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  • Written by Elinor Lipman
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On Sale: December 21, 2011
Pages: 272 | ISBN: 978-0-307-81422-7
Published by : Vintage Knopf
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From the bestselling author of The Inn at Lake Devine ("Rivals her own best work for its understanding of the way smart, opinionated people stumble toward happiness"--Glamour) and Isabel's Bed ("It's Fannie Farmer for the soul . . . delivered in a delicious style that is both funny and elegant"--USA Today) comes a darkly romantic comedy of manners that confirms Elinor Lipman's appointment to the Jane Austen chair in modern American sensibility.

Thirty unmarried years have passed since the barely suitable Harvey Nash failed to show up at a grand Boston hotel for his own engagement party. Today, the near-bride, Adele Dobbin, and her two sisters, Lois and Kathleen, blame Harvey for what unkind relatives call their spinsterhood, and what potential beaus might characterize as a leery, united front. The doorbell rings one cold April night. Harvey Nash, older, filled with regrets (sort of), more charming and arousable than ever, just in from the Coast, where he's reinvented himself as Nash Harvey, jingle composer and chronic bachelor, has returned to the scene of his first romantic crime. Despite the sisters' scars and grudges, despite his platinum tongue and roving eye, this old flame becomes an improbable catalyst for the untried and the long overdue.
The refined and level-headed Adele finds herself flirting with her boss--on public television. Entrepreneurial Kathleen is suddenly drinking cappuccino with Lorenz, the handsome doorman at the luxury high-rise where she owns a lingerie boutique. And Lois, the only sister to have embarked on the road to matrimony and, subsequently, divorce, revives her long-cherished notion that Harvey abandoned Adele rather than indulge his preference for another Dobbin.
Both comic and compassionate, The Ladies' Man has all of Lipman's trademark wit, wattage, and      social mischief--with an extra bite.

From the Hardcover edition.



In the months before Albert DeSalvo confessed to being the Boston Strangler, the three Dobbin sisters established their custom of arranging empty glass bottles like bowling pins inside their apartment door. They adopted the idea from Life, from a spread illustrating how women living alone near the crime scenes were petrified and taking precautions. The practice continues decades after the Boston Strangler confessed and died in prison, because the Dobbin sisters are cautious and intelligent women who expect the worst. The last sister to turn in checks the locks, latches the chain, and sets the booby trap of ten near-antique bottles that once held ginger ale, sarsaparilla, and root beer brewed by a defunct soft-drink company.

And what's the harm? It allows three women to sleep peacefully without sedatives, without surprises, and without expensive motion detectors. If Richard Dobbin, their brother, occasionally trips a false alarm, it is viewed as his own fault, his own stubborn resistance to calling ahead. He claims to forget between drop-in visits that they still arrange the bottles nightly. He has a key; he thinks he will slip in, sleep on the couch, leave a note on the kitchen table for the earliest riser, and be welcomed enthusiastically. The chain stops him, but, as designed, the door opens enough to trigger the pandemonium his sisters count on.

"It's me," he yells. "What's going on? It's me."

"Richard," says one, then each of the other sisters, hurrying into their bathrobes. "Let him in. Undo the chain. It's Richard."

"There've been some copycat murders on the north shore," explains Adele, the oldest, turning knobs and unhooking chains. "We've started setting our burglar alarm again."

"Jesus," says Richard, knocking over the last row of standing bottles. "I guess it works."

Adele asks him not to swear in the hallway.

"Can you stay?" asks Lois, the middle sister.

"Think I was popping in for a visit at ten forty-five?" Richard answers.

"Where's Leslie?" asks Kathleen.

"Home," he says, in a way that suggests home was not peaceful when he left.

"Is everything okay?" Kathleen asks.


Always good hostesses, they choose masculine striped sheets and brown towels from the linen closet; one sister disappears down the long central hall in search of a guest pillow and blanket. Kathleen offers to take the daybed and give their taller, bigger brother privacy and a real bed.

They range in age from Adele, fifty-three, to Richard, who is forty-four. No one is currently married or spoken for. Social lives vary from moribund (Adele's) to overactive (Richard's); in his sisters' opinion, he flirts too easily and cohabitates prematurely. Without evaluating their brother's capacity for monogamy, they assume he'd be happier if he settled down.

As for the sisters, it could have been different: There were many beaus in any given year, and a distribution of graces that made no one redheaded sister the most in demand. Adele had brains and the most classically pretty face. Lois had height and good bones, while Kathleen had-still has-wavy hair and the greenest eyes. Outside the immediate family, the unstudied explanation for their shared spinsterhood is what happened to Adele decades ago at age twenty-three: an engagement broken, unceremoniously and unilaterally, by an unsuitable boy

Today they consider themselves career women, with nice clothes and with jobs that provide either satisfaction or high seniority: Adele raises money for public television, Lois works for the Commonwealth, and Kathleen sells lingerie in her own shop downtown. Richard is the family underachiever, which is not acknowledged or even thought, because he is tall and charming, quite good-looking, adds new friends without dropping his old ones from high school or college, owns his own tuxedo, and has been an usher at no fewer than ten buddies' weddings. He delivers subpoenas for a living, and cultivates the understanding that it is a career that straddles law and law enforcement.

So picture the household: three adult sisters and a displaced brother on an unseasonably cold April night with a dusting of snow deposited by a passing squall. Richard will have settled into the den on the daybed, where the sisters usually watch their programs. He's made himself a cheese sandwich with relish on dill-cheese bread, which he doesn't like but eats cheerfully after fixing the TV's tint, which the women never adjust, even if the actors' faces are orange.

The downstairs buzzer rings after the sisters have returned to their rooms. They wait, assuming it is Richard-related, or the buzz of a careless visitor who has hit the wrong bell. In any event, they don't panic or even get out of bed, because Richard, an expert on getting into places where he's not welcome, is there in case of danger. The buzzer rings again, more insistently

"Richard?" Adele calls from her room.

He is watching television, so Adele tries again, louder.


"The door. See who it is."

"Want me to buzz 'em in?"

"You don't buzz anyone in unless you know who it is," says Adele.

"It's probably one of his friends," says Kathleen. "They have a sixth sense about when Richard is visiting."

"It's probably Leslie," Richard says. "I better go down."

Richard puts his shoes on without socks, and takes the elevator to the lobby in his trousers and undershirt. On the other side of the glass door, squinting in from the vestibule, is a man, a stranger, tall, with a high forehead and wavy gray-brown hair. He is tanned, and his shoes are beautifully shined. It seems to Richard that this man with a Burberry raincoat over his arm is both rich and benign, that Richard can open the door and ask if there's been some mistake at this hour; that this is not a copycat murderer.

"Yes?" says Richard.

The man says, "Good evening."

"You rang Three-G?"

"The Dobbins."

"That's us," said Richard. "And you are . . . ?"

"I was hoping to see Adele. If she's in."

"It's late," says Richard. "So why don't you come back in the morning? No, they work in the morning. Give 'em a call after work."

"Richie," says the man, putting out his right hand as if peacemaking were in order. "It's Nash Harvey. I went with Adele a long time ago."

Richard peers into the man's gray eyes, and sees that it is true. "Harvey? Jesus Christ-what, like twenty-five years ago? The guy who disappeared?"

"Nineteen sixty-seven."

Richard is famously good-natured and optimistic, so he feels only curiosity and mild delight. "Some brothers might punch you in the nose right now. Or worse," he says.

Nash releases Richard's hand.

"Nah," says Richard. "I don't mean me. I was speaking hypothetically."

"Do you think she'll see me?"

"You're a brave man, Harv," says Richard.

"I've been on the West Coast."

"I know," says Richard. "Lois spotted your name on a box in a video store."

The intercom squawks, "Richard?"

"It's okay," he answers.

"Who is it?" asks the voice-Adele's.

"An old friend of mine. Didn't realize the time. He's going to a hotel."

She hesitates then says, "The Holiday Inn on Beacon Street probably has rooms available. Tell him we'd offer him a bed but we're full up."

Nash opens his mouth, presumably to acknowledge the suggestion of hospitality, but Richard releases the button as if it had pricked his flesh.

"Wasn't that her?" asks Nash.

"They all sound alike over the phone."

Nash asks if they all live together, but Richard ignores the question. "Go back up to Beacon," he says, "then right, toward Kenmore, not even a half mile on your left. It's nothing fancy, but it's clean."

Nash asks if they could talk, man to man, tomorrow. Is Richard free for lunch?

Richard says, "My schedule's my own."

"One o'clock. Is Jack and Marion's still open?"

"Gone. Closed at least a dozen years. Maybe more."

Again, "Richard?" squawks from the intercom,

"I'll call you at the hotel," Richard confirms before reassuring Adele that he is on his way up.

On the other side of the country, it is 73 degrees Fahrenheit and still light. Dina Dorsey-Harvey walks her Yorkies on a sidewalk that borders both highway and Pacific Ocean. Nash has gone home to Boston, where the Weather Channel map shows the dark green radar that means snow. Serves him right: Boston. Ridiculous. She hopes he'll have to circle Logan. Or crash. She could accept that, hating him for today's announcement. She'd be a young widow. Technically, a young roommate/lover/relatively longtime companion compared to the fits and starts that were Nash's previous liaisons.

The dogs are sniffing everything with greater interest than usual, and she is letting them. People on walks used to smile at the puppies, but it seems that no one does anymore. Women pushing strollers want Dina to smile at their human babies, whom they consider more compelling, and more of an achievement than owning animals. Runners and in-line skaters are too intent, too self-important with their golden retrievers and Labradors to see Daisy and Tatiana as anything but moving obstacles to be sidestepped.

The separation is less than twelve hours old. Nash had said, upon waking up, "I'm leaving for Boston this morning."

"Good," she had said, still annoyed from a disagreement the night before over her inviting two clients and their husbands, none of whom Nash had met, for dinner.

"It's too late now," Dina had argued. "I can't uninvite them."

"Yes, you can," he said. "Tell them you invited them before you checked with me and I was making my own unilateral plans." He repeated disdainfully, "Clients."

She'd slept in the guest room to make the point that she did not like his taking such a tone with her. Now she realizes that while she slept and worked on an adequate, excuse-Nash had come home with tickets for the South Coast Repertory, which regrettably took precedence over a small, impromptu supper, easily rescheduled-he was packing and calling airlines.

Dina hasn't told anyone yet, nor will she call it a breakup when she does. For a week, maybe two, she can say, "In Boston," and "No, I couldn't get away." She believes it is a mistake, a whim, a vacation. Relationships have dry spots, and you have to crawl along on your belly through the desert until you come to a lush, green, cool valley. She'd read that somewhere. She'd sit this out and let him miss her. Because he would. He wasn't looking for a fling; men looking for flings went to New York or Vegas or Canc?n, not Boston. He'd said it was something more complicated than sex with a thrilling new body; something about breaking the heart of a girl a long time ago who sounded to Dina as if she'd been no fun at all. Maybe an apology in person would fix whatever was wrong with him. He said grouchily that he'd call her when he had a room and a phone, and when he knew himself what he was hoping to find.

Dina walks across the bridge to Balboa Island for a low-fat latte. Inside the narrow coffee bar, she takes her pulse with regard to the blond counterboy's physical attractiveness, and calculates his age as early twenties-too old to be steaming milk for a living; too young for a serious affair, though not out of the question for a one-time vengeful lapse-then commends herself for feeling no twinges, except of loyalty to Nash. She sits on a bench outside the shop and smiles for the first time this day at Daisy and Tatiana, who are begging in tandem for what they must think is frozen yogurt in her paper cup. She doesn't really hate Nash, she concedes after the first sip; maybe she isn't even angry anymore. The blond boy walks outside to tell her she forgot the change from her five, and she says from behind her sunglasses, with her beautiful capped smile and her silver-pink lips, that she meant for him to keep it. She appraises him, as she does all handsome and fit men, as a sperm donor, for the baby Nash refuses to father. This one would give her a baby with platinum-blond hair and skin that tanned, and he wouldn't try to be a father. On the other hand, she'd like a college graduate. She shakes off the thought as fantasy and nonsense, as she always does: Respectable women don't find their sperm donors behind counters on Balboa Island. The doom she has felt since breakfast shifts slightly into what she thinks may be forgiveness. Nash will hear it in my voice when he calls tonight, she thinks. He loves that about me-my inability to hold a grudge.

But nothing is simple: Flying to Boston in business class, Nash meets a woman.


Across the aisle from Nash sits a big-boned woman whose olive skin is smooth, and whose upswept hair is shiny black. Arranged over Cynthia's high, old-fashioned bosom is a fringed stole of burnt-orange wool that Nash takes, at first glance, for an airline blanket. Her high heels are off, and her feet, under frosted stockings, look daintier than expected, and pampered. He had noticed her, her height, chest, and black felt gaucho hat at the gate and had thought, "Italian or Greek. Forty."

Nash is terrible at estimating age. Cynthia has recently turned fifty, and doesn't lie about her age because announcing the truth draws gasps and compliments about her complexion. She is five feet, ten inches tall, of a Lebanese father and French-Canadian mother, born and raised in New Jersey. Nash evaluates her when he thinks she won't notice, and makes the overture as soon as the plane takes off and the glasses of business-class beverages are poured. She is reading. "Business or pleasure?" he asks.

"Business," she says, and returns to the book.

He finds her answer chilly, but at the same time he admires the rebuff. It is in the style of a woman who isn't hungry for attention. He likes her for it, for being content with her lot.

"Forgive me," Nash murmurs, opening his own briefcase. "I won't interrupt again."

The woman lowers her book and pronounces it deadly dull.

"Why bother, then?" offers Nash. "Life is too short."

"The author's a client," says the woman. "I've put it off as long as I could, but I'm meeting him first thing in the morning."

The word client doesn't move him; he hears it too often to be impressed because it is what Dina calls the housewives who pay her to rub their feet. He asks this woman what the book is about, and she says, "Interstates."

"In what respect?"

"Roads. Who built them, why, and where." Cynthia, yet to introduce herself by name, makes a disparaging face.

Nash asks if she is in the book trade.

"The investment trade." She takes a sip from her mimosa, so he takes a sip from his, holding the glass so as to display his ringless left hand.

"You're based on what coast?" he said.
Elinor Lipman|Author Desktop

About Elinor Lipman

Elinor Lipman - The Ladies' Man

Photo © Chester Higgins, Jr./The New York Times

Elinor Lipman is the author of seven books: the novels The Pursuit of Alice Thrift, The Dearly Departed, The Ladies' Man, The Inn at Lake Devine, Isabel's BedThe Way Men Act, Then She Found Me, and a collection of stories, Into Love and Out Again. She has been called "the diva of dialogue" (People) and  "the last urbane romantic" (Chicago Tribune). Book Magazine said of The Pursuit of Alice Thrift,  "Like Jane Austen,  the past master of the genre, Lipman isn't only out for laughs. She serves up social satire, too, that's all the more  trenchant for being deftly drawn."
Her essays have appeared in the Boston Globe Magazine, Gourmet, Chicago Tribune, and The New York Times’ Writers on Writing series.  She received the New England Booksellers' 2001 fiction award for a body of work.

Author Q&A

Elinor Lipman on Writing THE LADIES' MAN

In 1996, my then 86-year-old mother took me aside ("Come into the bedroom. I want to tell you something.") What she told me was, "Cousin Martha was seeing a boy, and they were going to announce their engagement at a party, and the boy never arrived. He was a musician, and later she found out he went to Hollywood to write for the movies." She confided this as if it were fresh news, not as if it had happened some seventy years earlier in the early 1920s.

Martha, the oldest of four sisters, had been born in 1900. She never recovered, my mother said, and although later beaus would propose, she never married. Of course I knew that part already, because Martha and her three sisters were already a family legend. All beautiful, only one sister had married; the extended family lived together in an apartment in Brookline, Mass.--a household consisting of one married sister, her husband, the one child of that union, and four maiden aunts, the extra being the unmarried sister of the saintly husband. It was not economic necessity, since everyone worked, but sisterly devotion, and adoration of the one child, a girl, who grew up, as she once told me, with five mothers.

I didn't want to tell that story, nor did I think that the story of anyone's broken engagement was the stuff of a whole novel. Later, I had an image that I knew would be the opening of my next novel ("In the months before Albert DeSalvo confessed to being the Boston Strangler, the three Dobbin sisters established their custom of arranging empty glass bottles like bowling pins inside their apartment door. They adopted the idea from "Life," from a spread illustrating how women living alone near the crime scenes were petrified and taking precautions.") I didn't know who these women were, or what their story was, but almost immediately I grafted that opening with the story of the broken engagement, and decided that the challenge would be to reimagine them as modern (and fewer) sisters, and begin with the unexpected return of the man who scorned the eldest.

The next step was giving the returning bounder a profession. "Musician" and "Hollywood" led to my thinking "arranger." I called the one arranger I know (someone who had contacted me about turning my first novel, Then She Found Me, into a musical) and asked him to describe what an arranger did. I loved (and later used) a phrase he spoke, " Really, what I like to say is we create the bed on which the song is sung," which I think suggested something to me about my not-yet-imagined character's frame of reference. Within a few sentences, he was talking about arranging commercials --jingles. He used the term, "jingle house," which I immediately fell in love with. He said, "The bible is Through the Jingle Jungle, by Steve Karmen. That'll tell you everything you want to know about the business."

The book was out of print, but Amazon.com found me a copy. I read it, underlined it, took notes; soon realized that I couldn't improve on the author's colorful voice or his terms--"Jingology 101," for example, which prompted me to put Nash in something of an instructive position, hence the recitalcocktail party. I wrote to Mr. Karmen care of his publisher (Billboard) for permission to put some of his words into my character's mouth. Soon after, my phone rang.

"Elinor Lipman," he bellowed.
"Yes?" I said.
"Steve Karmen!"

We were off and running. He wasn't just a jingle writer; he was a hugely successful writer of classic jingles. ("Sooner of later you'll own Generals." "Nationwide is on your side." "When you say Budweiser, you've said it all." "Hershey, the great American chocolate bar." "I love New York." "We build excitement for Pontiac." "Aren't you glad you use Dial?" "Weekends are made for Michelob." At last count, sixteen Clios. For all his writing, negotiating, and deal-making, he gave me immediate, gracious, blanket permission to use anything out of his book or that passed his lips.

Eventually, I ran every sentence with jingle-writing content past Mr. Karmen. I visited him at his home and studio in Bedford Hills, New York, and called him, eventually, not just for verisimilitude but for plot turns. He supplied me with Nash Harvey's history (sideman, writer for a jingle supplier, freelance jingle writer down on his luck living on his AFM early retirement pension). When I needed a rationale for the character to be at a certain place at a certain time, Mr. Karmen furnished it. (For example: I needed Nash Harvey to show up at the TV station where Adele worked. But why? What plausible reason? Mr. Karmen thought for a few seconds and said, "Okay: He'll ask, 'who does your station IDs? Because whatever you're paying 'em, I can do it for less?'" When I needed a reason why Nash had got no more work from a particular jingle house, Mr. Karmen said, "He made a pass at an assistant copywriter who got promoted to head copywriter."

When I repeated to him that a friend of a friend-- young, hip composer of commercials--hated the term "jingle writer," and called his work, "sound design," Mr. Karmen retorted, "That's baloney! It's the jingle business. Anyone who has to say 'sound design' has an inferiority complex!"

I have two of his tapes (bearing his trademark slogan, "People don't hum the announcer"), 44 jingles in all: music, lyrics, arrangements, and production by Steve Karmen--and I listen to them more often than I care to admit.

No longer in the jingle business, Mr. Karmen is writing a musical for the theater, working at a computer keyboard instead of a piano. He demonstrates his state-of-the-art equipment and says with a smile, "My orchestra never gets tired."



Advance praise for The Ladies' Man

"Elinor Lipman is that rarest of things, a charming and funny writer who is also very wise. But your spouse will hate   you for reading this book; you'll stay up late nights, shaking the bed with laughter."
--Arthur Golden

"I have not read an American writer who can do what Elinor Lipman does: take a poignant situation and transform it, in a moment of instant recognition, into something as wryly perfect as a New Yorker cartoon. The Ladies' Man is full of charm, verbal sparkle, and funny, genial sex. I adored it. Every page.                       Definitely her best."
--Anita Shreve

From the Hardcover edition.
Reader's Guide|About the Book|Author Biography|Discussion Questions

About the Book

The questions, discussion topics, and author biography that follow are designed to enhance your group's reading of Elinor Lipman's novel The Ladies' Man. We hope that they will provide you with new ways of looking at and talking about one of Lipman's most successful romantic comedies. Like The Inn at Lake Devine, The Ladies' Man is a mischievous tale of tangled love and second chances--an enormously rewarding story with a winning mix of appealing heroines, vivid writing, and wickedly funny social commentary.

About the Guide

Nineteen sixty-seven was a defining year for Adele, Lois, and Kathleen Dobbin. That March, Harvey Nash failed to attend the party at which he and Adele were to announce their engagement. Thirty years later, the three sisters—graying, stolid, content (albeit lonely)—blame him for what unkind relatives refer to as their spinsterhood. But late one cold April night, the buzzer sounds at the Dobbin sisters' apartment. It is Harvey, in out of the blue from the west coast—where he's reinvented himself as Nash Harvey, composer of jingles—to apologize.

After Kathleen greets Harvey by hitting him over the head with a casserole dish, the Dobbin sisters find themselves in the awkward position of having to look after him for a spell. Older, seemingly filled with regrets, still as charming and arousable as ever, he becomes a catalyst for the untried and the long overdue in the three women's lives—though surely not in the ways he might have hoped. Level-headed, cautious Adele, who works for a public television station, finds herself flirting with her boss on the air during a campaign drive. Kathleen, the shy owner of an elegant lingerie boutique, seduces Lorenz, a sweet, unassuming doorman who lives with his father. Lois, the only Dobbin to have embarked on the road to matrimony (and subsequently, divorce) dusts off her girlhood notion that Harvey abandoned Adele rather than indulge his preference for another member of the family: Lois herself.

Meanwhile, Cynthia—a bright, sophisticated woman Nash seduced en route to Boston—discovers that Nash is not the man she had hoped he was. And Dina, Nash's jilted lover back in California, gets into a fender-bender with a handsome stranger. If she plays her cards right, she may land the man of her dreams (or at least a competent sperm donor). And if she doesn't, there may be an opportunity to get Nash back. Sharp, sexy, unfailingly funny, The Ladies' Man is a charming look at modern American sensibilities and the timeless pursuit of love.

About the Author

Elinor Lipman is the author of six works of fiction—all in print—including the bestselling Isabel's Bed, a collection of stories, and The Ladies' Man. Writing about The Inn at Lake Devine for The New York Times Book Review, critic and author Lore Dickstein said, "Like an inspired alchemist, Lipman has converted serious subjects into humor in her previous novels as well: the rights of birth mothers in Then She Found Me, interracial dating in The Way Men Act, and sexual politics in Isabel's Bed."

Born and raised in Lowell, Massachusetts, Lipman graduated from Simmons College, where she studied journalism and began writing fiction in an adult education workshop at Brandeis University (10 weeks/$40). Her first short story was published in 1981 in Yankee Magazine, and her first book (stories: Into Love and Out Again) was published in 1987. She writes essays and book reviews when prevailed upon (The New York Times, The Boston Globe, Self, More, Salon), but prefers to devote her time to novel-writing. Then She Found Me, The Way Men Act, and The Ladies' Man are all in development as movies. She describes herself as overly fond of coffee, the telephone, e-mail, cookbooks, yarn stores, cable news, and reading. Her husband and teenaged son agree.

Discussion Guides

1. Harvey Nash is certainly not the kind of man with whom most women would choose to become involved. Yet despite his oily loyalties, arrogance, and opportunism, he charms nearly all of the characters, to some degree, at some point in the novel. How does Harvey—now called Nash—make his way into Adele, Kathleen, and Lois' good graces? How does he maneuver his way into the arms of an intelligent, beautiful, and successful woman like Cynthia? What is it about this type of man that continues to be attractive to women and despite their better judgment they continue to succumb to his charm?

2. To what extent does the notion of good manners prevent the Dobbins from getting rid of Nash? To what extent are all three—on some level—curious about him?

3. How does fear threaten each female character's ability to act on her attraction to others? How does Nash confirm their fears? How does his behavior play a role in diffusing their fears?

4. How are the Dobbin sisters' loyalties to one another threatened by Nash's reasserting himself into their lives?

5. What role does Richard Dobbin play in the novel?

6. Perhaps one of the most hilarious scenes in The Ladies' Man is Cynthia's big party for Nash. How do the events leading up to the big night infuse each guest's entrance with tension? How does dialogue up the ante once the party begins?

7. How does Kathleen handle Cynthia's feelings for Nash? How does Kathleen and Cynthia's friendship effect the course of the novel?

8. Nash performs one notable and noble act in The Ladies' Man: he makes Marty Glazer jealous. What prompts this act of selflessness? Is it completely selfless? If not, how does his gesture endear him to us nonetheless?

9. How does Elinor Lipman keep us interested in so many different characters over the course of the novel? Were there characters you cared about more than others?

10. How do the characters in The Ladies' Man highlight different ways we approach—or shrink from—love today? What aspects of modern American culture make the pursuit of romance more difficult than in the past? What aspects make it easier?

11. Comparing The Ladies' Man and The Inn at Lake Devine

Author Anita Shreve has written, "I have not read an American writer who can do what Elinor Lipman does: take a poignant situation and transform it, in a moment of instant recognition, into something as wryly perfect as a New Yorker cartoon." What issues does Elinor Lipman leaven with humor in both The Inn at Lake Devine and The Ladies' Man? Why does humor work well in highlighting these issues in particular?

12. 2. Food plays a powerful role in both The Inn at Lake Devine and The Ladies' Man. How do characters use food to nurture themselves and each other? How do they use food to hurt themselves and each other?

13. 3. Both The Inn at Lake Devine and The Ladies' Man contain moments of tragedy. How are these moments treated in each novel?

14. 4. Which plot twists in each novel surprised you the most? Were the surprises believable? If they were not altogether believable, did it matter to you? Why or why not?

15. 5. In both The Inn at Lake Devine and The Ladies' Man, Lipman's characters find themselves in awkward social situations—for example, Natalie's confrontation with Mrs. Berry, Adele's discussion with Cynthia.) How do Lipman's heroines behave in these exchanges? Why do you suppose Lipman chooses to place them in these situations?

16. 6. Love can seem elusive—especially to intelligent, independent women over thirty. In a 1986 article that rocked the nation (and prompted a pointed response in Susan Faludi's Backlash), Newsweek asserted that a forty-year-old unmarried woman was more likely to be killed by a terrorist than to make her way to the altar. How difficult is it to find love in modern America? How do Elinor Lipman's novels—charming, realistic, intelligent—restore our hopes?

  • The Ladies' Man by Elinor Lipman
  • May 09, 2000
  • Fiction - Literary
  • Vintage
  • $16.00
  • 9780375707315

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