A book that the same girl who had given me The Hours lent me when I was 16 (kudos
to her, she figured she could impress me with Michael Cunningham).
Three-way loves have been explored by countless
authors, but Cunningham simply does it better (and it also throws in a bit of
suburban life and a passage in New York City for good measure, just to make
sure he can have me hooked). The scene of the death of Bobby’s brother in the
first few pages, and the final one in the lake are, somehow, two of the most
vivid images a book has ever left me with.
And I’d just like to copy and paste my final
comment about The Hours since it
clearly also applies here: “The book is written with such a soft touch that
probably only gay writers can master without falling into plain sappy
romanticism (although Cunningham himself doesn’t like being referred to as a
gay writer). It’s a shame that, now, so many readers seem to have forgotten
about Cunningham’s talent.”
Although it’s probably kind of sad when you
start quoting yourself.
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