Banquet for Bibliophiles: The Imaginary Dinner Party Game

I turn to Marilyn and say, so who would you pick? And she blinks those big blue eyes. ‘Why am I first? Surely Arthur would be the better…’ before I stop her. You’re here because I want to talk to you, because I’m interested in the interior life of Marilyn Monroe. Because those pictures of you reading are so bewitching that they became the model for every Facebook profile picture in my teens. Besides, I say, it’s just a game – nobody will hold you to it if you change your mind tomorrow, or outside of my imagination.

The guests all nodded. ‘Living or dead?’ she says. Even those who came after you, Marilyn. But it would help me if they were related to books in some way. ‘Joyce’ she says, without hesitation. The table nodded sagely, and Victor Hugo chimed in ‘I knew he was coming’. ‘Thomas Pynchon.’ She turns to me, ‘how many am I allowed?’ The most common version of the game is six, I think, but it depends who’s playing. I count around the table, there’s six of you here.

And so, Marilyn Monroe, Arthur Miller, Victor Hugo, Lloyd Cole, Mary Shelley, Medea all sit around a table and all turn into their thoughts whilst they think about who they would invite, living or dead, real or fictional. The only sounds, for a moment or two, are the general clatter of knives in the dishwasher or the bottle filling up the glasses. ‘It’s hard, this game, says Miller, ‘although the book limitation makes it easier. Do I choose people I admire? Who I want to know more about?’ ‘Why is the only person of colour here a fictional character?’ Shelley is stern as she faces towards me.

I must say, Mary, I’m glad that I’ve put you in a world where you have modern morality. Your politics is one of the things I was most interested in hearing. ‘Don’t skirt the question’ she says, ‘there’s one person of colour, she’s the only fictional character, and she’s 3000 years old. What kind of representation is that?’ she looks around. ‘I’m not even sure you have any gays.’ She sighs, ‘I thought you’d have learned since reading me’. Look, I say, it’s the canon – I don’t agree with it, but more of the books I’ve read have been ‘great works’ of literature, and black people don’t get put on that pedestal much. I need to read outside my comfort zone more. I used to love Alexandre Dumas, I should connect with that again, and make an effort to put more women and people of colour in the canon. She leans back in her chair, exhales, and then giggles. ‘Me too. I’d like to invite Malorie Blackman, but most of my picks are political writers. Žižek. I guess we’re limited by our experience.’ But I gave you that experience, Mary, and I think you’d pick a diverse spread. I can see you in conversation with Xiran Jay Zhao, Juno Dawson…

‘Well, what about me?’ says Lloyd Cole. ‘I’m alive – we interacted on Twitter last week. You could just ask me.’ Maybe I did, Lloyd, and you didn’t answer. Maybe the Lloyd of my imagination is just more compelling – the title of that anthology I wrote came from your songs, not you as a person.

‘This rhizomatic approach’ says Miller ‘is ridiculous. There are too many ripples spiraling outwards. Why am I even here if you like postmodernism so much?’ Oh, Arthur. Nobody here is a postmodernist – I didn’t even invite Hilary Mantel, as much as I love her. It’s because your work was the first I fell in love with for the sake of literature, not as a story. Hell, Marilyn’s only here because when I found out she was your wife she became more interesting to me. You’re here because although you’re famous as a realist, you did experiment with form – remember when you wanted the set of Death of a Salesman to be a giant head and Elia Kazan talked you out of it? The American Clock is yet to come. Arthur Miller, aged 49, I’ve got an autobiography of yours you haven’t even written yet. I’ve listened to so many podcasts about you. But I suppose I don’t know him as well as I think, because all he says is, demurely, ‘it’s strange being here with Marilyn’. Marilyn Monroe, aged 35. There’s a moment of silence around the table, most of us bow our heads and think of what’s to come, but Mary Shelley fixes her intense, searching eyes onto her. ‘I still think Niagra was your best performance’, she says, before flicking her gaze over to me. I get chills. ‘Don’t think it’s escaped me that Medea hasn’t yet spoken.’

Medea takes a sip of her wine – we’ve all got the champagne that Victor brought, but she has a goblet of bodied red. She’s dressed like Hedy Lamarr, or like Lana del Rey copying Hedy Lamarr (that’s what it reminds me of, anyway, until she speaks with a foreign accent). ‘I wish I had more time to read. I wish I was a Sophie Kinsella mum.’ She runs her finger around the rim of her glass, and I notice the wine-red flecks on her gown. I brought her here straight from her triumph, the end of her own play. You can be Sophie Kinsella if you like, Medea, but I don’t think many people will agree with me. She smiles, warmly. ‘Sophie Kinsella and Ismail Kadare; Helen Oyeyemi, Dante, Irenosen Okojie, David Mitchell, J. G. Ballard. Cole counts on his fingers, starts to speak, but Victor Hugo pokes him under the table. ‘Don’t piss off a goddess’, he whispers, ‘especially one who murders.’ But Medea is blasé. ‘Oh, too many? It doesn’t matter, I don’t have to be there. I’ll watch it from home like The Writers’ Room, one of the others can host. Maybe Sophie can make it into a comedy.’ I can see the normal side of Medea, the Netflix-watcher, but it conflicts with a somehow Norma Desmond intensity about her person… I can see Victor Hugo eying her, looking for the pre-Raphaelite model of womanhood as she talks effusively about chick lit.

‘Oh!’ she exclaims, ‘I forgot John McLane!’ Arthur Miller turns to her, confused, and asks, ‘From Die Hard?’

‘What?’ Medea looks around. ‘Would you prefer if I only read Sylvia Plath?’