not to become stuffy and frightened like…  See more details below

Overview

Mary McCarthy's most celebrated novel portrays the lives, and aspirations of eight Vassar graduates. "The group" meet in New York following commencement to attend the wedding of one of their members—and reconvene seven years later at her funeral. The woman are complicated, compelling, vivid, and, above all, determined not to become stuffy and frightened like "Mother and Dad" but to lead fulfilling, emancipated lives.

A classic of contemporary fiction, The Group is a dazzlingly outspoken novel, written with the trenchant, sardonic edge that is the hallmark of Mary McCarthy's prose.

Editorial Reviews

Nation
A witty, moving, instructive and wise novel—a gem of American social history as well as very good fiction.
Cosmopolitan
Juicy, shocking, witty, and almost continually brilliant.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780451025012
Publisher:
Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
Publication date:
09/01/1964
Product dimensions:
7.00(w) x 5.00(h) x 1.00(d)

Read an Excerpt

It was June, 1933, one week after Commencement, when Kay Leiland Strong, Vassar '33, the first of her class to run around the table at the Class Day dinner, was married to Harald Petersen, Reed '27, in the chapel of St. George's Church, P.E., Karl F. Reiland, Rector. Outside, on Stuyvesant Square, the trees were in full leaf, and the wedding guests arriving by twos and threes in taxis heard the voices of children playing round the statue of Peter Stuyvesant in the park. Paying the driver, smoothing out their gloves, the pairs and trios of young women, Kay's classmates, stared about them curiously, as though they were in a foreign city. They were in the throes of discovering New York, imagine it, when some of them had actually lived here all their lives, in tiresome Georgian houses full of waste space in the Eighties or Park Avenue apartment buildings, and they delighted in such out-of-the-way corners as this, with its greenery and Quaker meeting-house in red brick, polished brass, and white trim next to the wine-purple Episcopal church—on Sundays, they walked with their beaux across Brooklyn Bridge and poked into the sleepy Heights section of Brooklyn; they explored residential Murray Hill and quaint MacDougal Alley and Patchin Place and Washington Mews with all the artists' studios; they loved the Plaza Hotel and the fountain there and the green mansarding of the Savoy Plaza and the row of horsedrawn hacks and elderly coachmen, waiting, as in a French place, to tempt them to a twilight right through Central Park.

The sense of an adventure was strong on them this morning, as they seated themselves softly in the still, near-empty chapel; they had never been to a wedding quite like this one before, to which invitations had been issued orally by the bride herself, without the intervention of a relation or any older person, friend of the family. There was to be no honeymoon, they had heard, because Harald (that was the way he spelled it—the old Scandinavian way) was working as an assistant stage manager for a theatrical production and had to be at the theatre as usual this evening to call "half hour" for the actors. This seemed to them very exciting and of course it justified the oddities of the wedding: Kay and Harald were too busy and dynamic to let convention cramp their style. In September, Kay was going to start at Macy's, to be trained, along with other picked college graduates, in merchandising techniques, but instead of sitting around all summer, waiting for the job to begin, she had already registered for a typing course in business school, which Harald said would give her a tool that the other trainees wouldn't have. And, according to Helena Davison, Kay's roommate junior year, the two of them had moved right into a summer sublet, in a nice block in the East Fifties, without a single piece of linen or silver of their own, and had spent the last week, ever since graduation (Helena had just been there and seen it), on the regular tenant's sublet sheets!

How like Kay, they concluded fondly, as the tale passed along the pews. She had been amazingly altered, they felt, by a course in Animal Behavior she had taken with old Miss Washburn (who had left her brain in her will to Science) during their junior year. This and her work with Hallie Flanagan in Dramatic Production had changed her from a shy, pretty, somewhat heavy Western girl with black lustrous curly hair and a wild-rose complexion, active in hockey, in the choir, given to large tight brassières and copious menstruations, into a thin, hard-driving, authoritative young woman, dressed in dungarees, sweat shirt, and sneakers, with smears of paint in her unwashed hair, tobacco stains on her fingers, talking airily of "Hallie" and "Lester," Hallie's assistant, of flats and stippling, of oestrum and nymphomania, calling her friends by their last names loudly¾"Eastlake," "Renfrew," "MacAusland"—counseling premarital experiment and the scientific choice of a mate. Love, she said, was an illusion.

To her fellow group members, all seven of whom were now present in the chapel, this development in Kay, which they gently labeled a "Phase," had been, nevertheless, disquieting. Her bark was worse than her bite, they used to reiterate to each other, late at night in their common sitting room in the South Tower of Main Hall, when Kay was still out, painting flats or working on the electricity with Lester in the theatre. But they were afraid that some man, who did not know the old dear as they did, would take her at her word. They had pondered about Harald; Kay had met him last summer when she was working as an apprentice at a summer theatre in Stamford and both sexes had lived in a dormitory together. She said he wanted to marry her, but that was not the way his letters sounded to the group. They were not love letters at all, so far as the group could see, but accounts of personal successes among theatrical celebrities, what Edna Ferber had said to George Kaufman in his hearing, how Gilbert Miller had sent for him and a woman star had begged him to read his play to her in bed. "Consider yourself kissed," they ended, curtly, or just "C.Y.K. "—not another word. In a young man of their own background, as the girls vaguely phrased it, such letters would have been offensive, but their education had impressed on them the unwisdom of making large judgments from one's own narrow little segment of experience. Still, they could tell that Kay was not as sure of him as she pretended she was; sometimes he did not write for weeks, while poor Kay went on whistling in the dark. Polly Andrews, who shared a mailbox with her, knew this for a fact. Up to the Class Day dinner, ten days ago, the girls had had the feeling that Kay's touted "engagement" was pretty much of a myth. They had almost thought of turning to some wiser person for guidance, a member of the faculty or the college psychiatrist—somebody Kay could talk it out to, frankly. Then, that night, when Kay had run around the long table, which meant you were announcing your engagement to the whole class, and produced from her winded bosom a funny Mexican silver ring to prove it, their alarm had dissolved into a docile amusement; they clapped, dimpling and twinkling, with an air of prior knowledge. More gravely, in low posh tones, they assured their parents, up for the Commencement ceremonies, that the engagement was of long standing, that Harald was "terribly nice" and "terribly in love" with Kay. Now, in the chapel, they rearranged their fur pieces and smiled at each other, noddingly, like mature little martens and sables: they had been right, the hardness was only a phase; it was certainly a point for their side that the iconoclast and scoffer was the first of the little band to get married.

Copyright 1963 by Mary McCarthy. Copyright renewed 1991 by James Raymond West. Copyright 1954 by Mary McCarthy. Copyright renewed 1982 by Mary McCarthy Published by Harcourt, Inc. and reproduced with permission. All rights reserved.

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Meet the Author

MARY MCCARTHY (1912–1989) was a short-story writer, bestselling novelist, essayist, and critic. She was the author of The Stones of Florence and Birds of America, among other books.

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The Group 3.1 out of 5 based on 1 ratings. 18 reviews.
nolagras More than 1 year ago
As much as things change, they remain the same--the women in the group are Vassar, class of 1933; McCarthy published her novel in 1963; I am reviewing it in 2013. At times, I was very conscious of differences between their world of experiences and ours today; within pages, I would be made painfully aware of how similar their world was to ours today: expectations for women, personally and professionally; relationships between women and men, women and women, parents and adult children. It is a must-read, as women continue to struggle to be who we want to be, even in the 21st century when people keep saying "we have it all."
Guest More than 1 year ago
This classic novel of eight women finding their way at a pivotal time for American women was a sensation and something of a scandal in the mid 60's with it's lesbian subtext (Candace Bergin made her film debut as the lesbian,FYI) but is now overlooked and forgotten to the general reading public and that's a damn shame. This is an epic novel of the changes women went through in the late 30's written with style and wit. A great read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
the book is written with a keen sarcasm that sheds interesting light on women in the 30's.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
AnnieLiz More than 1 year ago
I could not finish this book. I found it to be the most tedious novel I've attempted to read in YEARS. I'm a voracious reader and can usually get emotionally involved in every book I open but not this one. The writing is flat and boring. Sentences run on and on and into each other with no pauses or breaks, and even halfway through the book not all the characters were fully developed yet. Every single one of them seem to spend their time whining and lamenting their "lack" of whatever they think is missing from their lives, although most of them apparently come from quite wealthy families. I was extremely disappointed and do not recommend this to anyone. It's gotten good reviews from so many, maybe I'm just borderline illiterate. Or too unsophisticated to get it . I don't know. But I recommend not wasting your money. Sorry.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Extraordinary and important novel.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I had a hard time keeping up with each of the characters and keeping everyone straight, plus the book took me forever to get through. It just didn't keep my attention but I kept reading hoping it would reel me in. I also thought the ending was really uneventful. I didn't even realize I was even at the end. I expected more.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book stinks! I couldn't even finish it, and I never stop reading a book once I've started it. Don't waste your time people!!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book was considered daring and scandalous by my mother and her friends back in 1963, when I was ten, so I thought I would try it. Very dated, long winded exploration of sexuality and relationships starting in the 1930s. Unlikable characters. Discussions of archaic contraceptive methods go on forever. Some readers may find the domestic details such as the novelty of making casseroles in Pyrex dishes interesting. I read, then skimmed to see if things would pick up, then gave up.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Do you like waffles? Yeah, we like waffles. Do you like pancakes? Yeah,we like pancakes. Do you like french toast? Eh, not so much.