Finished.
I judge books (and by extension, authors) by how well they can draw emotions out of me, and the emotion I have the most appreciation for, as a literary tool, is sadness. By this metric David Levithan's
Two Boys Kissing is one of the best books I've ever read. The book mainly consists of vignettes about various boys and their relationships (or lack thereof) with friends, family and each other, narrated by a chorus of those lost to AIDs in the 70s and 80s. It's the narrative device, that I think, is the real triumph of this book.
Instead of throwing facts and dates and persons and numbers at us like a Wikipedia article, what Levithan does is capture the emotions of those who died to AIDs by letting them speak through the narrators, as if they were still watching over the LGBT youth of today. They are simultaneously envious of, concerned by, proud of, dismayed by, heartbroken by and joyful of their legacy and the inheritors of their legacy. It's the side of history that people never really get to see in school, which is usually very dry and emotionally distanced. If history is cataloging the facts of the past, then stories like these serve to remember the experience.
And it must be a very harrowing experience indeed. Usually, when I'm reading any kind of book with an emotional climax, there's a build up, a peak, and then the denouement. If there are tears to be shed then it's either at the peak or the denouement. However, while reading
Two Boys Kissing, I found my eyes regularly being blurred by tears, always at the segments where the narrators are recounting their lives and their losses. Somehow it feels so much more real, even though the narration is vague enough that it could be attributed to anything.
While ruminating about
Two Boys Kissing on the subway, I suddenly thought of Cormac
McCarthy's
The Road and wondered why, despite the better ambiance and language, it never affected me the same way
Two Boys Kissing did. I decided that it was because the prose was just too dense, and instead of drawing me into the plight of the father and son, all it did was distract me because I was paying more attention to the writing than to the characters. There's none of that feeling of suffocation here. Levithan's prose is grounded, earthed, simple, but still overflowing with implications and, most of all, sorrow. Ultimately, this kind of writing resonates with me more strongly than anything in
The Road did, more strongly than most stories I've encountered.
I'll leave a little snippet here in order to illustrate what I mean about Levithan's prose:
There are boys lying awake, hating themselves. There are boys screwing for the right reasons and boys screwing for the wrong ones. There are boys sleeping on benches and under bridges, and luckier unlucky boys sleeping in shelters, which feel like safety but not like home. There are boys so enraptured by love that they can’t get their hearts to slow down enough to get some rest, and other boys so damaged by love that they can’t stop picking at their pain. There are boys who clutch secrets at night in the same way they clutch denial in the day. There are boys who do not think of themselves at all when they dream. There are boys who will be woken in the night. There are boys who fall asleep with phones to their ears.
And men. There are men who do all of these things. And there are some men, fewer and fewer, who fall to bed and think of us. In their dreams, we are still by their side. In their nightmares, we are still dying. In the blurriness of night, they reach for us. They say our names in their sleep. To us, this is the most meaningful, most heartbreaking sound we ever had the privilege and misfortune to know. We whisper their names back to them. And in their dreams, maybe they hear.
Reading at the moment as I continue this YA kick: