"Florence Virginia King" is an American novelist, essayist and columnist.

While her early writings focused on the Southern United States/American South and those who live there, much of King's later work has been published in National Review. Until her retirement in 2002, her column in National Review, "The Misanthrope's Corner", was known for "serving up a smorgasbord of curmudgeonly critiques about rubes and all else bothersome to the Queen of Mean", as the magazine put it. After leaving retirement in 2006, she began writing a new column for National Review entitled "The Bent Pin."

King is a traditionalist conservatism/traditionalist conservative, but not a "movement conservative," and she objects to much of the populism/populist direction of the contemporary American Right. King labels herself a "misanthrope". She is an active Episcopal Church in the United States of America/Episcopalian (though she often refers to her agnosticism), a member of Phi Alpha Theta, and a monarchist.

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Now the only thing I miss about sex is the cigarette afterward. Next to the first one in the morning, it's the best one of all. It tasted so good that even if I had been frigid I would have pretended otherwise just to be able to smoke it.

Golf is tiddlywinks played while standing up and and wearing a hat.

Golf is an exercise in Scottish pointlessness for people who are no longer able to throw telephone poles at each other.

Chinks in America's egalitarian armor are not hard to find. Democracy is the fig leaf of elitism.

True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories.

Lacking ladylike poison, Lizzie (Borden) did what every over-civilized, understated Wasp is entirely capable of doing once we finally admit we're mad as hell and aren't going to take it any more: She went from Anglo to Saxon in a trice.

The witty woman is a tragic figure in American life. Wit destroys eroticism and eroticism destroys wit, so women must choose between taking lovers and taking no prisoners.

During the feminist seventies men were caught between a rock and a hard-on; in the fathering eighties they are caught between good hugs and bad hugs.

Any discussion of the problems of being funny in America will not make sense unless we substitute the word wit for humor. Humor inspires sympathetic good-natured laughter and is favored by the ''healing-power'' gang. Wit goes for the jugular, not the jocular, and it's the opposite of football; instead of building character, it tears it down.