Archive for April, 2015

For the first time in years, I now have a public library card. I haven’t had one since before I got divorced. There’s something about my relationship to the library that has changed in this time; it’s not the home it once was. The books are free, so I want to grab them all, every one that appeals to me, and take them home at once. But then, when I do have them at home, my interest in them is gone. I think that part of the problem is the temporary nature of my association with the book. I feel as if the books I own are a part of me, but library books can never be mine. There’s also the physical experience of the book: I like a book to feel warm and natural in my hand, tree-ish, not covered in cheap plastic. When it comes to books, there’s a certain correlation between love and damage, and it’s hard for me to connect with something so well protected. Fortunately, I have lots of books that I own, including several that I haven’t read yet.

When an experienced reader picks up a book by Umberto Eco, he knows exactly what he will find. Historical conspiracy theories, a bizarre ritual at the climax, and misogyny. Lots and lots of misogyny. Eco’s more successful works are those that provide a reason for this exclusive boys’ club, like The Name of the Rose, which takes place in a monastery on the historical line between the Dark Ages and the Renaissance. I started Baudolino but didn’t finish it because I got to the point where I just couldn’t take any more of the solely decorative female characters. The misogyny in The Prague Cemetery makes sense because the protagonist is very open and honest with the reader and himself about the fact that he hates women. In fact, in the opening chapter he explains how he hates just about everyone: women, Germans, Russians, Jews, the French, southern Italians, Masons, Jesuits, all of them. I suspect he even hates himself. He recently committed an act so thoroughly against his own character that he starts the book with a psychic break between personalities accompanied by amnesia, and it’s told as two distinct personalities trying to piece together a personal history by writing a diary. There’s a third-person narrator/audience surrogate who occasionally arbitrates, and sometimes summarizes years of life in which nothing happens to advance the plot.

Simonini was raised by his father and grandfather, and therein lies the trouble. The grandfather spent a lot of his time with the Jesuits, discussing the big Jewish conspiracy to bring down everything. The father spent a lot of time with the republican army, discussing the big Jesuit conspiracy to bring down everything. Instead of choosing one or the other, Simonini absorbs both their prejudices and grows up hating everyone. He admires some people who are skilled in useful trades, but throughout his life he never meets anyone he loves, either romantically or fraternally. Perhaps this is why it’s taken me so long to read the book; I don’t like being around someone like him.

I have heard it said that over a billion people inhabit this earth. I don’t know how anyone could count them, but from one look around Palermo it’s quite clear that there are too many of us and that we’re already stepping on each other’s toes. And most people smell. There isn’t sufficient food. Just imagine if there were any more of us. We therefore have to cull the population. True, there are plagues and suicides, capital punishment, those who challenge each other to duels and who get pleasure from riding at breakneck speed through woods and meadows. I’ve even heard of English gentlemen who go swimming in the sea and, of course, drown. But it is not enough. Wars are the most effective and natural way imaginable for stemming the increase in human numbers. Once upon a time, when people went off to war, didn’t they say it was God’s will? But to do so, you need people who want to fight. If no one wants to fight, no one will die. Then wars would be pointless. So it’s vital to have men like Nievo, Abba and Bandi who want to throw themselves in the line of fire. Others like me can then live without being harassed by so many people breathing down our necks.

In other words, although I don’t like them, we do need noble-spirited souls.

Simonini is from Turin, born somewhere around 1830. I feel like a more exact knowledge of Continental nineteenth-century history would have been an advantage in reading this book; my knowledge of the century comes from having studied Victorian literature, so if the United Kingdom had been an important setting I would have felt right at home. But my understanding of the Continent at the time only extends to its effect on British writers, and by the time they passed the Reform Bill the novelists and poets were focused on domestic matters or the distant empire; nothing farther than Newcastle but closer than India gets consistent attention. So when I find myself in the middle of Garibaldi’s attempts to unite Italy, I see his name and think, Italian revolutionary with a red shirt, but I don’t fully understand the issues he was fighting for. Eco kind of gives the impression that Garibaldi himself didn’t understand what was going on. Simonini is a forger and master of disguise who does some spy work for the Piedmont government. However, his hatred of every group in existence gets him in trouble; government alliances shift frequently, and it’s important never to go too far in any direction. When Simonini engineers the explosion of a ship carrying one of Garibaldi’s top officials, Piedmont gets rid of him by shuffling him off to Paris.

In Paris, he does similar work, spying on this or that person, forging documents that lead to huge international incidents. Throughout it all, there’s his little story of the Prague cemetery that he keeps revising and reusing. Originally cribbed from Eugene Sue, he writes the story of the leading rabbis meeting at midnight in the Jewish cemetery in Prague to discuss their plans to take over Europe. It’s very thinly veiled propaganda. As the winds of politics change, he revises the story to match whoever it needs to be used against. He ends up working with a lot of real historical characters, who tend to be bigots, or at least interested in inspiring mass hatreds.

I don’t want to destroy the Jews. I might even say the Jews are my best allies. I’m interested in the morale of the Russian people. It is my wish (and the wish of those I hope to please) that these people do not direct their discontent against the tsar. We therefore need an enemy. There’s no point looking for an enemy among, I don’t know, the Mongols or the Tatars, as despots have done in the past. For the enemy to be recognized and feared, he has to be in your home or on your doorstep. Hence the Jews. Divine providence has given them to us, and so, by God, let us use them, and pray there’s always some Jew to fear and to hate. We need an enemy to give people hope. Someone said that patriotism is the last refuge of cowards; those without moral principles usually wrap a flag around themselves, and the bastards always talk about the purity of the race. National identity is the last bastion of the dispossessed. But the meaning of identity is now based on hatred, on hatred for those who are not the same. Hatred has to be cultivated as a civic passion. The enemy is the friend of the people. You always want someone to hate in order to feel justified in your own misery. Hatred is the true primordial passion. It is love that’s abnormal. That is why Christ was killed: he spoke against nature. You don’t love someone for your whole life – that impossible hope is the source of adultery, matricide, betrayal of friends . . . But you can hate someone for your whole life, provided he’s always there to keep your hatred alive. Hatred warms the heart.

And, of course, Simonini also deals with those who hate the Jews for different reasons:

The English Methodists, the German Pietists, the Swiss and the Dutch all learn to read the will of God from the same book as the Jews – the Bible, a story of incest and massacres and barbarous wars, where the only way to win is through treachery and deception, where kings have men murdered so they can take their wives, where women who call themselves saints enter the beds of enemy generals and cut off their heads. Cromwell had the head of his king cut off while quoting the Bible. Malthus, who denied the children of the poor the right to life, was steeped in the Bible. It’s a race that spends its time recalling its slavery, and is always ready to yield to the cult of the Golden Calf, ignoring every sign of divine wrath. The battle against the Jews ought to be the main purpose of every socialist worthy of the name. I am not talking about communists – their founder is a Jew. The problem is exposing the conspiracy of money. Why does an apple in a Paris restaurant cost a hundred times more than in Normandy? There are unscrupulous races who live on the flesh of others, merchant races like the ancient Phoenicians and Carthaginians. And today it’s the English and the Jews.

And, if you’re starting to get visions of Nazis, you’re pretty close to the truth.

I asked if he thought he was a good example of the superior, Apollonian race. He glowered at me and said that belonging to a race is not just a physical matter but above all a spiritual one. A Jew is still a Jew even if, by accident of nature, he is born with blond hair and blue eyes, in the same way as there are children born with six fingers and women capable of doing multiplication. And an Aryan is an Aryan if he lives the spirit of his people, even if he has black hair.

All this hatred really grinds you down after a while. Eco’s writing is spectacular, as ever, but his choice of subject is so antipathetic to my customary frame of mind that I disliked the book, just as I disliked Foucault’s Pendulum and The Island of the Day Before, only more intensely because it more directly attacks my fundamental belief in the goodness of humanity with fewer interruptions to discuss theoretical matters that don’t relate to human evil. And instead of only using women in a dismissive way (you can glimpse them flirting there at the margins of Eco’s stories), Simonini spends a lot of time using a woman and thoroughly hating her.

Diana Vaughan is not a central or important character. She has dissociative personality disorder; the more dominant personality is a sexually voracious Satanist who tells lots of stories about her brief time with the Masons. The less dominant personality is a sweet, pious girl who is horrified at everything her other self does, says, or believes. Simonini takes her out of a mental institution and hides her in a private apartment, where he and his colleagues use her imaginative stories to blacken the reputation of the Masonic lodges. The colleagues also use her for sex. Simonini is too repulsed by the human body to take advantage of her in this way, until the climactic ritual, a black mass that ends in an orgy. There’s a bit here that reminds me of one of my favorite parts of The Name of the Rose, and I think that Eco really excels at describing the experience of sex:

I know that such abandonment will cause my whole body to waste away, will bring an ashen pallor to my dying face, clouded vision and disturbed dreams, husky voice, pains in my eyeballs, the invasion of pestilent red marks upon my face, the vomiting of calciferous materials, palpitations – and finally, with syphilis, blindness.

And though I can no longer see, I feel the most excruciating and indescribable and unbearable sensation of my life, as if all the blood from throughout my veins were suddenly gushing out from a tear in each of my taut limbs, from my nose, from my ears, from my fingertips, from my anus, help, help, I think I know now what death is, from which every living being recoils, even when he seeks it through an unnatural instinct to multiply his own seed.

I can no longer write, I no longer recall, I am reliving, the experience is unbearable, I wish I could forget it all again . . .

So of course he takes the girl home and kills her. The two acts together cause the psychic break and amnesia mentioned at the beginning; once he remembers what he’s done, he no longer needs the separation of consciousness, so he reintegrates his self and gets back to work destroying the Jews. He makes one last expansion/revision and sells the Prague cemetery story for the last time, with the implication that this will become The Protocols of Zion, that document that stirred up a passionate European hatred of the Jews right through the Holocaust.

When I consider Eco’s career, at least the now four and a half novels of his that I’ve read, I really have to wonder how similar Simonini is to Eco himself. Eco loves to write about conspiracy theories, always portrayed in a spirit of ridicule for the people who believe in them. Christianity seems to be the biggest conspiracy of all. As I reflect on it, Eco has written very few characters whom I actually like, or who have a favorable opinion of humanity. I like the narrator/protagonist of The Name of the Rose and his Sherlock-Holmesian friend Brother William, and I like Casaubon’s girlfriend in Foucault’s Pendulum. That’s about it.

But generally, despite his great skill in writing, Eco writes books that I can’t agree with, but can’t argue with either. He has a vast wealth of historical knowledge and a deep, deep cynicism; all I have is my faith in people. As I think over time, my own personal history and not the history of global events, I think Eco is wrong about people. Perhaps they are a bit gullible, but they’re not evil, and they’re not stupid. Love is just as natural as hate, though it’s harder to manipulate. Sex is not weird or wrong; loving copulation is as natural as breathing, with similarly healthful effects. People are good, and the world is a beautiful place: two facts that Eco’s characters shut their eyes to, and they then call their blindness truth. I don’t generally think of myself as a person of faith, my faith in religion or God being almost nonexistent, but I believe in people. I love them – I love you. And because you are a human being, I believe you are good, you are strong, and you are beautiful. This faith remains unshaken.

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From Charlotte Brontë’s Villette:

‘Do other people see him with my eyes? Do you admire him?’

‘I’ll tell you what I do, Paulina,’ was once my answer to her many questions. ‘I never see him. I looked at him twice or thrice about a year ago, before he recognized me, and then I shut my eyes; and if he were to cross their balls twelve times between each day’s sunset and sunrise, except from memory, I should hardly know what shape had gone by.’

‘Lucy, what do you mean?’

‘I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.’

This is how I felt about Hurston’s novel this time around. I’ve read it so many times that I don’t really see it any more. Maybe I felt this way because I was reading it to teach it, and we approach texts differently in such circumstances. Chapter 1, we discuss in medias res and foreshadowing; Chapter 2 we have the vision at the pear tree and the mule of the world, the symbols that represent the two conflicting ideologies for the rest of the book; Chapter 6 we have a lot of the anthropological information that Hurston collected for the WPA (Mrs Tony Robbins was a real person, though the name may have been changed); Chapter 19 we finally see the way white people treated black people back then, as well as the courtroom scene where a woman who spends almost two hundred pages discovering her voice suddenly loses it; we also talk about rabies, hurricanes, domestic violence, power relations, and speech acts, among other things.

What interested me the most about the novel this time is the student I’ve been reading it with. I’m teaching at a small language school, and in one of the more advanced levels the students have to respond to a novel. My student is working on her hopefully-eight-page essay this week, and she’s discussing the violence in the book. She’s from Saudi Arabia, and she identifies strongly with Janie. She enjoyed the book thoroughly; I don’t want to go into details, but I guess patriarchy is patriarchy, no matter where it is located or which religion is used to justify it.

Reading through drafts of her essay, she’s got me thinking about moral relativism. She mentioned it twice. The first time, in conjunction with the schoolteacher who rapes Leafy ca. 1882; do we cut Marse Robert some slack because as a slave owner he’s been conditioned to see slaves as property? Is the rapist worse because he lives after Emancipation, or because he’s given a position of trust over children? Hurston seems to use both men as examples of white men having absolute power over black women’s bodies, so is it useful to draw a distinction between them? I mean, Robert seems to have an affectionate relationship with Nanny, and the teacher/rapist comes back to marry Leafy, so maybe these arbitrary power relations are inherently morally ambiguous. If a white man loved a black woman in the United States in the mid- to late nineteenth century, what options did he have? The rapist seems so powerless; I picture him as a puny little man with spindly limbs, underdeveloped and possible a little effete. Then suddenly he rebels against his social training and lack of physical prowess to perform his life’s one act of violence, against his society’s ultimate victim. I can’t imagine the social pressures that lead to such an excessive display of force. I disagree with the people who see this as an example of social permissiveness – it’s not like people congratulate him, he’s hunted by bloodhounds – I see it as more the desperate act of a man who feels disenfranchised, so he exerts power over the only object he can find. It’s evil, of course, but it’s not a fallen-angel/operatic sort of evil; there’s no greatness in it; it’s a pathetic evil perpetrated by a little man who sees no other way to counter his own insignificance. And he immediately lapses back into the nothing he briefly emerged from.

The second place is when Tea Cake hits Janie. Janie didn’t have to deal with that with her previous husbands; Logan threatens once to kill her, and she immediately leaves him. Joe slaps her in the store once and she retreats inside herself and doesn’t come back out for a long time. Tea Cake, though, beats her until her face is bruised.

No brutal beating at all. He just slapped her around a bit to show he was boss. Everybody talked about it next day in the fields. It aroused a sort of envy in both men and women. The way he petted and pampered her as if those two or three face slaps had nearly killed her made the women see visions and the helpless way she hung on him made men dream dreams.

All of which strikes me as fucked up. This is a different flavor of fucked up than the barely-existent schoolteacher; he’s an aberration, expelled from the community and the novel for his offensive behavior. Tea Cake’s beating is an aberration in their relationship to each other, but the rest of the folks on the muck see it as glorious. That beating reaffirms his masculine ownership and her feminine passivity. It confirms gender roles, and the two participants in it become heroes.

Now. Do I have problems with this because I live eighty years ahead of them in a society with different expectations, or do I have problems with this because domestic violence is intrinsically wrong? Is there something wrong with me because I see a similarity among these three characters? Tea Cake is coded in the novel as good, yet he perpetuates the myth that women are property. I don’t see a huge difference between him and Marse Robert, and though his personality is very different than the one I imagine for Leafy’s rapist, they both use violence against women to assuage their own insecurity and sense of powerlessness. Or, is there something wrong with a society that encourages men to use women in this way? I think there are some things that are intrinsically morally wrong, and intimate violence is pretty high on that list.

This may be because of my experience with it. The first guy I was with started choking me mid-lay, and when I tried to get his hands off my neck he said, “Don’t you trust me?” Of course I don’t trust you; I just met you four hours ago, and now it feels like you’re trying to kill me. The second guy told me I was the tenderest lover he had ever had, and ten seconds later he was backhanding me (hard) and calling me a bitch and a slut. Sex is not just a matter of physical intimacy; there’s a great deal of emotional vulnerability that goes along with it. Responding to that vulnerability with violence evinces a brutality that is inherently bad. Indifference is sufficiently harsh without actively punishing the person. Forcibly asserting that kind of control over another human being is wrong, regardless of time and place. Perhaps my viewpoint is culturally determined, but it’s still mine, and since this is my response and my blog, I will argue for my own viewpoint.

To sum up. Beautiful book, but with domestic violence triggers. Deserves its status as a classic of American literature, but with some problematic bits. Worth reading carefully, again and again, until you don’t see it at all.

So, Clarksville Tennessee seemed like a good halfway point on a long trip last weekend, so I pulled off the highway. I intended to walk around Walmart for a while before getting back on the road, but I was in the wrong lane at that intersection, so I went on up a little way, got over into the right lane, and then there was a Books-A-Million. I hadn’t seen one of those in ages; their stores in my North Carolina towns closed some years ago. So I went in to get some exercise, get out of the car for an hour or so, and as I was wandering about I saw this book with an underwear model on the front, and he’s all wet and happy and his underpants are nearly transparent . . . of course I picked it up. Inside, there are even more guys experiencing a variety of emotion and various states of undress, so I decided to get it. The spine is broken like any well-loved paperback, but BAM doesn’t have a used section, so I imagine that someone in Clarksville liked to go in, thumb through, and then put it back on the shelf. Judging from the book’s condition, I’d say either one person liked to do this a lot, or several people liked to do this. I used to do that when I was in the closet, get just enough of a look to excite me but never bringing it home. As I was waiting in line to check out, I couldn’t decide if I was being a selfish bitch for taking this resource out of the store or if I was a Good Samaritan removing temptation from people who clearly regarded it as such. But really, I’ve been in the mood for some fresh material for private time, and that’s what I got it for.

Once I got it home, I realized I had made a mistake. This isn’t really a book for masturbating to. It’s like trying to get turned on by the Belvedere torso, or the works of Michelangelo. The photographs are beautiful, no doubt, but not always sexy. There’s a difference between art and pornography. Porn is all about muscled bodies, hard dicks and tight asses, but art is about beauty, not fucking. Yes, most of the men in these pictures are nude or mostly so, and most of them are obviously very strong, but the effect is not to promote sexual interest. I realize this may be a gay thing; the editor claims that this is one of the first collection of nude male photographs that is targeted to straight women instead of gay men. I enjoy it, but I don’t get off on it.

It would have been too easy to have compiled a selection of typical body-builder or calendar-boy images. Beautiful as these are, such a collection would have been only a limited representation of the male form.

These pictures are taken by what they call leading photographers, but I don’t know enough about photography to agree with that. The pictures are beautiful; not all of the men are. Some are quite plain, but given the right lighting and posing, given the right work by the photographer, they can all take beautiful pictures. The book is organized by photographer, so it feels a little like a collection of advertisements for the artists, a quick mini-portfolio of each one, and that’s a little distracting for those of us who are not cognoscenti. I’m flipping through, enjoying the pictures, and then suddenly there’s a woman smiling straight into the camera next to her biography and it breaks my concentration. One of the photographers wrote a short introduction; it’s completely biased in favor of his personal friends. Some of the artists don’t get more than a sentence, or half a sentence. Others get whole paragraphs.

My favorite group is the section by Robert Flynt, clearly the most artistically stylized. I was also quite pleased with Conrad Hechter’s pictures, and those of David Vance, and Dennis Dean’s hitchhikers, and Michael Palladino’s dusty athletes. While every picture in the book is lovely, my favorite shot is on page 153. Photographer is David Gray; the subject is nude in the semi-lotus position, on a big rock with blue sky behind him. It’s peaceful.

The important thing, though, the reason I’m writing about this book here instead of moving onto the Eco novel I started this week, is what it says about me. I don’t need reminding that I’m a lonely gay man desperate to be touched; I do need to be reminded that I’m attractive. Looking through this book, the guys are all at different levels of muscle, of desirability, of the size of various organs, but all the pictures are good. Even the ugliest dude can be perceived as beautiful. I’m not the ugliest, and when I look at these pictures I don’t just see beauty, I feel beautiful myself. I am a gorgeous guy too.

One of the delights of reading du Maurier novels is that she knows her tradition. Rebecca, her most famous novel, is rather similar to Jane Eyre. My Cousin Rachel is close to Wilkie Collins’s Basil. Her earliest novel, The Loving Spirit, uses some ideas from Wuthering Heights. She doesn’t copy directly from the writers of the past; she uses enough material to remind us of our Gothic past, then transforms it for the twentieth century. The Flight of the Falcon is a great example of this. She pulls from the Ann Radcliffe novels of the 1790s, but changes the theme and mood at the end.

Following Mrs Radcliffe, we open in a benign situation: Armino Fabbio is a tour guide, hauling a bunch of American and British tourists around Rome (notice that we are distanced from our readers in either place or time; the time is contemporary, but our story is safely tucked away in central Italy), fielding questions, keeping the guests happy, dodging passes made by lonely men willing to pay for his time. Then he starts experiencing some cognitive dissonance, hearing a homeless woman on the street wailing his childhood nickname, wondering what connection is being formed between the present and the distant past.

Also following Mrs Radcliffe, Fabbio picks up a false sense of guilt. That guy who dropped a ten thousand lire tip trying to get him in bed? Fabbio gives the fortune to that homeless woman, and she’s killed that night. Some of his guests want to go to the police, but he doesn’t tell them about the money. When they show up later, asking for him, he assumes that he’s being accused and runs. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but he doesn’t trust the law enforcement, so he panics anyway.

An essential early step, of course, is to trap the heroine in an ancient castle or otherwise big scary house. [Sorry, Radcliffe always went with heroines – Fabbio is in a traditionally feminine role.] To get there, Fabbio leaves Rome and works his way back home, to the little village in the north where he grew up. His father had been in charge of the former duke’s estate, giving tours and maintaining the property and household goods. The father and older brother had died in World War II, and he and his mother left town. The castle is still there waiting for him, complete with a legend or ghost story about the evil man who used to live there.

The Falcon was duke five hundred years ago. He was a terrible leader; his courtiers and he grew ever more decadent, ever more violent, dismaying and upsetting the villagers who supported them. The legend is that one day the Falcon got so crazy that he climbed up to the highest tower and jumped off, something similar to the temptation of Christ only he actually did jump, proving that angels don’t protect people from stubbing their toes. The historical records are a little different: the way they tell the story of the flight, he hitched up eighteen horses and galloped through the town square on a busy market day, killing several supposedly worthless peasants. The people rioted, pulling him from his chariot, and killing him en masse. It’s not du Maurier’s style to scare us with ghosts, though; we need a real villain.

Armino’s brother didn’t actually die in the war. When his plane was shot down, he started working for the resistance. Unlike his living family, he came home after the war. While Armino was getting a degree in European languages and becoming a tour guide, Aldo Donati was also getting a couple of degrees and taking over his father’s former position. The estate is now owned by the university, so Donati has a sort of professorship. Things seem less rigidly codified in the 1960s. Every year he puts on a bit of a pageant with the university students, and the whole town gets a big kick out of it. This year he’s recreating the flight of the Falcon. He takes advantage of the existing rivalry between the modern economics majors and the more traditional arts students. He whips up the emotions with a series of pranks against leading faculty members; one of them even involves rumours of rape. I was shocked by just how casually everyone takes the supposed rape of the leading matron of the women’s dormitory. Even an educated woman, a university professor, thinks it’s funny and exactly what she deserves for being so strict. She isn’t actually raped, but she is tied up and passes out, and the boys let her think she was violated.

Aldo makes some good speeches, though:

It is essential that every volunteer should believe in the part he plays, should think himself into his creation. This year you will be the courtiers at the Falcon’s palace. You will be that small body of dedicated men. You, the Arts students of the university, will, by your very nature, become the élite. You are so already. For this you are here in Ruffano, for this you have your reason for living. Yet you are a minority in the university, your ranks are small, the immense numbers swamping the other Faculties are barbarians and goths and vandals who, like the merchants of five hundred years ago, understand nothing of art, nothing of beauty. They would, if they had the power, destroy all the treasures we possess in the apartments here, perhaps even pull down the palace itself, and put in its stead . . . what? Factories, offices, banks, commercial houses, not to give employment and an easier life to the peasant who lives no better now than he did five centuries ago, but to enrich themselves, to better themselves, to own more cars, more television sets, more biscuit-box villas on the Adriatic, thus breeding ever greater discontent, poverty and misery.

And, to the other group of students:

If they could get rid of me they would. Just as they would get rid of you, the whole fifteen hundred of you, if that’s what you muster – I haven’t the figures before me, but it’s near enough. Why do they want to get rid of you? Because they’re frightened. The old are always frightened of the young, but you represent a threat to their whole way of life. Any one of you who passes out of this university with a degree in Commerce and Economics is a potential millionaire, and, more than that, he will have a chance of helping to run the economy not only of this country but of Europe, possibly the world. You are the masters, my young friends, and everyone knows it. That’s why you’re hated. Hatred is bred of fear, and your contemporaries who haven’t your brains and your technical knowledge and your enthusiasm for life as it will and must be lived tomorrow are frightened of you. Frightened blue! No schoolteacher, no grubby lawyer, no chicken-livered so-called poet or painter – and that’s what the students of the other faculties are trying to become – will stand a chance beside you. The future’s yours, and don’t let any half-baked set of decaying professors and their pathetic dwindling band of followers stand in your way. Ruffano is for the living. Not the dead.

He’s playing both sides, working the crowds into a frenzy, with things getting complicated by the little family drama of his baby brother, supposed dead, appearing in town just before his moment of triumph. Family is very important to Aldo; du Maurier extends this to all Italians. I’m not saying it is or it isn’t, but it seems like a stereotype. The emotionally violent Italian is also a stereotype that du Maurier perpetuates, much as she defies their supposed tendency to physical violence. This book starts as a murder mystery, but all the stuff between Armino and Aldo distracts from the murder for a while. The book is short enough, though, that she keeps things moving along fairly quickly. It starts a little slow, but it doesn’t stay at that pace.

I’ve been running into my own problems with past and present. Five years ago, I lived in a little place with the ex-wife and kids, and we stored stuff with her parents and my parents and friends and left little pieces of ourselves scattered about the South. Then we split up and I left the country for a while. I got a storage unit and gathered stuff from my parents’ places – after coming out of the closet, the less I rely on them the better – so everything was either in the shed or with me. Now I’ve cleared out the storage shed and everything I own is finally in one place. I’m surrounded by things I hadn’t thought of in so long I had forgotten I owned them, as well as recent acquisitions. It’s like all the pieces of my life are jumbled up together, a temporal pastiche, gifts from Saudi students and the brother who disowned me, postcards from the Mapplethorpe exhibit in Paris last spring and letters from when I was a missionary in Brazil when I was nineteen, and then there’s the painting of a teddy bear that my mom did the night before I was born, the blanket I slept on as a baby, the blanket I carried around for far too long as a child, the dragon blanket I got as a teenager, and the afghan I made last week. Possessions used to belong to times and places, and now they’re all here and now. It’s even more disorienting than facebook. Despite some internal confusion, it’s good for me. It’s a way of demonstrating that I’m finding peace with all the different people I have been. I am still all the people I have been, and I don’t hate any of them. I’m learning to be healthy.

The Flight of the Falcon starts a bit like a regular murder mystery, but du Maurier follows an older model. It may not be what you expect, du Maurier shows more faith in humanity than most mystery writers, but it’s still satisfying. She writes beautifully as ever, though this novel is more plot-driven and less nature-loving than some of her other novels, significantly less nature-obsessed than Radcliffe herself. It’s good, fairly typical of this stage of her career. Read it, it’s nice.

It’s hard to know what to say about You Suck that I didn’t already say about Bloodsucking Fiends. A lot of it is very similar, just as a sequel should be. One of the most important differences is the difference between 1995 and 2007. When BF was written, HIV was a huge cultural issue, particularly in San Francisco, but by the time of YS we had collectively calmed down about it. The people who got HIV in the 1980s had either died of AIDS or figured out how to manage the condition, so even though YS begins at the exact second that BF ends, it’s a different world. No one’s talking about AIDS, everyone has cell phones (this happened somewhat miraculously while I was gone to Brazil, 1999-2001 ish), and Tommy’s grunge look (T-shirt and flannel) can no longer pass without remark. This means that there’s less drama and even more comedy.

All of the characters who didn’t die in BF are back, which is almost all of them, actually. The Animals are a little more clearly defined, Steve has a slightly larger part, and Tommy’s a vampire in this one. The real news is the new characters: Blue, Jared, and Abby. The Animals went to Las Vegas and blew all their money hiring a blue prostitute. They drive her back to San Francisco in a rented limo and try to talk Tommy into “boning a Smurf.” She’s more than they bargained for – finally someone has the predatory instincts that the old vampire has been searching for, only she doesn’t have the training or good sense that he does. Jared is a gay Goth teenager who doesn’t fit with his weirdly suburban family, and Abby is his best friend. We met her briefly in A Dirty Job, written between BF and YS but covering a wider time frame and including the detectives and The Emperor. Abby becomes Jody and Tommy’s minion and a part-time first-person narrator, where she absolutely shines.

So I got Chet out of the stairway of the old loft and was carrying him kid-style when I saw the two cops from before – the ones the Countess said helped blow up Elijah – so I went up to the Hispano-cop and I was all, “So, what’s up, cop?”

And he was all, “You need to get home, and you have no business out at this hour, and we should take you to the station and call your parents and blah, blah, blah, threat, threat, disapproval, and fascist dogma all up in your darkly delicious grille.” (I’m paraphrasing. Although I do have a delicious grille as I had to wear braces for three years when I was a kid, and now my teeth are like my most acceptable feature. I hope my fangs come in straight.)

And the big gay cop was all, “What are you doing here?”

And I was all, “I live here, bone-smoker, what are you doing here? Aren’t you guys homicide cops?”

And he was all, “Let’s see some ID blah, blah, bluster, bluster, Oh My God I am so full of shit.”

And I was like, “I guess you wouldn’t have to deal with this shit if you had properly blowed up that old vampyre when you stole his art collection.”

So all of a sudden the Hispano-cop and his big gay partner were all, “Whaaa – ?”

And I’m like, “Just so we know where we stand. How long you bitches going to be here?”

And they were like, “Just a half hour or so longer, miss. We need to interview some witnesses and go clean out our boxers where we have just completely shit ourselves. Do you need a ride somewhere?” (Again paraphrasing.)

Yeah, she’s a perky teenaged Goth, so she’s into Hello Kitty and Anne Rice. She tries to crush her perkiness to fit the Goth stereotypes better, but you can’t keep a good optimist down, and it is the internal conflict between the Gothiness and the perkiness that makes her so very delightful.

Here’s one of my favorite funny bits:

“Hi,” Jared’s father said.

Tommy had expected a bit of a monster based on Jared’s description of his father. Instead what he saw was a bit of an accountant. He was about forty-five, in pretty good shape, holding a little girl on his lap who was coloring a picture of a pony. Another little girl, who looked about the same age, was coloring on the floor at his feet.

“Hi,” Tommy said.

“You must be the vampire Flood,” Jared’s dad said, with a bit of a knowing smile.

“Uh. Well. Kinda.” It showed. He could no longer hide among the humans. It must be because it had been so long since he had fed.

“Sort of a weak ensemble, don’t you think?” Jared’s dad said.

“Weak,” repeated the little girl without looking up from her pony.

“Huh?” Tommy inquired.

“For a vampire. Jeans, sneakers, and flannel?”

Tommy looked at his clothes. “Black jeans,” he pointed out. Shouldn’t this guy be cowering in fear, maybe begging Tommy not to put his little daughter in a sack for his vampire brides?

“Okay, I suppose times change. You know that Jared and his girlfriend went up to Tulley’s on Market to meet Abby, right?”

“His girlfriend, Jody?”

“Right,” said Dad. “Cute girl. Not as many piercings as I expected, but we’re just happy she’s a girl.”

An attractive blond woman in her late twenties came into the room carrying a tray with carrot and celery sticks on it. “Oh hi,” she said, dazzling a smile at Tommy. “You must be the vampire Flood. Hi, I’m Emily. Would you like some crudités? You’re welcome to stay for dinner. We’re having mac and cheese, it was the girls’ night to pick.”

I should drink her blood and put her kids in a sack, Tommy thought. But his vicious predator nature was overcome by his Midwestern upbringing, so instead he said, “Thank you very much, Emily, but I really should be going if I’m going to catch up to Jared and Jody.”

“Well, okay then,” said the woman. “Girls, say good-bye to the vampire Flood.”

“Good-bye, the vampire Flood,” the girls sang in chorus.

“Uh, bye.” Tommy bolted out of the room, then back in again. “Where’s the door?”

Everyone pointed through the kitchen, whence Jared’s stepmonster had just come.

He ran through the kitchen and out the door, then stood with his back against the minivan in the drive, trying to catch his breath. “That was fucked up,” he gasped, then realized that he wasn’t out of breath from exertion at all. He was having an anxiety attack. “That was really, really fucked up.”

The love story in this installment is less rom-com than it was in BF. It’s more like Act II of The Fantasticks, when things that were magical are revealed to be cheap tricks and the childlike lovers have to face real life. It may seem logical that to assume that after Jody turns Tommy into a vampire, their relationship struggles are a lot simpler. After all, that was the problem, that Tommy couldn’t understand or even relate to what she was going through. But Tommy’s experience as a vampire is as different from Jody’s as were their experiences of being human. As a petite redhead in a big city, Jody felt like she was always in danger. Considering the statistics for rape and domestic violence, she probably was. As a vampire, she feels powerful and unafraid for the first time. For her, vampirism is about new senses, new abilities, and new strength. Becoming a vampire gives her the freedom to be herself for the first time. Tommy’s a teenaged writer from the Midwest; he sees the world as a safe place where people will take care of him. It makes him a little naïve and gullible, but he has never experienced the type of fear that has defined Jody’s existence. When he becomes a vampire, he doesn’t see himself as stronger; he sees himself as weaker. His hunger has become the most important aspect of his personality. He doesn’t read novels or write stories any more. Jody lost her internal obstacles, but Tommy loses his internal supports. Even though they care deeply about each other, they want different things from life and from their relationship. There’s a breakup looming in their future.

I’ve run into something sort of similar here in my real life. I moved to a new town two months ago, and I met someone. We’ve gone out a few times, but things are cooling off. Physically, we work together very well, but emotionally, we’re never going to be in love with each other. He needs someone who can keep up the other end of the conversation better than I can; I need someone who finds my silence restful, and can share in it. He needs someone who will join him in the closet when out in public; I need never to be in the closet again. I can respect his decision intellectually, but pragmatically, I’m going to forget. When I want to kiss a guy, I don’t stop to check whether anyone is looking or not; I just do it. I need someone who is out all the time, not just to himself and a select few friends.

Speaking of the select few friends, there’s a small circle of gay men here who seem to have pretty fucked-up relationships. They’re hung up on guys who aren’t hung up on them, and when I explain the details to myself it seems like high school drama and not a group of grown men ranging in age from early 30s to mid 50s. There’s a refusal to face reality that can be hard for me to comprehend. To elucidate: There are a couple of guys in the last few months that I have had feelings for, but I know that they only want to be friends. We’re not going to live happily ever after, ever. So I accept their friendship, that being what they have to offer, and I don’t try to force them to feel what I do. If I do sleep with one of them, I’m not going to interpret that action as proof that my seeds of love are beginning to bear fruit; I’m going to think that we’re both lonely people who need to be physically touched and can tolerate each other’s company for an evening. And as I change my thinking about them, my feelings will eventually change to fit, I hope. For one of them, they already are. But I know that not every feeling is worth pursuing, and that it is sometimes kinder to conceal romantic feelings for someone who can’t return them. I believe that one day I will find a romantic relationship with someone who loves me intensely and whom I love in return; I’ll get what experience I can until that happens, but I’m not going to put a lot of emotional work into someone who will not return the investment. That’s just preparing myself for a big disappointment.

Jody and Tommy know that this relationship is not going to work out. At least, she does, and maybe she’s convinced him. But the key to novel-writing is successfully delaying what the reader knows is going to happen, and Abby is so determined to keep them together that they don’t manage to break up by the end of this book. It’s okay; there’s a third.