Last year I reviewed one of my least favorite books, Dancer from the Dance, by Andrew Holleran. I was therefore dismayed when I discovered that I would be reading another of his works, In September, The Light Changes. But I tried to keep an open mind, and I did finish it.
This was a much better book. That is not to say that it was a great book. One of the advantages to short stories is that you can jump around or relish in the relatively short span of time remaining for those that are going badly. Unlike the short-story collections of Sedaris or Kinsman, where chapter boundaries came much too soon, I never lamented the ending of any of these stories. I cherished them, actually. Partially, this is due to a gift of Holleran’s I overlooked on my earlier review: endings. Although rarely happy, his endings are quirky and smart. After a while, you can even predict the approaching end, rushing in like a good classical concerto.
The stories span some 20 years of writing, but from my ’70’s-child point of view, Holleran’s themes don’t appear to change much over that period. As was the case with Dancer, Holleran’s style (and thus perhaps, his life) appears to be built on five tenets: New York City, Fire Island, drugs, penis size, and the loneliness of growing old. I’d add a sixth, if I didn’t feel disqualified: His work teems with endless references to people about whom and places about which I haven’t the slightest notion. This is sad, because I might have enjoyed this work much more if I were a better student of history, particularly of that which finds such a home among gay men. I hate to say it, but Holleran could write a book on what he knows about gay icons.
The stories collectively paint a very vivid portrait. Holleran’s characters are vibrant and flawed and polar; the narrators are usually unnamed. They seek, yet they find something else. They are world-wise, yet youth and beauty make them forget. I want to believe that these stories personify Holleran’s own life, rather than that of the world. I want to believe this because the portrait he paints, despite its clarity, is so painfully desolate. No one could want to live the lives of these characters. The longing and subsequent despair is too much to bear.
As I said, though, this was a better book. I knew that I would find his world depressing and undesirable, so I read September with a more academic eye than I afforded Dancer. To my surprise, I found amid the paragraphs that stretch for dizzying lengths, some remarkable writing. When Holleran is passionate, one cannot help but feel swept away in the moment. I recommend “Petunias,” “Blorts,” and the title story at the end as examples. One can almost hear Gypsy Fiddles Playing rushing to its conclusion in each case. However, don’t reach for this book if you want to feel good about yourself or your future. You won’t!