El problema de ser adulto

"Edmund White is one of America's finest writers. From his early forays into a then edgey genre of stories that happen to include in depth studies of gay men and their questionable place in the public fabric to his current biographies of famous writers (Proust, et al) to his assessment in literary form of the AIDS crisis and it effect on life in all of America, White has become ever more erudite, polished in technique, and fascinating to explore. Because of this current prominence among gifted writers it is rewarding to return to the early works and see if they contained all the seeds of his success. Having just re-read "A Boy's Own Story" I am even more deeply moved and impressed with White than I remembered. This treasureable book is not just a Pink Triangle groupie read. This is wondrously beautiful writing by all standards. White knows how to make the English linguage sing with acute observations that begin with a keen delineation of line but then blossom fully into metaphors than can only be called poems. These descriptions apply not only to walks in nature or observed qualities of light at varying times of day, but they are used to define his characters in such a vivid manner that they literally step off the page, indelibly.
And the story.....this tale of the grappling of a youth over questions not only of sexuality but of coming of age in social, religious, educational, dream vs reality strikes chords in all of us. His unnamed narrator is in a way the Everyman of Youth. White does not go for the happy Hollywood ending: he writes about the truths of decisions gone awry, dreams dismemebered, realites coming into being. I would hope that "A Boy's Own Story" would be part of the required reading list for the liberal arts schools who care about not only quality of literature but also of complexity of becoming an adult."

(reseña de Grady Harp en Amazon).

Unos ejemplos de esta prosa encantada:

(...) but I think the only love is the first. Later we hear its fleeting recapitulations throughout our lives, brief echoes of the original theme in a work that increasingly becomes all development, the mechanical elaboration of a crab canon with too many parts.

(A Boy's Own Story, Edmund White, Picador, 1983, p. 19).

"Oh my boy", she promised me in her brogue, "you want to hear fine singing, I'll play you my John McCormack records, make you weep your damn eyes out of their bloody sockets. That 'Lucevan le stelle', it'll freeze your balls".

(ídem, p. 13).

Quien habla así en esta última cita es Mrs. Cork, la madre de Kevin, el amigo y primer amante del narrador sin nombre. Ella es irlandesa y una cantante de ópera aficionada a las palabrotas y al whiskey, y suele gritar de lo lindo: todo un carácter. Por parte del narrador, su padre es un melómano de pro que tiene los horarios cambiados, de modo que trabaja de noche en su despacho, mientras suena la música de Brahms que asciende por toda la casa. ¿Cómo no aficionarse luego a la mejor música? Y mientras escribo esto suena una Tarantella en Iridian Radio. Y no dejo de pensar en el último sueño, ese retazo en donde veo que unas chicas sostienen unos folletos sobre Italia, es ahí donde se van de vacaciones, el típico circuito de seis días en donde no ves realmente nada. Entonces, sin venir a cuento, escucho que hablan de mí, y que se burlan de mi gusto por la expresión "asco" para terminar ciertas frases. Me encaro con ellas sin solución de continuidad. La noche no es silenciosa ni estrellada. El aire es dulce. Agresividad en mis palabras, pero que no consigo desarrollar del todo (las palabras no sirven en estos casos). No soporto que hablen de mí, como si fuera un fantasma, cuando estoy al lado. La paranoia de la gente. Olvidadme, seguid vuestro camino. ¿Sabes lo que te digo?, que me olvides.

Una cantante, por favor. O una actriz que sepa cantar.