As I prepared to host a gathering of literary legends in my Battersea apartment, I made it clear that smoking was strictly prohibited indoors. The risk of damage to my collection of vintage designer clothes was too great. Although my guests were known for their impeccable fashion sense, their respect for my belongings was my top priority.
To my surprise, my first RSVP came from Susan Sontag – with a cigarette burn right through the invitation. I couldn’t help but appreciate the campy protest. Despite her rebellious spirit, Sontag was the first to arrive. She wore a striped collared shirt and a waistcoat as tight as a leather harness, carrying a large chocolate éclair to be shared. Her comment about cream being like infected pus in a wound made me lose my appetite, contradicting her diatribe against illness as metaphor. Sontag corrected me, highlighting that she said nothing about similes.
Soon after, James Baldwin arrived wearing cat-eye sunglasses, a fur-trimmed black coat, and split-toe Margiela Tabi shoes. He came with Swordfish Provençal from his favorite café near his villa in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. Baldwin did not greet me, but instead confronted Sontag about her criticism of his “inexhaustible self-perpetuating oratory” in her essay “The Ideal Husband,” punctuating his speech with a cigarette. Baldwin spoke passionately about the limitations imposed on black writers by white writers and institutions.
Joan Didion arrived looking like a rockstar fresh off a Céline shoot, carrying aubergine gratin wrapped in a note with the recipe. Rivals moments ago, Sontag and Baldwin teamed up to interrogate Didion about her views on feminism, with Sontag jokingly asking if she brought rubber gloves for the washing up. Didion simply stepped outside to smoke.
As the night wore on, Samuel Beckett arrived with cans of tomato soup and tins of fish in his Gucci hobo bag. He described the gathering as the “sociopathic center” of the literary world as Sontag and Baldwin quarreled yet again. Beckett threw a can of soup at the two, missing them but hitting me on the head. He shrugged and lined up the remaining cans on a shelf.
Finally, just as we sat down for dinner, Carrie Bradshaw arrived in tears, having been stood up on her birthday. She wore a red Prada crop top and skirt with a headband and carried a cake that had fallen on the ground – dirt and tarmac still stuck to the frosting. As tensions rose, I lifted the smoking ban, which only contributed to the eventual destruction of my apartment.
In the end, it was a memorable night filled with literary brilliance and fashion-forward style, but at a cost. My apartment was left in flames. Fortunately, I had insurance coverage.
As the writer and host of this unforgettable evening, I can’t help but reflect on the inspiration these great minds provided for my own creative pursuits. Stay tuned for my upcoming book, “Revolutionary Acts: Black Gay Men in Britain,” set to be published next year. And don’t forget to follow @FTMag on Twitter for more fascinating stories.
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