Dragged Mass Displacement

Books, Forthcoming (2017)

FICTION
Song of the Loon  by Richard Amory
What Belongs to You  by Garth Greenwell
Guapa  by Saleem Haddad
Memoirs of Hadrian  by Marguerite Yourcenar

NON-FICTION
Gay Directors, Gay Films?  by Emanuel Levy
A Little Gay History  by R.B. Parkinson
Not Gay: Sex between Straight White Men  by Jane Ward
A History of Gay Literature  by Gregory Woods

MEMOIR
On the Move  by Oliver Sacks
The Best Little Boy in the World  by "John Reid" (i.e. Andrew Tobias)

DRAMA
Sons of the Prophet  by Stephen Karam
The Green Bay Tree  by Mordaunt Shairp

POETRY
In the Empire of the Air  by Donald Britton
My Alexandria  by Mark Doty

ANTHOLOGIES
Hidden: The Intimate Lives of Gay Men Past and Present  by Clinton Elliott
Gay Travels in the Muslim World  ed. by Michael Luongo

The Least Photographed Boy in the World

Everyone last night found Arthur Vanderbilt's book unsatisfactory in one way or another. We all complained about the lack of photographs, which can be expensive. But what's extraordinary (it occurs to me today) is that the only photograph in the book (on the cover) appears with neither comment nor commentary (such as when it was taken, by whom, under what circumstances etc). One should probably excuse the author but it's no credit to publisher Riverdale Avenue nor its "imprint" Magnus [sic] Books. One can rummage about in Google Images and find all manner of junk. This however

may be a Platt Lynes' photograph of the twenty year old Fouts. It certainly makes more credible his legendary allure.

Unearthing the Poetry of Donald Britton

Christopher Bram interviews Philip Clark on his new edition.

R.I.P., Edward Albee

Sad news from the theater world:

Edward Albee, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright of modern masterpieces dies at 88.

Post Medici Boy

Readers who liked The Medici Boy and even (or especially) those who didn't may be interested in reading the author's story  "Three Short Moments in a Long Life"  in a recent New Yorker. The "especially" above is for those who found his writing slack and repetitious. Maybe it was just the narrator.

And for those who are still interested in the MB, I've come across the publisher's Book Group Guide. It includes none of the interesting questions we discussed but … a window into how the other half reads (or to how Astor+Blue thinks they do or should). Followed by an interview with author L'Heureux.

"He would have sinned incessantly..."

My favorite poet is Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935), who won three Pulitzer Prizes but has, alas, fallen into undeserved obscurity. "Richard Cory" is the one poem of his that is still in virtually all anthologies, but this one, "Miniver Cheevy," also often makes the cut.

Since we'll be discussing The Medici Boy on Wednesday, I'm seizing the opportunity to shine a little reflected glory on a great poet (see Stanza 5 for the connection). For what it's worth, by the way, I strongly suspect Robinson was one of our own, though a recent biographer insists he was straight.

Anyway, for your reading pleasure:

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, 
   Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; 
He wept that he was ever born, 
   And he had reasons. 

Miniver loved the days of old 
   When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; 
The vision of a warrior bold 
   Would set him dancing. 

Miniver sighed for what was not, 
   And dreamed, and rested from his labors; 
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, 
   And Priam’s neighbors. 

Miniver mourned the ripe renown 
   That made so many a name so fragrant; 
He mourned Romance, now on the town, 
   And Art, a vagrant. 

Miniver loved the Medici, 
   Albeit he had never seen one; 
He would have sinned incessantly 
   Could he have been one. 

Miniver cursed the commonplace 
   And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; 
He missed the mediæval grace 
   Of iron clothing. 

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, 
   But sore annoyed was he without it; 
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, 
   And thought about it. 

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, 
   Scratched his head and kept on thinking; 
Miniver coughed, and called it fate, 
   And kept on drinking.