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Moab is my WashpotHe didn’t make me queer, he didn’t make me a bugger or a buggeree, so all’s jake as far as I’m concerned. Besides, all that was BMO, Before Matthew Osborne, and events BMO were rendered meaningless by everything AMO. AMO, as I said, I went loopy. Everything I did publicly and privately became more extreme. Publicly, the jokes and the wildness intensified, privately the stealing became more and more regular. At this time, the only salvation and sense in my life came from reading. It was then that I started on Douglas, Firbank and Forster. It was then that I discovered the novels and autobiographies that reflected my own emotional turmoil and my own circumstances, sometimes so exactly that I alternated between a triumphant feeling of being vindicated and endorsed by the Masters and a deflated sense of being nothing more than a living cliche: The Flannelled Fool, by T. C. Worsley; A Separate Peace, by John Knowles; Sandel by Angus Stewart; Lord Dismiss Us, by Michael Campbell; Escape from the Shadows by Robin Maugham; Autobiography of an Englishman by ‘Y’; The World, The Flesh and Myself by Michael Davidson (with its famous opening line: ‘This is the life-history of a lover of boys.’); The Fourth of June by David Benedictus; Special Friendships by Roger Peyrefitte, and many, many others, which in turn guided me towards the notorious Book Twelve of the Greek Anthology; The Quest For Corvo by A. J. A ...» |
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