in the hall of mirrors

The Long Weekend

[San Francisco & Los Angeles, 1991]

I
Saturday

What was he like – you mean before, don’t you? Wait, move, my arm’s going to sleep. Oh, it’s not so bad for a foldout couch. Hey, it’s free, right?

Okay, it was sort of – no, it’s fine, they always shut their bedroom door. Okay, first. Up until the Halloween party, that was the last time I saw him healthy. I really didn’t know him long, I guess.

Let’s see. He was blond like you, furry, same quality there, but the skin and hair a little more delicate, slightly more golden. An inch taller than either of us, I think, but his shoulders weren’t as broad as yours.

Now, stop it. Because it tickles, that’s why. Well, if you don’t want to hear. Okay, move your arm over. Better.

I suppose he was more of a golden boy than you, a bit more delicate, more beautiful. He was beautiful, really, even in the hospital, when he was all –

No, handsome, but never as solid as you. Not as much of a man, really. Though only by a little bit. Not as grounded.

You know what I mean, it’s like you’re in more solid contact with the ground. You walk like you’ve been in the Navy. You’re sexier, I’ll give you that, and you smell good. To me, anyway. Ow, hey, hey, stop. If you don’t stop I’ll take your clothes out and sell them on the street. Ha. Okay.

So, he was a bartender – No, at a nice bar, really a pretty ritzy place. So this big, blond bartender gave me an incredible smile, and he kept it up and I couldn’t even think straight, he gave me his phone number and, of course, I practically fell off the stool getting out one of my cards. And he says, how about breakfast?

No, he didn’t mean that. Well, I wasn’t going to hang around ‘til three in the morning. Although, if he’d – Anyway, next morning I was running late. Oh, stop, I am not always late. Okay, so, he shows up and I’m in the shower, but since I left the front door unlocked–

Well, I didn’t want to make him wait outside. Hey, come on. So, about two hours later – look, do you want to hear this or not? Two hours later, we got dressed and out the door, went to breakfast, and he starts talking about reading Nabokov in Russian. Oh, a novelist, modern, very tricky, subtle, sort of like – anyway. But it was so –

No, I know you can’t read novels in Russian. You’ve never read any Nabokov anyway, I bet. No, don’t be ridiculous, I don’t care. Well, don’t look like that. You don’t think I only want to fuck with readers of the New York Review of Books, do you? Don’t be silly. No, look, I’ve been hanging around intellectual types all my life and, believe me, it’s no better than anything else.

Look, I’ve seen you cook, and you make the leather things, the – it’s like you’re directly in contact with everything you do. And how you were with the kids at the store, and your dogs, and all your plants. I mean, you’re so good with them, sensitive to them, in touch with what’s living. That’s an incredible talent, and do you know how amazing it is for me? It’s like it gives me a chance to really live. I mean normally, I’m miles away from everything around me, even – oh, of course. Well, yes, I assumed that would go without saying. I’ll admit that I really like that. Anyway, it’s not like I cared about discussing Nabokov with him, it was just a nice surprise, as an idea I mean.

I don’t like the tone of that. Hey, I think of you, and it’s like... Yes, I do. You’re here, and you’re so – I shouldn’t say it, it’ll give you a swelled head. Okay, you’re such a solid – no, I know, I don’t mean that, let me finish – you’re so real, holding on to you is like, the most real thing I’ve ever done. And you know you’re handsome, I’ve seen the photos, I’m not going to go over all that.

Well you wouldn’t have pictures of you in those costumes if you had much doubt, would you? Black cowboy hat, vest, boots, period. Huh. I mean. No, they’re great photographs, but I’m not going to worry about convincing you that you look good.

Well, I know you look good to me.

Prove it? Just wait. If I can get one arm free, I’ll prove it. And no more tickling.

*****

II
Sunday

No, I had a good time, I’m just a little tired.

Well, these boots are just, and then it got so crowded.

I guess so. Yeah, the men looked good. Okay, pretty good. Huh, I just wasn’t looking at them, that’s all.

Here, help me with – thanks. Damned boots.

Okay, it starts at eight so, we can lie down for maybe an hour. No, just on top of the comforter, it’s fine.

No, not sleepy.

So. Tell me about Brian.

Oh, everything, I guess. How long were you together, anyway?

God, I can hardly even imagine that. No, I think it’s wonderful, you must have really loved him. And the house and everything.

But what was he like?

Oh, just anything.

God, you are kidding.

No, that’s good. I mean, you loved each other anyway. Besides, it means you can put up with me, right?

I mean, you know what I mean. When I get cranky.

Oh, did I? Sorry, like I said, I was tired. I’m sorry. No, we did stay five hours, I thought you’d had enough too.

So, then, did he do the living room that way?

No, I think it looks great, it’s just – it’s not how I think of you, that’s all.

The entire house? How long did that take?

That’s great, that he could still do that.

So then he must have died right after. A whole year?

Oh.

What did – what did you, do with him? You know. What did you both, like to do? Together?

Sorry, I didn’t want to be pushy, I just wondered.

You know, I want us to take the coast route back instead of the desert. Yeah, it’s long, but it’s so beautiful. I took it alone last time, it was amazing, the fog, the trees and everything, green the way Ireland must be. And the ocean past the cliffs, it’s... I was thinking how nice it would be to share it.

We can both drive, it wouldn’t be so bad.

We can decide tomorrow. I already know my vote is for the coast, though.

Actually, the best part, it’s neat that he’d tease you about always leaving your glasses behind. Well, you don’t like to admit you wear them. No, uh-uh, I’ve seen you hide them in your pocket. Oh, come on, it’s sort of cute. Yeah, this big, brawny man with glasses. Ahh, c’mon.

You know, it feels like – nah, I shouldn’t; well... I like being with you so much. No, it’s like I want to wake up with you, every day, and, I want to remind you not to forget your glasses, and laugh with you about it...

No, I’m not trying to go too fast.

I know. I didn’t mean anything.

Hey, we need to get up and get dressed for the party, it started an hour ago.

*****

III
Monday

One or the other, doesn’t matter to me.

No, it’s not open for breakfast. Never is.

Let’s just go in here, it’s fine.

Eggs and hash browns. Yes, that’s fine. Whatever. A bran muffin.

I’m not looking serious, I’m looking unhappy.

Frustrated. Um hm.

I didn’t sleep. Not much.

I understand that it’s difficult for you, and I’m willing to give you all the time in the world.

No, it’s not that, don’t be ridiculous.

All right.

You should have gone home with that guy from Atlanta.

Oh come on, I saw you. That was the fastest your head moved all weekend.

No, I’m sorry, really, I don’t want to sound like that. But it was clear that, if you – if you can’t deal with everything since Brian, then it’s...

I mean if you can’t deal with sex. With someone living.

... I’m sorry.

It just – it seemed like you could deal with sex when it came to that child from Atlanta.

I think you should have done it. Maybe it would have been a good thing, I wouldn’t have minded.

No, I’m not saying anything about what you, I don’t have any – claim on you, I don’t have any right to say anything about whatever you want to do. And I wouldn’t take it anyway, I don’t want to push you into anything, that would be like, I couldn’t do that. I only want to –

I’m calm. I just need to explain, and I don’t like living in some fool’s –

Because I thought you wanted me.

No – no, go ahead, take the plate, I’m done. No, I don’t think? – nothing else for us. Thank you.

Oh, you don’t need to do that. Look, all right, I’ll leave the tip.

I think we should go home through the desert.

I know.

It’s shorter, and I have a lot to do when I get back and so do you.

No, I wouldn’t suggest it if I minded.

It’s late. We’d better go.

Hey –

you forgot your glasses –

[San Francisco, Los Angeles, 9/8/91-4/19/92]

at [x] in the morning

My first paper on AIDS and music, back in the mid-1990s when I thought death was imminent, and honesty unavoidable, was titled, "at three in the morning, with both pedals down".

Now it's four in the morning. Half an hour ago I finished the Sondheim paper – or declared it finished.

Calm, exalted, distant.

Yes, I wish the thresher (really more an abbatoir) of editors and publishing house wouldn't mangle everything, put everything through such processing-machines (exactly 7,000 words and not more – and boy did that last hundred words hurt at points). But the Sondheim – Pacific Overtures and Sunday in the Park with George, especially those songs that triumph over time (which is what the paper is about) – playing from my computer speakers, very quietly, is an excellent soundtrack to living at this level.

If I lived in Rome I would go walk through the silent streets among the vast, beautiful, ancient buildings.

In Los Angeles I would walk through warm streets and the buzzing of endless halogen lights. It's considered strange to take a walk in Los Angeles, but it's still comfortable, possible. And you can go a long way.

In San Francisco, if it were warm, I would walk, maybe even out to the Marina, and watch the sun rise....

L.A. Story

[The first sentence of the worst gay novel ever written.]

As the bus station locker slammed shut with a clang, I reflected blissfully on having escaped from the bitter, windswept plains of Montana and on Muffy’s predictably overjoyed reaction which I could virtually see (although of course she was not present at the time, being, as I then thought, cleverly hidden in the darkly handsome Raoul’s huge Bel Air mansion but actually unbeknownst to me trapped in an unused bomb shelter in Tarzana with six bikers) and happily considered my future in this city of angels, where the casual boulevard pickup of the hot new boy in town could lead to a fabulous life in a dazzling glass and stucco mansion in the hills and a career as an important film star or maybe director (not to mention getting to meet handsome, tanned body builders instead of the sheep to whom I had become accustomed, although I would never stop being grateful to my little friends) when I suddenly realized with a sharp pang in my lower abdomen, a couple of inches to the left of that remarkable organ with which I hoped to impress the rich and famous in this glitziest of cities, that the key was locked inside.

[1/21/91]

Shiki soku ze ku

Shiki soku ze ku,

Ku soku ze shiki
Hurry up it’s time

clock nails closing door
Drooling cries moaning

flabby hands sweat Drab
knife-edge headlamp glare

shades to black and white
Drive in distorted

circles wait get out
parking Unseeing

eyes flat twisting numb
hands pulling too far

Head thrown back pale lights
clutch fingers Drag out

wet marks cold patterns
Greasy hands jaw slack

eyes slant away Dull
still vacant stalking

lifeless streets searching
Wanting not wanting

absent touch dead heat
Lust is emptiness,

Emptiness is lust

[Los Angeles, San Francisco, 4/27/90-3/7/93]

Writing a Story for You

[Los Angeles, 1991. For me this story is always paired with Valentine's Day (below), because I started writing them the same night, in that laundromat – but it is about a different man, a different time, a different city.]

You’re dead, but you wanted to write stories. You were just about to get published, just about to start making it. So I’m writing a story for you, I started it in the laundromat, I went next door to buy a legal pad and a felt-tip pen and scribbled in front of the dryers. It won’t be the story you would have written, I’ll never know what that was, your mother took all your books and papers back to Florida, she wouldn’t give me any of them, they’ll moulder in an attic somewhere.

When I get home, it’s after midnight, I type the scribbled pages into the computer, changing as I go along. When we met, that part’s easy, you were behind the bar, I was so confused by your smile, but happy, I didn’t know what to say. Page two. You never had a computer, the best ones were after your time, but you would have liked this one a lot. I got it the year after you died. Page four. The next morning, our breakfast date, you showed up early and caught me coming out of the shower, you kissed me, wet as I was, and it was two hours before we got to breakfast. Page seven. I want to show you how the printer works, show you how pretty the pages look when they’re done, how easy it all is. Your story will look very professional.

I begin to format the document, putting page numbers in the header, styles in the lead paragraph. What sort of styles would you have used? What would your voice have said, your slightly rough, resonant voice? That first morning, you told me about your favorite novels in Russian, and I thought, you look like the handsomest lifeguard on the beach. I’m writing this story for you, not for me, not for publication, not for people saying, Goodness, this is fascinating. It’s for you. I can print out this draft now, but it needs work. I’m trying to say something about your arms, the golden hairs and the broad gestures, I don’t know quite how to put it. I want this to be well written because you would have wanted it that way.

As though I would put any name on it but mine. Who am I fooling? Certainly not me, I know better. I can’t wait for people to tell me how good it is, how good I am. And I couldn’t possibly be fooling you, but I suppose you’ll forgive me, you always would. In the hospital, you were disfigured, bloated and in pain, but I couldn’t stop looking at you, you were so beautiful to me. Are you watching? Over my shoulder, seeing if I got it right. Seeing if I make myself look better, if I skip over the times when I stayed away, when I couldn’t deal with your sickness, my fear. I wonder if anyone will ask me about your name in the epigraph. Who was that? Oh, a friend of mine, somebody who died.

Editing, a red pen with the printed pages. But I’m beginning to feel so strange, uncomfortable, almost afraid – what will you do when you see what I’ve made of you, what I’ve done to everything? The story is beginning to feel horrible, it’s as though I’m draining energy from you, taking it from your poor dead body. I wanted to bring you back to life, but that can’t be done, not any more. Who told me I have the right to write a story about you? The story is for you, it’s your story. It’s not for me. I’m not writing this to show off, to make people impressed. It’s for you. But it’s rotting, turning into fodder for a new anthology, garbage for some monthly magazine, I haven’t said anything right, it’s not right, not right at all.

I go back to the computer, push some keys.
REALLY ERASE THIS DOCUMENT?
Yes.

As the computer buzzes, I tear the pages in shreds, quickly, before I can think about it, and put the shreds in the trash can. I’m not quite crying, really more sniveling, and my stomach is hurting again, it always does these days. I can’t write the story without you, you shouldn’t have left me here, alone and scared, I can’t even see your face any more, and all that’s left of your voice is the words I used to describe it. I take all the trash cans, dump them into a plastic bag, and drag it out across the wet concrete, my white socks soaked and muddy, and I fling the bag away from me as though it burns, it burns.

[Los Angeles, 2/15-8/19/91]

Valentine's Day

[Los Angeles, 1991]

I met Gary about a week ago, we’ve only seen each other twice, but I’m surprised at how happy I am around him – beautiful, sharp-edged features, a strong soldier’s face and warm Southern voice, and of course his fierce enthusiasm in bed. And he seems to like me so much.

I’m at the laundromat too late at night with six loads of clothes, sheets, the tablecloth. Piped-in music, the same station they always play here: all your favorite love songs, all the time. ‘You’re / Too cool / To fall in love...’

Today I was standing at the AIDS food bank looking at the free book shelves, mesmerized by dark rows of paperbacks, wondering who had owned them before. And then, such a private touch on my side, his warm, gravelly, ‘Hey, guy...’ Gary had been volunteering, he had just finished for the day, I was surprised to see him there. An intense hug, burying my face in his neck and breathing him in. His skin is warmer than mine. And talking: he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see me again – I’m surprised: was I that distant, that self-involved? But I’ve been so busy.

I think this must be Michael Jackson: ‘I really want ya babe’ – or maybe just someone imitating him. If I put this shirt in with the whites, it’ll get ruined.

Do you want a ride? Because he doesn’t have a car, that’s been our recurrent subject: the logistics of getting to each other. He’s waiting to go to a potluck and volunteer meeting, but that won’t be for another two hours. Well, why don’t you come with me while I do errands, and then you can pick up the shirt you left at my apartment. It sounds like a sensible plan to me, but I have to admit that I love his grin, and he slaps me on the butt.

This is that new girl group, what’s their names, the blondes. ‘Cause I know / You’re in love / But you’re not in love with me...’ I need more quarters but don’t want to break a five.

He’d never been to this store and he likes it, we make pointless jokes and laugh like idiots. He remembers he needs to bring something to the potluck, so I grab his shoulders and turn him towards the chips and salsa. I start to give him a playful push, but I hold on for just a moment – and then I let him go.

‘I will be right here waiting for you...’ Richard Marx, now there’s a beautiful man, and such a lovely voice. Another minute and I’ll put the bleach in.

At the register, he says, it’s hot in here, or is it just me. His forehead is warm. Are you okay? Oh, sure. We argue over how to pay for his chips; he makes me take a couple of bucks, I write a check. When we get to my apartment, I try to put away the groceries and hold on to Gary at the same time, which isn’t particularly effective. I’m already running late, there’s a meeting at my house tomorrow and the place ought to look nice, there are things that need to be put away, and I need to do all of the laundry.

I left the shirts in too long, they’re wrinkling, and I try to hang them all up at once. This song is a surprise, kind of rude for this station, but funny: ‘Don’t hand me no lines / And keep your hands to your self...’

Lying on the bed, his hand on my back, I lick his neck, his skin is hot to the touch. Happy Valentine’s day. You too. Is it just me or is it hot in here? He says his chest hurts, his lungs hurt. I sit up, look at him in surprise. While he talks about how this reminds him of having pneumonia as a child, I rummage around for the thermometer. He’s running a slight temperature, about ninety-nine-five. What do you mean, your lungs hurt? Why didn’t you say something? It’s okay, I’m going to the clinic in the morning. But you know what that could – Yeah, sure, I know.

Is this Sting? ‘Stop before you start, / Be still, my beating heart.’ Yes, the second solo album, the one with the turtle.

I make him lie down and I stand there, looking at him, holding the thermometer. I can see the groceries on the table through the open doorway. I have to change those sheets he’s lying on, I need to go to the laundromat. The phone rings, I fend off a friend who wants to talk. When I hang up, he gets up off the bed and stands behind me, kneading my shoulders: can I drive him to the potluck, it starts in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you stay here, or I could drive you home? I pause for a breath. Or, maybe, we should go to the veteran’s hospital. He says, No, I’ll go the clinic in the morning, I don’t like the veteran’s hospital. Shouldn’t I be doing something about this? I ought to take him to the hospital anyway, whether he wants to go or not. He says, no, I’m fine. There are still the groceries, the laundry, I haven’t even started vacuuming. But what if he’s really –

I remember this song, I think it must be from the sixties. ‘Shower the people you love with love...’ These sheets could have gotten a lot whiter.

So I drop him off, give him his bag of chips and a hug. You’re sure you can get a ride home? I point out that it’s just like leaving a child off at a party, and he grins. This handsome man with his dark eyes, mustache, hair in that old-fashioned marine cut, says: Thanks, Dad.

‘Bring back the days / When we were crazy in love.’ The laundromat is empty now except for me. The husky voice rings through the room, softening the fluorescent glare of the machines.

What should I have done? What if he dies tonight, or tomorrow? People die so quickly from pneumonia. I put away the bags of groceries but I keep dropping things. I try to slow down, put the clothes and the detergent in the car. Pneumonia takes the handsome men so fast, like a bitter wind cutting across the glacier, it rips them away from the mountain face. Another phone call, I listen to the complaints of a friend, and now I’m running even later. This man likes me, and I like him. And maybe it’s more than that, it feels almost as though, I don’t know. He said, happy Valentine’s Day. Have I left him to be sick, alone, so that I can get my laundry done? I’m driving badly, and I park my car crooked across the space at the laundromat.

Who sings this? ‘You can count on me, ’cause I will always be around.’ I think of the drunken Canadian who fell into me in a bar a couple of weeks ago, who cried on my shoulder because I looked like his dead friend. He said: Don’t you die on me, too.

When my clothes are in the machines, I call him at home. I took so long with the groceries, and then the phone call, so he’s home already. His chest still hurts. Can I drive you anywhere? No, I feel too lousy, I’ll check it out at the clinic in the morning. I hang up so he can go back to sleep. His face felt so hot, and I forgot to give him the aspirin, it’s still in my pocket. I can feel the wind cutting across the mountain face, the searing snow.

This load is done. Oh God, just what I need, Dionne Warwick and Friends. ‘Count on me for sure, / That’s what friends are for...’ I fold the sheet carefully, lining up all the corners.

What should I do? Another load is dry. I want someone to take care of me, but I should be taking care of him. I still need to vacuum the living room, but now it has to wait until morning. Should I call him again? It’s so late, I’d wake him up, sleep is good for him. If he’s okay. Maybe he only has a cold. A bad cold, and I’ll get it. He likes me, and I just met him, he can’t get really sick now. What if he is really sick? What have I done?

I pile the clothes into a bag, look around to see if I’ve dropped anything. It’s that new song of Midler’s – boy, does she sell it: ‘From a distance – God is watching us, from a distance...’

Happy Valentine’s Day.

[Los Angeles, 2 / 14-5 / 25 / 91]

The Photograph

I register the details almost instantly, looking away before I can realize what I’ve seen. Turning my head, too quickly, snapping a look of innocence over my eyes. Have they noticed anything? I try to fit the details into a coherent image: the flat, glossy print, the mustache, a flash of teeth, what is that in the corner – a knife? – gray or silver, perhaps metal, or it could be anything, some other color in shadow. Something about the teeth, some fascination: upper lip pulled up in a smile, or possibly a snarl. Now the image is disintegrating, phosphenes, or pixels, nulls and units of light, they reverse, shift their places, I cannot keep track: negatives or originals, I must look again, I cannot. They are talking but they won’t look away, they glance at me for confirmations, expressions of interest: yes of course, have you indeed, I had no idea. I spit these out blindly, utterly at random, but they somehow move into the proper spaces in the conversation. In the chaos of my mind’s eye, still trying to piece together the smile, the knife: why is it so familiar? I intermittently catch sight of their faces, the amused nod, the grimace of agreement; waves of talk rise and fall across the small room, in a near-perfect imitation of natural conversation. They’re not watching so closely now, they think I haven’t seen the picture, they’re relaxing, perhaps a shade too quickly. Paying split-second fragments of attention to them, another nod, a half-smile. I’ll look down in a moment for a short part of a second, just enough to really see the face, it will be so sudden they won’t notice – I glance left, to distract them, then, too sharply, down – and freeze, mesmerized by the snarl, I know this picture, the knife, the tree, the line of blood angling across the veins of the bicep – they’ve fallen silent, I must look up, they’re watching me – how did they get this picture, how did it come here? – terrified, I rip myself away and up, through surface tension like a diver, look between them at nothing, and hear myself saying, my voice strangely steady:

“It’s me.”

[Los Angeles, 1/31-3/22/90]

[untitled]

This poisoned morning: dark gray shades that shift
one to the other, and the doorway’s flesh
begins to soften with the acid wash
of sunlights our unfocused eyes can’t bear;

we run down blackened streets, we try to flee
serrated knives of light, the glaring dawn,
turn sharpened corners, freeze to watch the change
in space, rectangles folding back from night –

but if I thought your darkened eyes would try
to link with mine, I’d fight this twilight edge,
I’d chant the sun awake, I’d fight a war
to bring your dazzling, golden shadow home.

Like desperate brides who stalk the streets at night,
we’re searching, searching, clutching dead bouquets.

[Los Angeles, 2/13-16/91]

Dislocated

Feeling, late at night, peculiarly disconnected, dislocated: not merely in time and space, but in intention, in dream – I feel as though I don't know who I would want to have been, what I would want to have happened.

Regrets, as you no doubt know from the rest of my blog, are not unusual for me. Many things dissatisfy me, some grieve me, many things are not what I wanted them to be; I can be philosophical about some, others not so much, though I'm certainly not as angry or resentful as I used to be about it all. I would like for things to be different, but –

Trying to go to sleep: but my mind is, for some reason, trying to construct my life as I would have wanted it to happen. And I can't settle on anything at all: nothing looks right, nothing looks plausible – any place, any position I would find myself in now, seems like the most undeveloped of two-dimensional pasteboard fantasies, or something shot through with problems and flaws, or something that I doubt would actually have been good anyway. What if Dad had put in for a patent and we were all rich, what if I had gone into the sciences, what if I had moved to New York, what if the virus had never mutated, what if I had made so many different choices at so many different points, what if....?

Perhaps some of these feelings of vertigo are because of recent applications, attempts, dreamed-of changes: applications for things I may or may not get – and of course things that I may or may not want, and the wanting is largely contingent on where I am now in my life (which raises the query: am I working hard to get to places I don't even want to be? – a not unusual situation, of course) but hardly contingent on, well, anything else. As though there is no back, no solidity, to any of these things, or to anything that I might want or might have now: as though it is all pasteboard – it doesn't much matter what cards I draw – because they're only cards.

It is perhaps not unexpected, living alone far from anywhere I ever imagined living, in circumstances that aren't rooted in any of my earlier dreams or plans, that I would have the feeling sometimes that if I turned too fast or reached out carelessly, I might inadvertently rip through the backdrop. Or might accidentally wander off the set, into some dusty, incoherent backstage of battered plywood and discarded props. But this is more like an internal dislocation, as though I've lost some internal compass or gotten some internal rudder tangled, making me feel that I can't even imagine where I would want to be – or, more accurately, and more uncomfortably, who I would want to be.

Oddly disorienting. It's as though – I can't sleep, because – I don't even know what to dream about...

Vathek

After a rather long and chaotic day (many undergraduates being foolish – getting distinctly irritated with some of them), reading Beckford's Vathek (and The Episodes of Vathek) for fun, late at night.

My taste for fantasy was established largely by Lin Carter's vast publishing venture in the 1970s, the Ballantine Adult Fantasy line. A lot of excellent books, many of which I still read – Cabell, Bramah, Mirrlees, etc. He published a version of Vathek, and I bought it, and I tried to read it – but couldn't make any sense of it; it was clearly far too adult for me at the time.

Well, I am now (obviously) older. Have come back to this quasi-decadent English classic after many years – and it is indeed well-written, fascinating, even rather funny in a dark way. The heavily perfumed decadence, the amazing antics of the selfish Caliph and his manipulative mother, and of course the absurd trials of his put-upon subjects – and why don't they rise up against him? but that's a very modern, democratic question. And the whole moves at such a strange pace – the careful, ornamented prose is just the vehicle for a headlong rush of incidents and surprises; despite the apparent calmness of any given sentence, the plot pulls you along without stopping. It's almost like reading a more sensual, spice-laden version of the antics of Caligula, Heliogabalus, Nero – it has that kind of twisty I-can't-believe-he-got-away-with-that flavor.

And there's a great advantage this book, written in the 1780s (contemporary with Mozart!), has over the late nineteenth century decadents – it doesn't waste a lot of time advertising its own gothic virtues to the reader: he never goes into boring Parisian ecstasies of how perverse he's being, he just lets his characters get on with it, doing dreadful things to everyone around without a shred of remorse. It really is rather funny.

Of course the ending isn't funny at all: the abrupt revelation that the sumptuous palace Vathek so desires, where he will know all and learn vast dark powers, is also hell – as Borges points out, his temptation is the same as his punishment, which makes for a neater economy than Faust's story. And the brilliant severity of the final, quickly closed door: that the denizens of hell have every shred of hope, love, and by implication joy, taken away from them in an instant – and this is after a period of waiting without being able to escape – that the flames of Eblis which burn their hearts alter them so that they cannot retroactively enjoy any memory of the things they did in life. It's a remarkable idea of hell, and an impressive one.

I see – finally, after years – why this is a minor classic....