Cover of A Single Man
Killing time in Sydney the other week I went to the Kinokuniya bookshop for a hour. This has become an unexpected ritual for me. There is something about the store I like though I can't explain what - it is far from the intimate bookshop of cliche. I've been to the store in Singapore also, a vast space you could spend days in; and the store in KL to, in the Petronas tower.
This time walking in I stopped at a table of so-called gay fiction - the gay mardi gras was days away. A few days before I had watched The Hours for the very first time and been impressed by it. Though greatly reviewed I hadn't ever considered reading the book. That changed after seeing the movie - and there it was. It seemed meant to be.
I picked it up thinking that it didn't really fit my idea of 'gay' fiction, though it touches upon the subject. That wouldn't have stopped me reading it necessarily, my problem hitherto was that it seemed too feminine a book. That was my ignorance. The main characters are all women which makes for an emphasis that is vaguely feminine and sensitive, but the themes are universal. I wanted to read it.
Beside it on the table was another book very much of the moment: A Single Man, by Christopher Isherwood. The movie adaptation of this was one of the best things I saw last year, so this too I collected and took to the counter.
I am now reading The Hours after completing A Single Man.
A Single Man was great. Gore Vidal described Isherwood as one of the great prose stylists, and there are passages and scenes in this small book that are beautiful to read and perfectly constructed. As you expect there is a depth and sensitivity to the story that magically made its way to the screen. George is a flesh and blood character easy to understand and identify with. You care for him. As his tale unfolds, as he goes about his business with fleeting thoughts across his mind, deeper reflections and occasional encounters with others, a life is revealed very true to what we know I think, and how we live no matter our desires. It is rich in experience and memory; it touches upon the poignant hopes and regrets all of us harbour.
It is a beautiful book, but though the movie is very similar it is different in very key aspect. Right from the first moment of the screen version George has committed himself to ending his life at the end of the day. He has battled on since the death of Jim, but it seems a hollow, futile exercise. What he had won't come again; the peak has past, his moment come and gone. Why go on? And so we follow as he prepares solemnly for that end and goes about his daily rituals for the last time.
Surprisingly that is an invention of the screenwriters. In the book George has no thought of doing himself in. He repines for Jim, he recalls constantly different moments of affection and happiness which make it to the screen. He is not unhappy in the book, but nor has his grief outworn him. He will go on even if existence is thinner, if meaning is less tangible. He is no automaton, but he will continue in the groove until his time is done.
It's rare that I prefer the movie over the literary version. I think it is a great book, but the expedient used in the movie makes it more powerful. It is the medium perhaps that makes this little contrivance so effective. The clock is ticking, an understated urgency pervades the film as George goes about his life knowing as we do that these are his last moments, the final occasions. For this to be realistic George's grief must be deeper, more pervasive - or seem to be.
I loved the book - to read is a different experience, and this is the work of a great writer. The movie is great also, perfectly wrought from the material and with the astute change which might not have worked so well on the page. Just for the record I've since bought Isherwood's Berlin Stories, some of which are the basis for the Bob Fosse movie Cabaret.
I have since started The Hours and am about halfway through. It is expertly written. In sections it echoes Mrs Dalloway, which it mirrors in style. It is a dense reading experience, deeply felt, though it is perhaps a little over-written for my taste. It seems a harsh quibble. That's a subjective assessment, and it is meant to take on much of the dense style of Virginia Woolf. There is no question of how authentic it feels: this is how we live also.
