While England Sleeps is the second book that I’ve read from David Leavitt. The other was a collection of short stories called The Marble Quilt. What I said back then remains true today: Leavitt has an extraordinary grasp of English. His writing is simply a joy to read, if nothing more than for the opportunity to luxuriate in English that is more of an art form than a communication medium.
Unlike Quilt, this book is a full novel. Quilt was an exercise in story telling and English writing that crammed a great many gay themes between the covers. Here, Leavitt is actually trying to tell a story, and has chosen the all-too-familiar tragic love story as his angle, which I have to admit, is starting to wear thin.
Set during the rise of fascism, communism, nazism, and other ugliness of 1930’s Europe, Brian Botsford is a writer whose work is given an early and severe dressing down by one of his friends, Nigel. Nigel’s primary role, mostly in letters throughout the book, is to subtly shape Brian into the weakest character of the story. Meanwhile, Brian meets Edward Phelan at a Communist Party meeting and a sex and love story unfolds. Although I do not doubt that Leavitt has the talent of providing Janus Znaiu-quality sex scenes, he doesn’t deliver. Even in the heat of the graphic sex, Brian’s downward spiral proceeds. Observe, for example, how badly he wants to be bottomed, while being utterly unable to discuss it with Edward. Instead, he wiggles his butt in the “do me” pose and wonders why Edward walks away. We wonder too, but not at the end of the book.
By contrast, Edward is a strong character who benefits from description and consideration through Brian’s eyes. Observe the envy Brian feels towards Edward’s untroubled sleep.
Brian finally reaches rock bottom when he performs the ultimate act of betrayal: he asks one Philippa to marry him with no intention of calling it off with Edward until she agrees. She, being among the multitude of strong supporting characters in the book, laughs during her rejection, sending him headlong into his tragic consolation prize chase. The end comes neither by a wartime stray bullet nor a homophobia-inspired murder. No, it’s typhoid this time. I hope that the next tragic love story ends with a toaster in the bathtub; that would be a nice twist on the theme.
I say that curtly because the tragic scene in While England Sleeps will not be met with the profound heartbreak you felt near the end of At Swim, Two Boys. No, it will be more like profound disappointment that the weaker, surviving character never once told his lover that he loved him, and doesn’t even realize this in the intervening years. At the end of which, by the way, he’s still a jerk, spying and stalking an ex-lover.
OK, I tried to write that paragraph in a way that wouldn’t spoil the ending. But if you know its a tragic love story, and you know that one of the two lovers is the narrator, you know who lives. I honestly don’t believe that the knowledge spoils the read, particularly if you are into Leavitt the way I am.
With that in mind, don’t let the unhappy plot and weak character deter you from a delightful ride through exquisite prose; textures woven as richly as any Mahlerian symphony. If you know me then you know that I do not bestow that kind of compliment on just anybody. I will continue to read Leavitt, and I hope that his next offering is stronger.