Only one leg affected, and not too bad. This is a work of supreme calculation, every comma fixed in place. Lord does occasionally check in with the horrors of war, primarily during his hesitant service as an interrogator at a displaced persons camp. This book is at once both more and a lot less saucy than I was expecting. One of the best books I've read in a very long time. He's got to be imagining some of it, and his results begin to feel as if he's fictionalizing. It reads like a novel.
In 1942, a timid, inexperienced twenty-one-year-old Lord reports to Atlantic City, New Jersey, to enlist in the U. These kinds of support can make people a lot more Usa! And why had he not stayed to sleep beside the body it had been sweet to make love to? For various reasons having to do with his own off-handed behavior and the illogic of wartime practices, Lord does land in situations that aren't such pots of confiture. His mother invited me to lunch last Sunday, played the harp; it was beautiful. That these experiences also include him coming to terms with his sexual attraction to other men renders some of his wartime experiences much more painful, and adds a note of hilarity to others. Before his war was over, Lord would witness some of the less-savory things that were done to ensure the Allies would win it. In this estimation it is evidence of genius. But his cheekiness also gained him entry into the drawing rooms of Picasso and Gertrude Stein, setting the stage for a charmed life and fruitful writing career.
Believing or pretending to believe otherwise is a form of ignorance, and ignorance is never to be excused or encouraged, certainly not in globe-threatening conflicts. It is clear that he and other gay soldiers on the battlefield did as much as anyone to win the war. About the prose: it's so extremely good that Lord has the confidence to flirt with making it bad, simply not to give a damn about verging on the purple. I can give you a shove in that direction if you want. Jerry asked for a Rheingold. A timely, artfully written memoir of one man's war. I know little more about its author after reading it than I did before--and for a book of this sort, the consequences of how it came to be written and published are almost as important as its contents.
His career in the armed forces takes him to Nevada and California, to Boston, to England, and eventually to France and Germany, where he witnesses firsthand the ravages of total war on Europe's land and on its people. James Lord, who died last year at the age of 86, is a tremendous storyteller. The whole affair has a decidedly Catch 22 flavour as the absurdities of the circumstances of his military servce unfold. Army, in a time of war, was not going to be an exciting journey into manhood, but a series of humiliating and exasperating experiences that would force him to grow up, like it or not. He initiates correspondence with novelist , who sends the young veteran's first novel to a publisher. Subsequently, he underwent a coming-out not unlike the proverbial day at the beach -- a nude beach.
By his account, which takes many dark turns, it is clear that he and other gay soldiers on the battlefield did as much as anyone to win the war. Junger is embedded with a group of soldiers in a valley near Pakistan. His is a story of universal significance and appeal, told by a wry and eloquent observer of the world and of himself. They naturally knew that homosexuality was a quotient of the human equation, Oscar Wilde having taken good care to publicize the facts. Make you feel right at home. Takes one to know one.
It is a clear-eyed look at the men, their peace-time behavior, their behavior under extreme circumstances, and ultimately their behavior when they return to society. About the prose: it's so extremely good that Lord has the confidence to flirt with making it bad, simply not to give a damn about verging on the purple. In the end, Junger found, they do it for the man next to them; they train together, they come to rely on one another, and they can't imagine letting their brothers go into battle without them. There has never been anything quite like it and it deserves to become a classic. With this stranger, his gazelle-like limp and capable eyes. It's not him, it's me. Lord follows his dick all over Boston and Paris, falls in love with a couple of men—one unsuitable and one cursed with bad timing—and stumbling into mostly prime postings—with some very serious exceptions.
The lobby was long and high, expensive, gold-plated, busy with wartime visitors. Lord died in 2009 at 86. He was to be disappointed and in the end he begins to come apart facing the incredibly disgusting display his fellow liberators were capable of. It is clear that he and other gay soldiers on the battlefield did as much as anyone to win the war. Let me say a word to Glen for a minute. In his 1985 biography of Giacometti, he indulges in a certain amount of magical thinking as he labors to demonstrate how quotidian experience can precipitate superhuman creation.
About the title: it works beautifully on many levels. Nonetheless, this memoir is a worthwhile read and a rare window into the gay subset of the generation that came of age in the 40s. I'd be particularly interested to know whether this manuscript was published after the author had a chance to make revisions, or if it was found among the author's papers after his death and published as he had left it the last time he had the occasion to work on it. But it doesn't make the writing any less insufferable. He ordered Scotch and soda for two.
But watch out for your pants. And he went back downstairs. In 1942, a timid, inexperienced twenty-one-year-old Lord reports to Atlantic City, New Jersey, to enlist in the U. They scramble to clean the trash out of their humble field office when the curmudgeonly colonel visits. To be fair, Lord acknowledges that his Army tenure was queerer and cushier than most. Lots of jobs in civvy street these days anyway.