Here’s the good news: David Leavitt is prolific. Ten more books written by him are listed in the opening pages. Bad news? Mr. Leavitt’s grasp of English will humble you. A sample from the very first story “Crossing St. Gotthard,” before I move on:
He rarely spoke, Stephen. His body had the elongated musculature of a harp. His face was elusive in its beauty, like those white masks the Venetians wear at Carnival. Only sometimes he shifted his legs, in those flannel trousers that were a chaos of folds, a mountain landscape, valleys, passes, peaks. Most, Harold knew, if you punhced them down, would flatten; but one would grow heavy and warm at his touch.
Lovely! Imagine an entire book this richly and solidly built. Leavitt convincingly makes English a formidable raw material in the creation of art.
The Marble Quilt is a collection of nine short stories. Each presents a unique set of characters and plot. How unique? See for yourself: A train’s imminent plunge into a 9-mile tunnel and the worries of death it invokes. Soap opera-like variations on a story told by a former soap opera actor. A plausible argument to answer the question, “Did Chopin live much longer than is generally known, under an assumed name?” The ravages of time, cross-generational attitudes, and the near-scandalous revelations of a pack-rat (left achingly unresolved). The bizarre coming to terms with the loss of one’s lover to a plane crash. E-mail’s capacity to manipulate others, ruin friendships, and generally upset otherwise intelligent, upstanding folk. The curious juxtaposition of what you might say to the interrogator investigating your lover’s death and what you remember.
Orthodox? Hardly. Compelling, nevertheless? Yes. Leavitt deserves at least one spot among your collection; possibly more. I plan to read more of his work in the coming year.