By Michael Cunningham
From Michael Cunningham, the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer of The Hours, comes this commonly praised novel of 2 boyhood neighbors: Jonathan, lonely, introspective, and uncertain of himself; and Bobby, hip, darkish, and inarticulate. In manhattan after university, Bobby strikes in with Jonathan and his roommate, Clare, a veteran of the city's erotic wars. Bobby and Clare fall in love, scuttling the plans of Jonathan, who's homosexual, to father Clare's baby. Then, whilst Clare and Bobby have a toddler, the 3 circulation to a small condo upstate to elevate "their" baby jointly and, with a wierd buddy, Alice, create a brand new type of relations. A domestic on the finish of the World masterfully depicts the charged, fragile relationships of city existence today.
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Extra info for A Home at the End of the World: A Novel
It belongs to the Tale. To the Tale, that is, version 2000. Before this date a thin sheet of soundproof glass slipped itself between the story’s events and the Tale. So long as I wore a contact lens (that is, one lens) I couldn’t tell. It was impossible. There was one thing I couldn’t tell a single soul. I couldn’t even tell myself I couldn’t tell a single soul. I’d lost the secret, if ever I’d had it, of the telling, of the secret, the thing, the lens. This is something that has never happened to me before.
This was in the room on the top floor of the King’s Crown Hotel where I turned up in fear and trembling, almost devoid as I was of hope, sure I’d never make it, the plane in which I’d been holding my life’s breath until it touched down in New York not having touched down in New York but been swept off in the night of a snowstorm until it let itself drop all but broken on Boston. From fogbank to fogbank I descended the floors of hope as the Greyhound bus, I no longer know how I happened to be on it, poked along slow as bad luck, utterly noiselessly and aimlessly wending its way between two cities that were betraying me or that I was betraying between two names.
16582$ $CH2 10-11-07 15:26:55 PS PAGE 27 * * * This whole story turns on an eye, now one of the eyes of one character, now one of the eyes of the other. This comment is totally extraneous to the story’s events. It belongs to the Tale. To the Tale, that is, version 2000. Before this date a thin sheet of soundproof glass slipped itself between the story’s events and the Tale. So long as I wore a contact lens (that is, one lens) I couldn’t tell. It was impossible. There was one thing I couldn’t tell a single soul.
Categories: World Literature