bellascribe

It must be coming. Because that’s always the way it works, the odd word showing up again and again and again.

Roué.

First, The Long Embrace, Judith Freeman:

12/11/48 TO CHARLES MORTON, EDITOR OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: [from Raymond Chandler]

I am a very happy man. I haven’t a brain in my head, an idea on my mind, or a longing in my soul, except for a convertible. What kind of filthy talk is that? I’m just at the age to be a well-groomed roué.

Then, within a day, Katha Pollitt’s Learning to Drive:

(After the Men Are Dead)

Look at the personals: Decrepit Retiree, no teeth, seeks Slim and Sexy 35. You can’t even blame them, these old roués; they’re only taking advantage of their advantage.

(I’m doubtful that the word will make its third appearance in the third book I’m reading, Ianthe Brautigan’s memoir of her father, You Can’t Catch Death. You can get a glimpse of it, read a bit of it via Google’s book search.)