Sunday, April 18, 2010
Michael Cunningham is the novelist I'd like to be. Denizen of used bookstores that I am, I usually only read novels years after they come out. Home at the End of the World is twenty years old, but I only discovered it this past weekend. This story of Jonathan, Bobby and Claire and the life they make by fits and starts reminded me of my own youth (I'm roughly their age) and the possibilities for family I had back then, too. Another masterful book from Cunningham about the times we 50-something gay men lived and live in.