A Single Man

I bought the Picador Modern Classics hardcover of this a week or two ago on a whim. I was trying to find gifts for family and ended up buying this for myself instead. I think this is my third read of the book? I read a lot of Isherwood aroundabouts 2013 when I was fresh out of high school and struggling with being gay. It didn't really matter that the time period was all wrong, or that things were so different. A lot of things weren't different, and it was more or less about reading books that showed relationships and love in a non-heterosexual way.

I remember finding this book very sad, back then. A few years ago I listened to the audiobook but I have virtually no memory of that. This time, I read it basically in one sitting. It is still very sad, but wow do I relate to it on a much different level now, though thankfully not to some parts.

It follows George over a single day. He is mourning the death of his long term partner, and he is casting about in the way we all do when we're lost. He is doing a lot of performance - performing that everything is just so. He is carrying a profound grief, and also anger. His anger is slipping away and he is bouncing between this deep sadness and this strange joy of being alive. He is remembering parts of his relationship, highs and lows, and yearning for them. All while nobody around him really knows what is going on.

“In ten minutes, George will have to be George–the George they have named and will recognize. So now he consciously applies himself to thinking their thoughts, getting into their mood. With the skill of a veteran he rapidly puts on the psychological make-up for this role he must play.”

Those last few words, this role he must play. That hit me pretty hard this read, because I've said words like that a few times recently. On one level, I know that all of us put on a face and engage with people at a distance from underlying emotions. Not in a bad way, but just in the way that comes from dealing with being a human and having emotions. We're not all happy all of the time, but we also don't live in a place where it's acceptable to answer “how are you doing” with anything other than “good.” And you don't want to dump things on people, so you put your face on and you go out into the world. Because that is what is expected of you. Because that mask is the version of you that people know and maybe like.


“Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, believe me–there's nothing I'd rather do! I want like hell to tell you. But I can't. I quite literally can't. Because, don't you see, what I know is what I am? And I can't tell you that. You have to find it out for yourself. I'm like a book you have to read. A book can't read itself. It doesn't even know what it's about. I don't know what I'm about.” (bold emphasis mine)

We all act a little differently depending on who we're around. Not in a manipulative way and maybe not in a dramatic way. But there are differences. You play a character to make people laugh by throwing jabs at books or films and making jokes. Because it is nice to make people laugh, but does it have to be done that way? Is that you? Where does the performance end and the self begin. Perhaps it's all crazytalk and there is no separation. Perhaps everything is performance and by that virtue, nothing is.

Then again, Harry Dean Stanton said “there is no self.” I'm not sure I'd go that far.

I think we spend a lot of time trying to figure out who we are, what our identities are. Where do we feel comfortable, how do we express that – is it safe? How deep you can go in your head. I wonder if that exploration is fun for some people, I guess it would be. I don't know. For me it was very fraught and scary and I think it continues to be a bit fraught. But there is a certain familiarity with it that has come, and the understanding of self has oriented more about how to express care to people.

You wonder if things will become easier in time. This is a thing that older people have said to me. I am not convinced they believe it when they say it. I think time makes us forget how hard things were as we went through them, and maybe that is the best gift that time has to offer. It will smooth over the rough edges and leave you with the pleasantness and hopefully the warmth of those moments that bare your heart.

“‘They keep telling you, when you're older, you'll have experience–and that's supposed to be so great. What would you say about that sir? Is it really any use, would you say?'
‘What kind of experience?'
‘Well–places you've been to, people you've met. Situations you've been through already, so you know how to handle them when they come up again.. All that stuff that's supposed to make you wise, in your later years.'
‘Let me tell you something, Kenny. For other people, I can't speak–but, personally, I haven't gotten wise on anything. Certainly, I've been through this and that; and when it happens again, I say to myself, Here it is again. But that doesn't seem to help me. In my opinion, I, personally, have gotten steadily siller and sillier and sillier–and that's a fact.'“

The heavier themes in the book, where George is really mourning the death of his lover and partner, I am glad that I can't relate to. I can empathize with them, but I cannot imagine the pain of that and I do not want to. It astounds me that people could function at all.

Anyway, all this to say, I really like this book, and Isherwood's writing in general. A lovely little book with beautiful prose and emotion that is so raw.

If you haven't seen the movie (rather bizarrely directed by Tom Ford) starring Colin Firth, Julianne Moore, and Nicholous Hoult, I recommend it!