Nik Perring’s collection of 22 (short) short stories, Not so Perfect, was one of the most enjoyable books I have read this year. With “flash fiction” taking over the net and with numerous wordslam and livelit events all over the country, I felt it was time I found out more about the ultra short form.

Well, Nik. I really enjoyed Not So Perfect. It was easy to read, refreshing and surprising and…yes the word I want to return to is “refreshing”. Because that is not a word I associate very much with short story collections – which can often be a bit worthy/heavy or about the naturalistic minutia of a character’s life – which is the opposite of these stories. I wonder if you could tell us a bit – first of all – about what you see as the strengths and weaknesses of the very short form  – what it does best and the kind of stories you admire. And also how you came to fall in love with the form.

Thanks for having me here, and thanks for saying such nice things about the book – that makes me very happy. It seems that you’ve got what I was hoping to achieve.

I think that the general perception of short stories is something similar to what you’ve said – that they’re elitist or very worthy or only for Very Clever People – not all that different to what a lot of people think about poetry. But, on most occasions, that couldn’t be further from the truth.

I’ve said this an awful lot of late but I firmly believe that stories (regardless of length, and yes I am including novels in this) are as long as they are. As long as they need to be. Some are long (ie novels) and some aren’t. And I think it’s the writer’s job to tell them how they should be told.

Short stories (very short ones I’d include here too), I think, suit telling us about moments, and often they’re no longer than the moments they’re telling us about but stay with us long after. Let me ask you a question: how long did your first kiss last? I’ll imagine not all that long. And yet, how much of it can you remember? Something like that – a big moment, albeit one short in time – stays with you – that’s what short stories can do.

They’re also good at getting right to the point, at getting to the nub of a situation. Everything else can be stripped away – anything not absolutely relevant can be ignored. We get what we need, nothing more, nothing less. And that can be, if it’s done well, hugely affecting and efficient and, let’s not forget – fun too.

So the kind of stories I admire would be ones that do the above – ones that move me and resonate. That change me – that make me see things slightly differently.

Do you think the ultra short form forces more stylisation over naturalism?

I don’t think it forces anything. It may lend itself to being more stylistic, or present more opportunities to write that way but I think what it really comes down to is each individual story being told in the way that’s best for it.

What is your idea of a perfect short story? What are you trying to achieve with each piece?

The perfect short story will change you in some way. It will be exactly as long as it is and it will stay with you forever. It will echo. It will be life-changing experience. It should be like swimming with dolphins or remembering why, exactly, you love someone. It would be something like Kurt Vonnegut’s ‘Harrison Bergeron’ or Etgar Keret’s ‘Breaking The Pig’ or ‘Hat Trick’ or Aimee Bender’s ‘Jinx’ or ‘Ironhead’ or neil Gaiman’s ‘Babycakes’. Or it would be like ‘The Meeting’ or the ‘The Rememberer’.

And what am I trying to achieve? I think I just want to tell good stories that people can get something out of.

The  surreal imagery or events of the stories seemed to represent emotions and states of mind in relationships,  and I found this a powerful device.  Was this intended ?

If it worked and if you liked it then: ABSOLUTELY!

More seriously – yes. And I suppose the shorter form presents us with more opportunities to do this. Maybe, because we’re dealing with things that are right there in front of you and haven’t taken x number of thousands of words to build, maybe we can afford to be more surreal and use stranger images as metaphors. The thing that’s important to me though is that, no matter how fantastic or odd or weird these characters or situations are, they need to feel familiar. It’s all about the story and the characters and what they’re feeling and what they do and not about just using weird images; those images need to have a purpose and to add to the story. In one story a woman is throwing up small mammals, but that’s not what the story’s about – it’s about her relationship with her husband – the animals, though integral, are incidental.

These stories have different histories –published in different places and at different times. How conscious were you of working on them as a collection first and foremost or is it more a matter of good luck that they seem to fit so well together?

Good luck, I think! If, a few months ago, someone would have asked me what I did, I’d have told them ‘I write stories’. And if they’d then have asked ‘What about?’ I’d have scratched my head, frowned, and said something like ‘err, things. And stuff. You know. Life. Some of them are sad, some are a bit weird’. And that’s as far as I’d have got. That I’d written them is really the only thing that I’d have thought connected them.

When I write a story I’ll do it for the story’s sake – it would never have crossed my mind that it should, in any way, be linked to anything I’d written before (unless that was my intention). Unless you’re lucky enough to have a collection published (few of which contain stories that are linked – mostly they’re collections) most short stories will get published in magazines or anthologies or wherever on their own – so they’ll have to be good in their own right.

I should say though that a few of my stories were left out of the collection because they didn’t fit with the others – but I think that had more to do with my publisher seeing a bigger picture than anything I’d have noticed. A collection of short stories is a collection of short stories and they don’t have to fit together, in my opinion. It’s nice when they do though!

What themes interest you most and why?

That’s a really, really difficult one to answer. I don’t consciously decide to write about anything in particular – ideas just happen and if I think they’ll make for interesting stories I’ll try to write them.

But. All that said, I don’t think, on reading the book (and having written it!) that I can really get away from: the not so perfect relationships we have with the people we share this world with. So there’s jealously, betrayal, loss, anger, loneliness, sadness, and a celebration and look at being what we are, even though we may not always fit in.

Characters are often barely described in your stories and remain more ambiguous as “he”or “she”. Is this a deliberate thing?

It is. Yes. And probably for two reasons. The stories, themes and emotions in the stories are, I hope, universal ones. They aren’t gender or age specific. We don’t have to be female to be shy about a love interest, nor do we have to be old to know what losing someone feels like. So I like to keep the characters, even though they are very much who they are, as universal as possible. Unless they need names – and if they do they’ll get ‘em!

I also really love fairy tales and the way they’re told and I like to put a bit of that into my stories too.

Often what the characters look like either doesn’t matter (because that detail’s irrelevant to the story) or is best left to the reader, which can make the story more personal to them. Sometimes they need to be ambiguous or, perhaps, mysterious.

As I said earlier I very much liked the surreal touches and I read this as symbolic of moods and emotions. I felt  the very short form was perfect for this as it almost has a quality like poetry, where symbols and images become more powerful than they would in a longer form. Can you talk a bit about the imagery and surrealism in your work? Something like the woman vomiting up a lemur is an extraordinarily strong (and extraordinarily weird) image, and yet treated perfectly normally within the story framework. How did this particular story come to you and what does it represent?

I’m glad you took them that way because that’s how they are meant. As I said earlier, they’re there for a reason and for them to work they have to appear as things that are entirely normal – they aren’t why the story’s been written. I think it’s the duty of any form of writing to paint a picture of the story so the reader can see, in their own mind, what’s happening and I suppose what I try to do is a slightly different take on that (or perhaps even some sort of perverse, or reverse, personification where feelings and emotions are converted into actual physical things).

How did ‘My Wife Threw Up A Lemur’ come about? It started, if memory serves, with the idea of a woman, instead of having babies, having animals – which was quickly changed (because it was more interesting and better visually) to her throwing them up. And then I asked myself why she’d be doing that – and without wanting to give too much of the story away (so I’ll only half answer this – sorry!) – I decided it was representative of people making excuses in relationships, of having other interests – of a married couple, while walking the same path and being in love with each other, having completely different goals and hopes and ideas of what they want from the marriage. Or maybe it’s about a broken marriage working. Or maybe it’s about how some relationships work. They both like the animals, I think, though probably for different reasons. Does that make sense? Thought not! Anyway – I’m the author and I might not be qualified to answer the question!

When do you know a story is finished?

I just kind of do. I think that has a lot to do with my process.

I write first drafts longhand. They’ll get a half-edit while they’re being typed up. I’ll then print them out and edit again. Once I’m happy that I can’t do any more I’ll read the story aloud, making corrections (I always find things I can change at this stage) as I go. Then when I’m happy absolutely nothing else can be done I’ll record me reading the story and listen to it back. It’s when I don’t need to record any more drafts that I know a story’s cooked.

Some people call the very short form Flash Fiction. Quite a few of our readers won’t be familiar with the term – can you define it for them and talk a bit about what is going on out there in the exciting world of Flash Fiction right now?

Flash Fiction is a pretty new name for what used to be called the short-short story. And that’s exactly what they are: short, short stories. They’ve been around for a long, long time; Chekhov, Hemingway, Vonnegut, O Henry, Ray Bradbury and Franz Kafka all wrote them – to name but a few. And that’s without mentioning folk and fairy tales and fables and the like.

I think the term ‘flash’ and its apparent rise in popularity has an awful lot to do with the internet. There are a good number of excellent on-line journals and zines that publish high quality short stories and poetry, with some (like the absolutely brilliant SmokeLong Quarterly) focussing on nothing but flash. And this is ALL GOOD. It’s made the form accessible . People can read it, whenever they like and for free. There’s no need to invest in subscriptions to journals or literary mags (which I still love, I should say) – and I think what’s happened is people have read it, found they quite like the form, and have been tempted into buying collections of short work. I’m not sure that would have happened, to such a degree, before the internet.

Praise too should go to people like Roast Books who are publishing it.

Is there a difference between Flash and Short Story apart from length? Where does Not So Perfect fall – is it Flash or Short Story?

I’m not all that fond of putting things in boxes unless it’s absolutely necessary or helpful. In my opinion, Not So Perfect is a collection of short stories, though admittedly, as short stories go, these are on the shorter side. There are probably half a dozen in there that would definitely qualify as flash, though that doesn’t make them NOT short stories.

Why the title?

I think it does what it says on the tin, so to speak. The characters in the book, and the situations and relationships they find themselves in, are definitely Not So Perfect.

Tell us your five favourite books (or stories ) (or pieces of Flash Fiction) and why.

Because there are SO many utterly brilliant short stories out there, I’ll limit my five to ones written by contemporary authors.

• ‘The Meeting’ by Aimee Bender, from the collection ‘Willful Creatures’. It’s a short story that’s as funny as it is moving and feels absolutely real. I think it’s probably perfect.

• ‘Breaking The Pig’ by Etgar Keret, from the collection ‘The Bus Driver Who Wanted To Be God’. A magical story, full of heart, about a boy’s relationship with his dad, about growing up, about finding out what you really care for – even if that is only a piggy bank.

• ‘Caro At The Pool’ by Clare Wigfall, from the collection ‘The Loudest Sound And Nothing’. Clare Wigfall is an incredibly clever writer and I think story shows just how much and why. It’s what isn’t said in this that makes it so good.

• ‘Wind’ by Michael Czyzniejewski, from the collection ‘Elephants In Our Bedroom’. Wonderful concept – it begins: ‘…All of a sudden, nobody can explain wind,’ which then moves off in a direction you wouldn’t see coming, about a man worrying whether he’s fit to be a father.

• ‘Temp’ by Mary Miller, from the collection, ‘Big World’. A heart-breaking and realist story about a relationship that’s broken. It’s wonderful.

Thanks so much Nik for talking to Vulpes Libris.

Thanks so much for having me. And for making me think Very Hard about your questions!

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About Nik Perring

Nik Perring is a writer, and occasional teacher of writing, from the north west. His short stories have been published widely in places including SmokeLong Quarterly, 3 :AM and Word Riot. They’ve also been read at events and on radio, printed on fliers and used as part of a high school distance learning course in the US.

Nik’s debut collection of short stories, NOT SO PERFECT is published by Roast Books and is out now. Nik blogs here and his website’s at www.nperring.com.

More:

Anne’s review of Not so Perfect on Vulpes.

Interview with publisher, Roast Books

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RosyB writes comedy novels and is presently embedded somewhere in the middle of a screenplay. She hopes to make it out alive sometime next year.

Roast Books burst on the scene in 2008 with a very different approach to publishing. Their A-Z of Possible Worlds (reviewed here by Lisa) consisted of a box in which individual stories were wrapped like tiny pampthlets – each to be read separately. A series of novellas – called Great Little Reads – are beautiful hold-in-the-hand items, especially designed with the commuter in mind. Their latest publication is a tiny square book of 22 short short stories – or flash fiction stories – from Nik Perring (reviewed here by Anne). RosyB decided to find out more  and talks to Managing Director Faye Dayan about this very unusual publisher.

First of all, could you perhaps introduce us to Roast Books  – I read that you said you started Roast Books at the age of twenty-five with a “streak of madness and a love of books”.  I’m really impressed! What made you join a notoriously difficult industry  and have you always known that you wanted to run your own publisher?

Well I suppose it’s mad isn’t it, to enter an industry that is so internally confused right now. But yes, I always wanted to be a part of producing special books, which really deserve to be read, even though they might not be commercially popular. Starting my own project was a good way to have control over this. Roast Books started as an outlet to see more books published as beautiful objects, and provide a new, young channel for undiscovered British authors.

In this era of virtual reality and the internet: digital content and ebooks, Roast Books seems to have deliberately gone the other way in terms of firmly establishing its love of the book as an aesthetic and even a tactile object. Can you tell me more about this in general terms – how this came about and why?

Well, it is such an amazing time in terms of digital books, reading and writing online, publishing online and soon I’m sure the books will be In our heads, or under our skin, or god knows what. But there’s the challenge! It was a decision to reach out to those who like to hold a book, and value it for its form as well as content. It is actually quite motivating to try and inspire people who are digital converts and remind them of the great thing about tangibility and physicality.

How did you come up with the idea for the presentation of An A-z of Possible Worlds and how have people reacted to the unique box-of-treasures idea?

The author originally presented her stories as individual objects, packaged up in a box, and it suited the stories perfectly, and we felt enhanced the whole experience of reading, rather than distracting from it. The work plays on the idea of journeys, in fact the whole book is a journey around the mind.  The booklets can be read in any order, and they are perfect to take out one at a time and fit in your bag or pocket. It was practical therefore as well as conceptual. The reaction was a positive one!  It’s a real ‘book-lovers’ object and one that I hope buyers will go back to again and again.

The short story and the short story collection are traditionally thought to be a hard sell these days. Yet I’ve noticed quite a few of your works are short story collections or novellas – was this a deliberate decision to go for a form that other publishers tend to steer away from? What draws you to the short format and are you approaching them differently to the more mainstream presses.

It is certainly an area that many presses stay away from, which means that there are some top quality writers who need independents to take a risk and think laterally about how to sell and present their work – That is what Roast is trying to do.

Where do you think the short story is in publishing terms right now and what does the future hold for the form with the emergence of flash fiction and stories on the internet etc?

I think the short story is really coming into its own right now. The internet is the perfect medium for these short works, which is great, since it raises awareness of the genre. But at the other end of the spectrum, authors such as Nik Perring, and David Gaffney who have their flash work in print are really opening up the genre to non-internet readers.

Roast Books is making a splash with its unusual formats – for example an A-Z is a beautiful box of individually printed stories and Nik Perring’s perfectly square Not so Perfect. How do you go about deciding on the right format for a work? What is the process and what is the effect you are hoping to have on the reader?

It’s intuitive. But there is a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and throwing out of ideas so the process can be painful. And we make sure that the author is also involved closely with creative decisions. The risk is forcing a concept on a work which acts against it, or turns it into a gimmick, so it can be tricky. The ideal effect is that a reader is intrigued and tantalised by the presentation at first and then once they start reading, the packaging only enhances what they are experiencing.

Nik Perring’s short story collection Not so Perfect is perfectly square. I was reminded of the way Beatrix Potter’s tiny books worked for me as a child – creating a playful and childlike experience. I really liked this as it seemed to make the story as a form less ponderous and heavy, less intimidating. Can you take a bit more about this collection and what you were seeking to do with the square format.

Well I think you have expressed it beautifully – a playful and childlike experience. I think flash pieces have to be treated like treasure, to be discovered and savoured, and kept safe in a box; in a square box.

Does Roast Books have specific strategies for dealing with the challenges of being a small independent publisher – particularly in the current publishing climate. How do you market and publicise your books?

Yes, the High Street book-buying climate is definitely tough for indies like Roast! We rely a lot on the fantastic network of bloggers and online forums where people actively engage with each other about new books and debut authors.

With marketing, I try to cater for each book individually, rather than have a policy that applies to all the titles. It also depends on the author, and how active they are prepared to be in this area.

With ‘An A-Z of Possible Worlds’, we really pushed the book as a product, and tried to promote it as much as possible within the literary fiction genre, whereas with our latest collection of short stories, Nik Perring, the author has worked incredibly hard to help us publicize the book through interviews, events and targeting audiences in his area.  The most important thing is not to see each publication as ‘just another title’ but to treat each one separately and market from scratch.

How did you come up with the name Roast Books?

Originally I liked the cooking metaphor, since roasting is such an art (one which I can’t do very well in the kitchen). And then there’s the double meaning of to challenge or question. And the word sounds nice.

We have a lot of writers that read Vulpes Libris – could you tell us about your submissions policy. What defines a “typical” Roast Book?

Great question. Originality, literary quality and the potential to wow; Works which have yet find a home because of their quirkiness; Pieces which are floating aimlessly having been rejected by less adventurous publishers; Debut writing from bright sparks yet to be disillusioned by the ruthless criterion of major publishing houses… Our submissions policy is to please email synopsis, C.V. and first three chapters to info@roastbooks.co.uk

People often ask what exactly we are looking for, style wise, at Roast. It sounds simple but good writing is top of the list. Subjective? Perhaps, but there it is.  We look mainly for contemporary short fiction, but not exclusively. We also spy for books that might demand a more inventive presentation and offer something extra to the reader.

What’s next for the company and what projects do we have to look forward to from Roast Books in the coming year?

Neo chick-lit with a vodka twist!

Later this summer we are releasing ‘My Soviet Kitchen’ by Amy Spurling, which comes complete with its own companion guide to life in the ex-USSR featuring advice and recipes, which the novel’s protagonist picks up on her travels.

Lastly , in good old Vulpes’ tradition: give us your five favourite books.

1. An A-Z of Possible Worlds (that’s one of ours if I’m allowed)
2. Marianne Dreams by Catherine Storr
3. The Book of Disquiet – Fernando Pessoa
4. Sentimental Education – Flaubert
5. 2666 – Roberto Bolano (current favourite)

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For further interviews and reviews with Roast Books check out The Literateur interview and review, the Keeper of Snails interview and Kimbofo’s Reading Matters

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RosyB admits to being a bit of an arty-farty who loves a bit of quirky imagination. She also writes the odd comedy novel – you can find out more about her here.

Unfortunately, due to illness, we’re not going to be able to bring you Kirsty’s much-anticipated piece on Boris Godunov today. Hopefully we will be able to bring that to you at a future date.

In the meantime, you might like to take a listen to Radio Four’s Open Book (which I heard this afternoon). Amongst other things, it was really heartening to hear a really good discussion on self-publishing that treated self-publishing with proper respect and discusses how the sector might impact on the future of publishing…

..well, I found it interesting anyway.

Until tomorrow…

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This gorgeous pic is from Mike Baird on Flickr and reproduced under a Creative Commons License. For the original link press here.

Part of GLBT week on Vulpes Libris

I first saw the iconic Granada TV series of Brideshead Revisited as a child. I can’t quite remember how old I was, but I don’t think I had hit puberty.  I remember the fluster of hormonal older girls excitedly discussing which of Jeremy Irons and Anthony Andrews was the more scrumptious – whereas I was not yet in that swooning breastbeating state of teenage unrequitedness.

But I did love them all the same in my own childlike fashion.

Then, one night, at the dinner table my parents and sister embarked on a ground-breaking conversation.  Was Charles and Sebastian’s relationship a homosexual one? What did “homosexual” mean I asked.  I was told the answer. And was absolutely horrified . (I was a very prudish child). Charles and Sebastian couldn’t be homosexual! I mean, I couldn’t even stomach the idea of anything sexual. They were pure as the driven snow. No way!

A day or two later and I was over it. I wasn’t stupid. Watching the series it seemed obvious, even to my innocent eyes that their relationship was certainly a romantic one. So, they were gay. Shrug. What did it matter? I still loved them. And I got back to watching my beloved characters for the rest of the series and thought little more of it.

Until a week or so ago when the subject cropped up rather unexpectedly on Radio 4’s The Reunion, which had gathered together survivors of the original cast. Asked about whether Charles and Sebastian’s relationship was a sexual one, Jeremy Irons – much to my astonishment – appeared to deny it. And this, despite Waugh’s own background, despite the incredible real-life characters thought by many to inspire the Flyte family, despite the numerous hints and suggestions within the book and series. (Anthony Andrews, I noticed, said nothing. Wise man.)

A brief low-down

For anyone unfamiliar with Brideshead, let me give you a brief low-down of the plot. Charles Ryder,  a middle-class army officer, returns to a stately home (Brideshead) which is shut up and being used as  soldier base during the Second World War. He is deeply familiar with the place and so is set of his chain of nostalgic and bittersweet remembrances – his first encounter with his great friend at Oxford, Lord Sebastian Flyte,  who he falls in love with (for his charm, for his beauty, for his class) and his subsequent doomed affair with Sebastian’s sister, Julia,  who he falls in love with (for her beauty and her resemblance to Sebastian) and his love affair with the Flyte family and the house itself (which he falls in love with for its beauty, its charm etc etc – you get the picture – and all it represents to him of pre-War values, the aristocracy, tradition, etc etc  etc).

The recent film and the “gay kiss” controversy

The recent film version of Brideshead had no doubt about the “gay” element.  Charles is warned off Sebastian’s set at Oxford as they are all “sodomites” and Lord Marchmain’s lover Cara turns to Charles at one point and tells him (in case we’re in any doubt) that this romantic friendship with Sebastian is just a phase he is going through, whereas for Sebastian it is rather more serious, she fears. If still in doubt, the film presents us with the tamest of man-on-man action – when Sebastian nips in with a quick smacker on the lips and Charles turns away with an enigmatic smirk in response. (This last causing some controversy).

I am sympathetic to the film and its intentions. There is a very interesting performance from Ben Wishaw (who is a terrific actor) and in some ways I preferred Hayley Atwell’s more robust and life-affirming Julia to Diana Quick’s more brittle version (although the latter seemed more like the book). I am sympathetic to the way the film is trying avoid presenting the religious themes, the snobbery and the pre-War aristocratic hedonistic excess through nostalgia-tinted spectacles and to bring out the homosexuality was a brave move and could have yielded some very interesting results.

However, at the end of the day – for me, the film doesn’t quite work and is more an interesting interpretation than a complete piece all of its own.   By making the subtext the text, the film narrows down the possibilities and ends up saying rather less than the book or the TV series – and, ironically, ends up becoming  more heterosexual than either.

The film presents a very simplistic and unsatisfying love triangle of which Sebastian is the losing party from the start.  As soon as Charles encounters Julia – that’s it. The story becomes a much more conventional love across the divides of class and religion sort of plot, with a sad Sebastian dying of a broken heart in the background – rejected by Charles.

In the book and the TV series, Charles loses Sebastian – to drink, to addiction and to his extreme crisis (of faith? Of family? Of meaning? ) and self-imposed exile.  It is a more powerful  loss for the fact it is such a realistic portrait of alcoholism, familiar to so many people. Sebastian is bent on self-destruction and self-destruct he does. He rejects Charles in the end, not the other way round, and Julia has nothing to do with it.

The quest for reality: signs and signals

In some ways, this quest for the reality behind a book or drama  – are Charles and Sebastian lovers? Is Charles bisexual or just going through “a phase” ? etc – is meaningless. Charles and Sebastian (of course) do not exist. There is no “what really happened” there is only what we are told happens. But there IS the underlying reality in terms of what we are meant to understand from the signs and signals that Waugh sets out for us.

For me, these signs and signals are clear. First of all, is the incredible dominance of Sebastian as a character within the book.  The series (which I saw first) and the book itself (that I read much later) share the same problem: that they are works of two halves. And the first half is so attractive, so dramatic, so dominant – that the second half just falls away somewhat. The first half of Brideshead is all about Sebastian and Charles’ relationship with him. The second half is about Julia – and the novel cannot conjure the same sense of rapture when concerned with this character.

It is rare to find a character in a book that is so charming off the page. Sebastian is light and witty and fun and generous.

Sebastian entered – dove-grey flannel, white crepe de Chine, a Charvet tie, my tie as it happened, a pattern of postage stamps – “Charles – what in the world’s happening at your college? Is there a circus? I’ve seen everything except elephants. I must say the whole of Oxford has become most peculiar suddenly. Last night it was pullulating with women, You’re to come away at once, out of danger. I’ve got a motor-car and a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Chateau Peyraguey- which isn’t a wine you’ve ever tasted, so don’t pretend. It’s heaven with strawberries”

“Where are we going?”

“To see a friend.”

“Who?”

“Name of Hawkins. Bring some money in case we see anything we want to buy. The motor-car is the property of a man called Hardcastle. Return the bits to him if I kill myself; I’m not very good at driving.”

This famous opening scene is so casual and it is so easy to get swept up in Sebastian’s easy charm and miss those little clues. That he is so casually turning up in Charles’ tie, for example – not “a tie I lent him” or “why does he have my tie?” but a tie that he is casually possessing and sees no need to explain or excuse. (Why, we wonder, is the tie even mentioned at all if it is not telling us something here?) The humorous mention of the women is also interesting – these are not young men expressing excitement at the thought of the young women’s presence (somewhat unusual you might have thought). Rather they are – however comically – seeking to escape; Sebastian rescuing Charles from their clutches.

“Hawkins” we assume to be some male acquaintance along the lines of “a man called Hardcastle” in fact turns out to be Sebastian’s nanny – someone he wants Charles to meet and who he obviously loves dearly.

The whole of the first half of the book is thick with Sebastian. His beauty is constantly referred to and his character dominates the novel in a way that Julia’s simply can’t compete with. Just as Charles is infatuated with him – the audience are invited to become infatuated with him and it is Julia who is frequently described as resembling Sebastian, not the other way round.  We are forever told that she looks like him – in the book and in the Tv series (despite the fact that Anthony Andrews and Diana Quick are about as similar as Arnold Swarzenegger and Danny DeVito in Twins. ) Her beauty is a female facsimile of his beauty. Charles is drawn to her because she reminds him of his beloved friend. When she asks Charles later in the novel why he married he says simply he was missing Sebastian, suggesting more than friendship and more, even, than an affair – but a real care and companionship: love.

The unbelievers

I did think, before researching this piece, that although it is obvious we are to understand that Charles and Sebastian have some sort of homosexual relationship,  that  it  doesn’t really matter. We are far too hung up on sex in this country. What does it matter whether they consummated some sexual act, there is still a sexual/romantic fixation whatever way you look at it – doesn’t it demean homosexual love to always reduce it down to the old “did they or didn’t they?” question?

However, since researching the reaction to the recent film and finding articles like this, I’ve decided that perhaps it is important, after all, to properly argue what is obvious to many, what is the obvious and overwhelming case. And show why these other viewpoints simply make no sense.

Look at this  quote from screenwriting blogger Barbara Nicolosi in relation to the recent film version:

“The nature of the relationship between Charles and Sebastian is quite thoroughly discussed in the book. And Sebastian is repeatedly set off from the group Evelyn Waugh dubs “the sodomites” who are led by Antony Blanche – who in the book is THE homosexual in the story AND whose role in the story is to articulate the point-of-view of well, Satan. The key discussion of the relationship between Charles and Sebastian comes through the analysis of the Italian mistress, Kara. She speaks of “these romantic male friendships that you British have,” which occur in youth and are a precursor for adult love. Her warning about the relationship has to do with the fact that chumming around getting sloshed and being feckless with your buddies is something children do, and that growing up will mean letting the idyllic, wistful summers of childhood go. And she thinks Sebastian is going to struggle to accept adulthood.”

Crumbs.

I don’t agree with any of this. For one thing anyone who knows anything about the history of the British public school system will know that “these romantic male friendships that you British have” is the most obvious euphemism in the history of euphemisms. Whether those involved were “homosexual” in the categorising of themselves sense or not at the end of the day (whatever you think of the whole categorising can of worms), Cara is clearly referring to gay relations that many men of the time might have had in the all-male environments of school and college.

Sebastian is clearly a depiction of a homosexual man. It seems just plain bloody-minded to refuse to see it. He shows no interest in women. He is possessive of Charles, he is surrounded by overtly homosexual characters – including Anthony Blanche, the almost Wildean stuttering aesthete who speaks far more wisdom than anyone ever gives him credit for including a rather interesting speech about the danger of charm (voice of Satan? – I don’t think so!!). And when Charles meets Sebastian in the midst of his alcoholic decline abroad he is living with a male companion – Kurt – who he tends to and looks after with great tenderness.  Is HE just another innocent “male friendship” to do with Sebastian’s refusal to take responsibility and grow up as some would have us believe? Or is this actually the depiction of a man living with another man – as a companion, a partner, a lover – abroad and in exile away from a country where such an obvious live-in partnership would be scandalous and where homosexuality was illegal? The latter interpretation is obvious: it just makes more sense.

The idea that “the nature of the relationship between Charles and Sebastian is quite thoroughly discussed” is erronious. Homosexuality was illegal. It was not discussed and even books like “Maurice” – EM Forster’s openly gay work, were not published until the 1970s. Waugh seems uncomfortable even showing a sex scene between Charles and Julia – it is one-off, extremely brief and not very romantic. But the other question is not why doesn’t Waugh put in more obvious graphic stuff – which I think answers itself – but why he puts in so much context and clues if he doesn’t want us to go down that line of thought. If Sebastian is just an innocent asexual childman – why include Blanche, why those clues and references I outlined in the scene above, why does Charles’ cousin refer to Sebastian’s set as “sodomites”, why have him living with Kurt in exile? Why go on and on and on about love and romantic love in relation to Charles and Sebastian?

A bit of background

And if none of THAT convinces you – let’s look at some context.

Last year, Paula Byrne’s book “Mad World” claimed that Waugh had at least three “full-fledged homosexual affairs” at Oxford. She also claimed that Waugh’s friend, Hugh Lygon, was the inspiration for the character of Sebastian. Whether this is correct or not, Lygon’s story is interesting in itself – as a backdrop to the book, a context for the world in which Waugh moved (or would have liked to move) and for what it tells us about the open secret of sexuality amongst the upper classes at that time.

Hugh Lygon was with Waugh at Oxford and it has been suggested that they had an affair. Hugh – like Sebastian – was charming and beautiful . And gay. He was also a prodigious alcoholic and died tragically when young. But the story of his father, the 7th Earl Beauchamp, is even more fascinating – a man whose homosexuality was known to his friends and his own children, who embarked on numerous affairs with his male servants. He was forced into exile by accusations by his wife’s brother and lived on the continent – like Lord Marchmain in Brideshead Revisited (who lived in self-imposed exile after a wild life and “living in sin” with his Italian longterm lover). Interestingly, his children stuck by him and held him in great affection and continued to visit him abroad. The Lygons – like the Flytes – were also catholic. Whether or not you believe that the Flytes were based on the Lygon family – with whom Waugh remained closely allied all his life – it is still fascinating to see the context which surrounded Waugh – and indeed the upper classes at that time. It makes the idea of Brideshead’s innocence (as espoused by some internet writers) seem rather laughable.

At the end of the day, whether Hugh Lygon is Sebastian hardly matters – but what it does show was that Waugh was surrounded by openly gay friends and, what’s more, he stayed friends with them and their families throughout his life. I doubt there was much that would shock him – Catholic convert or not.

The verdict

As this is LGBT week on Vulpes Libris, I set out to look at this one theme and one question. I haven’t even touched on the themes of class and religion (about which I have just cut copious words for the sake of blog brevity and focus). Perhaps another time.

In the meantime I will leave you with this lovely and illuminating article by John Mortimer – a little nostalgia-trip in itself about that original TV series.

Oh yes, and the answer to the original question?

Most definitely.