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A review by thisotherbookaccount
A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood
2.0
If I am going to be honest, this is more like a 1.5-star book. The first 10 pages of this book gave me hope. If Christopher Isherwood had given me 190 more pages of the same thing, A Single Man would no doubt be one of my favourite books of the year. The descriptions of George waking up in the morning, getting dressed and thinking about Jim is some of the best writing on loneliness that I have ever come across.
Then there is the rest of the book.
Take a piece of paper, and this paper represents George's heart. Now take a penknife and carve out vaguely humanoid shape, and let's call it Jim. But instead of talking about the Jim-shaped hole in George's life, A Single Man is more concerned with... what exactly? The book is mostly a collection of disconnected, meandering vignettes as George goes through his day. He drives to work and fantasises about beating people up on the freeway; he argues about Greek mythology with his students in school; he laments about the apartment block that now blocks direct views of the oceanfront near his home. These are no doubt random thoughts that normal people like you and me have in the course of a day, but after the first 10 pages of George thinking about the death and loss of Jim, it makes a strange detour to focus on mundane everyday nothings.
And that is the case for the rest of the book, really. Nothing actually happens, and Jim seldom ever factors into his everyday life, it seems. Ultimately, it's not a complete roadkill, but it sure does smell like it. The overwhelming sensation I have at the end of the book, more than anything else, is 'disappointing'.
Then there is the rest of the book.
Take a piece of paper, and this paper represents George's heart. Now take a penknife and carve out vaguely humanoid shape, and let's call it Jim. But instead of talking about the Jim-shaped hole in George's life, A Single Man is more concerned with... what exactly? The book is mostly a collection of disconnected, meandering vignettes as George goes through his day. He drives to work and fantasises about beating people up on the freeway; he argues about Greek mythology with his students in school; he laments about the apartment block that now blocks direct views of the oceanfront near his home. These are no doubt random thoughts that normal people like you and me have in the course of a day, but after the first 10 pages of George thinking about the death and loss of Jim, it makes a strange detour to focus on mundane everyday nothings.
And that is the case for the rest of the book, really. Nothing actually happens, and Jim seldom ever factors into his everyday life, it seems. Ultimately, it's not a complete roadkill, but it sure does smell like it. The overwhelming sensation I have at the end of the book, more than anything else, is 'disappointing'.