A biographer of Christopher Isherwood
once remarked that the legendary writer’s friends seemed to grow younger and younger the older he became. There was a detectable whiff of contempt in this observation, and it irked the hell out of me, since I had been one of those younger friends, one of the lucky souls who, in the late 1970s, found ourselves around Isherwood’s dinner table in his little house above Santa Monica Canyon. Sure, some of us were young, but every age of queer was represented.
What I found around that table was more than rich, mirthful conversation — about books, about movies, about sex — but a satisfying sense of intergenerational connection.
Just by sharing our stories we could discern where we were heading and where we had been. There was time travel involved, too, since Isherwood had known Somerset Maugham and E.M. Forster
and had once even hidden