RADCLIFFE, by David Storey

««««« RADCLIFFE, by David Storey. I've had this old Avon Books paperback lying around on my shelves for years and years, but never got around to reading it until now. It's a pre-Stonewall gay novel, about a destructive, mutually obsessive relationship between two young men who cannot stay away from each other. It was first published in 1963 and is set in a bleak 1950s Yorkshire, England ... yet the Avon Books cover depicts the two main actors in the story as if they are about to head out to a 1970s disco in Key West or something.... Never mind that. This is actually my favourite cover of RADCLIFFE of all the many editions that have been issued over the years (scroll to see others below). This artist's depiction of Leonard Radcliffe, the sleepy-eyed aristocratic hero with his perpetual look of consolation, is nearly perfect. On the other hand, the depiction of the heavily muscled and tanned Vic Tolson contrasts somewhat with my image of a well-built Yorkshire workman whose exposure to the fogs, mists, and rains of Yorkshire are not likely to yield this tanned beach-body Mykonos party ideal.... But never mind that as well. It remains a strong evocation of the two main characters and the imbalanced nature of their relationship. Leonard Radcliffe -- one of my favourite heroes in fiction -- is the weak, submissive aesthete, partnered with Tolson's tall, strong, charismatic, aggressive, and dominating personality. The theme, which switches the authority of ruling class versus working class, might seem reminiscent of Robin Maugham's THE SERVANT. But the Gothic atmosphere of RADCLIFFE is what sets it apart as a hothouse of intensity and excess quite unique in literature. David Storey is a remarkable writer, and this was published when he was only 30 years old. At the time of its publication, it was easily the most important Gothic novel to come along since Daphne du Maurier's REBECCA. And unless something has escaped me, I can't think of any other Gothic novel since RADCLIFFE that is any better. Putting Leonard Radcliffe in the central role normally taken by a young female helps make this a wholly original take on the genre. And of course that appeals to my gay sensibilities enormously. This is an overwhelming story, steeped in atmosphere, and depicted using only exteriors, as if we are the camera or the chorus witnessing all of the key details of the story without ever penetrating the interior thoughts of the characters. But of course, it is the external details of landscape, architecture, action, and mood that give us the clues to what is going on in the characters' heads. The point of view, though wholly external, remains intensely focused on Leonard Radcliffe and his experiences as a young man who falls under the spell of the muscular Vic Tolson. Radcliffe is pretty much the last in the line of a long lineage of Radcliffes dating back to before the War of the Roses. Their manor house, the Place, is in a state of perpetual decay, and indeed is now managed by a trust, with Radcliffe's father put in charge and essentially employed as a caretaker. The Place serves as a metaphor for the decline of the aristocracy's place in modern English life, as well as the lies that lie behind the foundations of our society. RADCLIFFE is packed with symbols and themes, stirring a heady brew of emotion and violence that propels the story forward in richly dripping prose. This was an intoxicating novel whose strong pulsating story of sexual obsession had me hooked. If I had read this when I was younger, I may have found it depressing as a story. However, as an older reader, I found it an incredible work of art. I am now going to read everything else by David Storey (eventually), although I realize none of his other work approaches the same type of story and themes as in RADCLIFFE. **NOTE: Although I read my old Avon paperback, the novel is currently available in a 50th Anniversary Edition trade paperback published in 2013 by Valancourt Books. See below, as well as a sampling of other past covers for RADCLIFFE**

CAPRI: ISLAND OF PLEASURE, by James Money

CAPRI: ISLAND OF PLEASURE, by James Money, was a delight from start to finish. I've never visited Capri, but it hardly matters. I'm sure the Capri of today bears little resemblance to the strange enclave of expat eccentrics that is portrayed in Money's marvelous history. It's especially interesting in documenting the ways in which these eccentrics chose to live their lives (while on Capri) and living freely in ways that were not permitted by the laws of their native countries. That gay men and women (for example) were happy to live their lives openly even in the late 19th century, as long as they were in an environment that enabled them to do so, shows they would easily have done the same back home if the social constraints were not in place. It also makes me wish to seek out a number of other books, mainly works of fiction, related to the same subject and written by the eyewitnesses who were there (but who fictionalized everything and everyone to avoid libel) -- VESTAL FIRE by Compton Mackenzie, EXTRAORDINARY WOMEN by Compton Mackenzie, and SOUTH WIND by Norman Douglas. Then perhaps someday, if I ever visit Capri, I can use my imagination to conjure up what it must have been like just over 100 years ago, before the wars and before the movie stars.

TRAVELS OF THE DILETTANTES by Bulat Okudzhava

★★★★★ This is TRAVELS OF THE DILETTANTES by Bulat Okudzhava, translated into English by Antonina W. Bouis and published 1978. (I can only assume that the US publisher, Harper & Row, came up with the insipid title NOCTURNE.) The novel itself is one of my favourite reading experiences of all time. It was recommended to me ages ago by a Russian (during the decline of the Soviet Union) and it took me a few years to track it down, partly because I had only the Russian title. Finally found it, and then it sat on my shelves until this year, 2015, when I finally picked it up. I devoured it hungrily and read many passages over again for the sheer pleasure of it. This is a novel beloved by many Russians, and I can understand why. For this American who is keen on Russian history and Russian literature, reading TRAVELS OF THE DILETTANTES was a revelation. Although it is a modern novel in its knowingness and sensibilities, it plays with the conventions of the 19th century Russian novel in clever ways. It reflects our memories of Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Turgenev, and Tolstoy. At its heart, it is a Romantic story of a man's search for meaning and for a lasting love. Yes, it's a love story. But it's far more than that. Love in a time of terror, love in an age when neighbours spy on one another and no one can be trusted. By presenting us a portrait of the repressive years under Tsar Nicholas I, Okudzhava actually holds up a scary mirror reflecting back the most repressive Soviet regimes, not to mention any repressive and paranoid tradition-bound society. This is, to my mind, an absolute classic novel that is a must-read for anyone with any interest in Russia. An unforgettable reading experience.

TALES OF THE CITY by Armistead Maupin

I'm a latecomer to TALES OF THE CITY ... but it was such a lovely book. Like TAKING CARE OF MRS. CARROLL by Paul Monette, TALES OF THE CITY can be described as a novel without hangups. The free and easy, breezy culture of San Francisco in the 1970s makes me long for that more innocent, less reactionary age. The only slightly odd thing is that Armistead Maupin writes in a totally cinematic way ... by which I mean that he is nearly all surface and hardly ever dips into the psychological reality of his characters (except for what they reveal in dialogue). That is totally OK but sometimes he uses it to trick the reader Hitchcock-style by not fully revealing everything that our characters ought to know, until it emerges when they speak. I usually prefer more depth of character in novels but Maupin's cinematic technique works brilliantly for this story, so I wouldn't have it any other way. His dialogue is so incredibly brilliant that he deftly paints pictures of the characters that nearly make up for the lack of inner psych. TALES OF THE CITY now reads like a historical novel of the 1970s and I enjoyed all the pop culture references to TV commercial and the weird products that were so ubiquitous in that time (my childhood). I am looking forward to reading every other book in the series.

DIVING INTO 'THE SWIMMING-POOL LIBRARY'

Oh ... oh ... oh my God ... One of my best friends recommended THE SWIMMING-POOL LIBRARY by Alan Hollinghurst to me the year it was published. That was 1988. I was 21 years old. It's a British literary gay novel. Although I've always loved reading gay fiction, something about THE SWIMMING-POOL LIBRARY put me off at the time. Perhaps it was the title, which I couldn't fathom. But no, it was mainly the writing style, which was obviously too sophisticated for me when I was 21. But now I'm 47, and have spent several years in London, and have gained generally more life experiences than I had at 21. This was obviously the right time. I went back, picked it up, and was completely gobsmacked. What a novel! It's set in 1983, "the last summer of its kind there was ever to be" as Hollinghurst puts it. This is the single, only, veiled reference to AIDS in the entire book. The action of the novel, indeed, takes place during the summer of 1983 but in its incorrigible way manages to cast its net back over 60 years of hidden gay history. Most of gay history remains hidden, even in the modern age, except for those few who wish to dig it up. The hero of THE SWIMMING-POOL LIBRARY is a 25-year-old upper-class layabout whose quality time is spent swimming at his posh gentlemen's club, cruising for black young men and white young men, and fucking. A chance encounter with an elderly 83-year-old Lord leads to an intense friendship, and the Lord asks him to read his diaries and write a book about his life. Throughout the story, the hero swings back and forth between courting his young black love Arthur and his young white love Phil, while seeking anonymous encounters, improving himself in the pool, and getting to know the old Lord and trying to decide whether or not to write His Lordship's story. All of this doesn't really tell you anything about what goes on in the book. But that's the whole point. People have told me for years they thought THE SWIMMING-POOL LIBRARY was incredibly erotic, and they are absolutely right. But don't expect porn. Somehow, Hollinghurst was able to write a totally erotic, sexually charged narrative without ever offering much of a standard blow-by-blow. If you like well written, compelling, illuminating fiction and you enjoy sexy stories about gay men -- and if you're mature enough to appreciate it! -- then I recommend THE SWIMMING-POOL LIBRARY. 

REVISITING 'REDBURN' BY HERMAN MELVILLE

I first read REDBURN: HIS FIRST VOYAGE by Herman Melville about 25 years ago. I had never read MOBY-DICK, and my strategy was to read REDBURN first before tackling the great white whale. Perhaps it was a good strategy, because I found REDBURN quite an intriguing and compelling read, and devoured it in just a few sittings. I had picked up this old paperback edition from Anchor Books, with a gorgeous cover by Edward Gorey. It was a most memorable read, although it was topped easily by my reading MOBY-DICK a year later (MOBY-DICK being my favourite book of all time, for sure). But I'm grateful to Edward Gorey for the sexy cover, which made me buy the book in the first place (probably at Avol's Books in Madison, Wisconsin) ... and grateful to myself for rationalizing it as part of my strategy to read MOBY-DICK without fear. I think it worked. It eliminated the intimidation factor, so that I sailed straight into MOBY-DICK with an open heart. Now, this weekend (ending 27 July 2014), I've just reread REDBURN for the second time, and it's amazing how it holds up just as well for me now as it did when I was younger. I absolutely adore this book, telling of a novice sailor's very first voyage, from New York to Liverpool (and with an exotic side journey to London) and back. Melville himself wrote it 'for the money' and rattled it off very quickly to help him feed his family; he considered it to be 'trash' and had very low regard for the finished product. Which only goes to show what poor judges authors can be of their own work. REDBURN is a real gem, totally unique (even among the annals of sailing literature), and is generous, open, and empathetic in its portraits of the sailors and others who young Wellingborough Redburn meets along the way. Even the evil sailor Jackson is drawn sympathetically, so that we understand as far as the narrator can what Jackson is about, even if we fail to comprehend why any human being could have such a foul nature. And there is the obvous gay subtext to Redburn's friendly relations with the effeminate dandy Harry Bolton, as well as his rapturous adoration of Carlo, the young Italian steerage passenger of exceeding beauty and charm. The realistic depictions of the horrors of an emigrant vessel, loaded to the brim with destitute Irish emigrants on the return voyage from Liverpool to New York, makes one realize that in the early 19th century, many emigrant vessels were barely more humane than a slave ship. For those of us whose Irish ancestors came over about this time (1830's or so), it's quite eye-opening to consider the extreme hardships of such a voyage. For lucky Wellingborough Redburn, the whole thing is an amazing adventure that helps usher him from boyhood to manhood and allows him to witness the very best and very worst of human nature in the microcosm of a humble merchant sailing vessel. REDBURN is a great novel, no matter what Melville thought. It's no MOBY-DICK, but then neither is anything else in this universe.

THE GREEN CARNATION -- An infamous novel that is actually very good

Now I'm reading THE GREEN CARNATION by Robert Hichens. Published anonymously on its original publication in 1894, it contained highly fictionalized portraits of Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas. Around the time when Oscar Wilde ended up on trial for 'gross indecency,' Hichens withdrew the book from publication. But even though it was fiction, it was used against Wilde in his trial.

What's interesting is how good THE GREEN CARNATION really is. Hichens was only 30 years old when he wrote it, and it contains a great deal of a young man's unvarnished rebellion in showing up the various hypocrisies and superficialities of his Victorian compères. Hichens himself was gay, but quite different from Wilde, and although his portrait of 'Esmé Amarinth' is not very flattering, Hichens does give the character some sharp insights.

I'm 3/4 of the way through the book and was struck by this very insightful view of what today we would term 'the closet,' in the words of 'Esmé Amarinth'. It's actually still very true today -- in terms of ignorant public attitudes toward homosexuality, and in terms of what it means for any gay person who is still in the closet. Of course it's written in a bit of Victorian code, but a close reading of it is not challenging for us 21st-century types. Here is the passage:

[Esmé Amarinth:] "How I hate that word natural."

[Lady Locke:] "Why? I think it is one of the most beautiful of words."

[Esmé Amarinth:] "How strange! To me it means all that is middle-class, all that is of the essence of jingoism, all that is colourless, and without form, and void. It might be a beautiful word, but it is the most debased coin in the currency of language. Certain things are classed as natural, and certain things are classed as unnatural--for all the people born into the world. Individualism is not allowed to enter into the matter. A child is unnatural if it hates its mother. A mother is unnatural if she does not wish to have children. A man is unnatural if he never falls in love with a woman. A boy is unnatural if he prefers looking at pictures to playing cricket, or dreaming over the white naked beauty of a Greek statue to a game of football under Rugby rules. If our virtues are not cut on a pattern, they are unnatural. If our vices are not according to rule, they are unnatural. We must be good naturally. We must sin naturally. We must live naturally, and die naturally. Branwell Brontë died standing up, and the world has looked upon him as a blasphemer ever since. Why must we stand up to live, and lie down to die? Byron had a club foot in his mind, and so Byron is a by-word. Yet twisted minds are as natural to some people as twisted bodies. It is natural to one man to live like Charles Kingsley, to preach gentleness, and love sport; it is natural to another to dream away his life on the narrow couch of an opium den, with his head between a fellow-sinner's feet. I love what are called warped minds, and deformed natures, just as I love the long necks of Burne-Jones' women, and the faded rose-leaf beauty of Walter Pater's unnatural prose. Nature is generally purely vulgar, just as many women are vulgarly pure. There are only a few people in the world who dare to defy the grotesque code of rules that has been drawn up by that fashionable mother, Nature, and they defy--as many women drink, and many men are vicious--in secret, with the door locked and the key in their pockets. And what is life to them? They can always hear the footsteps of the detective in the street outside."