stapsreads: 'The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them' (Default)
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A novel of gay life in New York, published 1978. The action spans the previous couple of decades, I suppose, and is book-ended by a series of letters between two onlookers - the nameless narrator in New York, and a friend in the South. These put me off a bit, being both lurid and confusing, but once I'd fought my way through them and got to the novel proper, I was hooked. This is a rather beautiful book, explicit but not coarse, sad but not depressing, serious but not preachy. I'm not sure, though, that I really enjoyed it.

I did feel that things ran out of steam about three quarters of the way through, at which point I really stopped caring about any of the characters. I had stopped liking most of them some while previously. And I got very, very tired of hearing about beautiful Puerto Rican men.

Here, have an extract:


But at that moment Sutherland turned to the fertilizer heir and said: "Darling, come, we're going uptown! A small Crucifixion at Park and Seventy-fifth, nothing heavy." The boy, pale and stricken, got up and followed the Egyptian women, the French model, and a couple of Halston assistants out of the dim room with Sutherland in his black Norell and turban, leading the pack. With them went Malone, and with him went the magic of the room, which consisted, I realized then, not of the music, the lights, the dancers, the faces, but of those eyes, still, and grave and candid, looking at you with the promise of love.

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stapsreads: 'The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them' (Default)
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