Literature

The Folding Star: A Novel by Alan Hollinghurst

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By Alan Hollinghurst

1995 Booker Prize finalist

Alan Hollinghurst’s hypnotic and exquisitely written novel tells the tale of Edward Manners, a disaffected 33-year-old who leaves England to earn his dwelling as a language teach in a Flemish urban. shortly he falls in love with certainly one of his students, yet can in simple terms console himself with different, illicit affairs. With this novel, Hollinghurst exposes us fearlessly to the results of unfulfillable, annihilating desire.

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Her hair reminded him of the vanilla his mother used to bake cookies. It seemed to him he could almost hear the little sighs of her body, lie tried to understand it. He watched tin4 snow on the window, packing itself tightlv. embracing evcrvthing he wanted, everything that gave meaning to lile i came bv yesterday afternoon. " “1was out sitting on a bench near the bridge tovvei When tin* sun shines 1 tr> to believe the world can be as good a place a* the best people, according to Munk. or contrarv to him have 1i wanted it to be.

The cat slept with her. ” He didn’t answer. “Do you mind if 1go on eating, Fitzi? ” Dita handed back the note with her left hand. ” She had scarcely bothered to read the heading. ” “I’m certainly not trying to talk you out of it,” she said finally. “IUU it really would be burglary. And I’m not even sure if 1 am a good-senough friend to bring you a bowl of tripe soup in jail. You had better buy that dog, Fitzi. ” K V On Friday night Lev Goldblat just missed Alfred \euge- ■■ born. He had told Isabelle that he was going out late to lay poison baits in the rat traps.

Do I look like I’m stand­ ing naked, talking, half hiding behind my clothes? Funny, for a moment she did feel naked. “I dreamed that I was lying on something spongy that smelled like pound cake, probably because I was wearing vanilla per­ fume yesterday,” she said. “I’d forgotten that when you said the room smelled like cakes, but it was firm enough to hold me. I had my hands up over my head, holding on to the end of this fra­ grant mattress. A man without a shirt— I think he was wearing pants— was touching me, but he never got past my breasts, and he was rubbing some sort of oil on them.

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