A Singular Man

Colin Firth plays a blinder as a gay English Professor in A Single Man. It's a pity though, that it almost always seems to be straight actors who portray homosexuals and lesbians on screen. I would have hoped that in this day and age we could openly accept Hollywood stars who prefer their own gender rather than keeping them shut up in the veritable closet. So, the straights play gays and the gays play straights and no one is any the wiser. One scene has George Falconer sitting on the couch opposite Jim, his partner of sixteen years, as they are both reading completely different kinds of books: George holds After Many a Summer Dies the Swan by Aldous Huxley, Jim is engrossed by Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote. It’s funny to note that before I became involved in the world of books I would hardly have noticed, let alone rushed home to find the Huxley quotation that seemed so apt on screen: "Experience is not what happens to you; it's what you do with what happens to you."

The Parent Trap

When asked what were their greatest concerns, people, who had long since retired, replied that they worried most about their children! Those children were most likely adults with children of their own but their mums and their dads spend their twilight years fretting over their welfare. Young parents seem to have this fairy tale belief that once their beloved tots reach double figures, they will be able to rest easy, take a backseat at last while independence and self-control kick in, their children released into civilised society to fend for themselves. Excuse me while I laugh hysterically here! Those self-sufficient mini adults only appear to be so because they tell their former minders absolutely nothing about what’s happening in their lives. Zilch. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say, and yet it’s terribly sad. I know many young girls who have gone to England for a termination and returned home, often ill (mentally and physically), not able to confide in and seek comfort from the very people who brought them into the world. I know a tall, handsome, educated young man who so feared his parents’ reaction that, after being thrown from a motorbike, he stayed in bed with a supposed bout of flu while nursing a broken leg under the covers.

Where, though, would the book market be without the misery memoirs that litter the shelves? If children had the ideal parents and nothing untoward ever happened, we would have a utopian society with nary a misery guts in sight. One large book chain came up with the idea of a "Painful Lives" shelf and the publishing industry often refers to this new genre as "Inspirational Lit". Though I would love to know why these readers are so inspired by tales of abuse, trauma and neglect, and yet... And yet I have to respect anyone who climbs out of hardship and suffering and lives to tell the tale. And, there is some comfort to those who have suffered in their own lives to read and identify with others who were in the same situation.

An American writer who has written about her real-life experiences with damaged children is Torey L. Hayden. She was a special education teacher and I have read every single book she has written. She has written variously about autism, Tourette syndrome, sexual abuse, foetal alcohol syndrome, and her particular speciality, selective mutism. When I read her first book, One Child, in 1980, I felt I was there with her in the classroom, trying to reach this child who the world had practically given up on. Misery memoir? Definitely not, but that’s the section where you’ll find this excellent author.

I think (you can never be sure) my offspring know that they can tell me virtually anything and I won’t fall apart: aghast, astonished, disappointed, accusing. I have learnt (I didn’t know this right from the start) to listen passively, keenly and not react like I would have when they were small: "Tell me who hit you and I’ll go and have it out with his mother"! I used to think they wanted someone to yell and shout and demand retribution so they’d know they were loved and protected. Well, I was wrong. I have learnt to keep my emotions to myself most of the time and just be a sounding board; it’s not easy. Sometimes I think my heart will break but luckily I’m made of sturdier stuff. Sometimes I can’t sleep for thinking and worrying. Most times I cut off and get on with my own life.

I’d hate to be that little old lady spending her twilight years worrying about her kids – but apart from my heirs and graces all living blissful, fulfilling, healthy lives, I probably will!

Experience

Dear Martin Amis,

I know that ours is a one sided relationship but I do think we could become very good friends, given half a chance. We are, after all, close enough in age, both driven by words and literature, and family. I feel that I have got to know you, what makes you tick, met quite a few of your relatives and writerly friends – all through the pages of your memoir, Experience.

I’m not saying it was an easy read. I do understand your reason for footnotes but I hated them even as I read every single one. They lounged at the end of the page, ready to qualify throwaway remarks, expand on subjects only hinted at, make the reader fully aware of what exactly had happened; I suppose you could say they served a useful purpose, but they distracted and took from the flow.

Your father, Kingsley, was quite a character. His unflattering rants about some of your work didn’t ever take away from his love for you, didn’t put you off your craft. He never asked you to change or be more like him. There was no competition; only an honesty among equals. Instead, he depended on your unfailing support as his son.

Kingsley couldn’t be alone, truly alone; he scared easily. But you knew this, right from when you were very young, that he needed you and your brother to quell his fears, remind him that he had to hold his end up for both of you. It reminded me of how we, as children, would protect my mother when a storm whipped up and thunder blasted out with flashes of lightening, while she shivered, wordlessly. Parents so rarely show their vulnerable side and yet I wonder if that is why Kingsley was so loved by his children, because they knew that he needed their protection. He was indeed a lucky man.

I just cried when you talked about your cousin, Lucy Partington, who died at the hands of evil bastard, Frederick West. It was horrific and can never be understood. May she rest in peace and may he rot in an everlasting hell.

The rebuilding of your jaw and teeth caused me to remember a time when I used to dream I’d end up with a mouth full of black molars. You wrote of your visits to your dentist, Mike Szabatura, "being fitted and finetuned". I sat with you in Szabatura’s surgery remembering my seven-year-old self when I asked my torturer to stop, as agreed, when I raised my hand. He didn’t so I kicked him hard in the shins, bolted out of the chair and left the building. My father assured me that I would still qualify for a Teddy’s Ice Cream, as promised, before we entered the house of hell. Like you, I tackled my dental inadequacies in later life and now have a sparkling smile that cost a fortune.

There were many times I had to stop and re-read a particular sentence or paragraph, but not because of a lack of understanding, or a momentary lapse in concentration. I stopped to enjoy the way you wrote, the words that fell like jewels from your pen and landed on the page as a piece of art upon a canvas and I’d feel a stab of envy which fell away in the pleasure of it all.

It only remains for me to wish you well, to hope that the good memories outweigh the bad, to say that I remain, most sincerely yours,
Mary Burnham