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Contemporary Literature

The Line of Beauty: A Novel by Alan Hollinghurst

By Alan Hollinghurst

In the summertime of 1983, twenty-year-old Nick visitor strikes into an attic room within the Notting Hill domestic of the Feddens: conservative Member of Parliament Gerald, his filthy rich spouse Rachel, and their young children, Toby-whom Nick had idolized at Oxford-and Catherine, hugely serious of her family's assumptions and objectives.

As the increase years of the eighties spread, Nick, an blameless on this planet of politics and funds, reveals his existence altered through the emerging fortunes of this glamorous relations. His vividly contrasting amorous affairs, one with a tender black clerk and one with a Lebanese millionaire, dramatize the hazards and rewards of his personal inner most pursuit of good looks, a pursuit as compelling to Nick because the hope for energy and riches between his friends.

Richly textured, emotionally charged, disarmingly comedian, this U.K. bestseller is a huge paintings via certainly one of our most interesting writers.

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The Line of Beauty: A Novel

In the summertime of 1983, twenty-year-old Nick visitor strikes into an attic room within the Notting Hill domestic of the Feddens: conservative Member of Parliament Gerald, his filthy rich spouse Rachel, and their young ones, Toby-whom Nick had idolized at Oxford-and Catherine, hugely severe of her family's assumptions and objectives.

Additional resources for The Line of Beauty: A Novel

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Wild boar steamed in myrtle leaves. {20 Someone having a birthday, ‘‘Tanti auguri a te,’’ the words rising in the piazza— And suddenly the light, that light. The sanctuary with its silver offering bowls, the lepers singing. Here are the goblets filled with wine. The smell of sunlight fading from the stones. Quietness that’s solitude but not isolation. And the windows lit with displays of red corals from just off the coast said to be the blood that streamed from Medusa’s severed neck when Perseus laid her head beside the sea.

I answer: Radiance will change its name. In the heat I squirm and shrug out of my summer suit and breathless split into a cotton dress. It is almost evening. There are fireflies. On the lawn of my childhood house, an operating table, doctors, a patient under a sheet. I walk up. Under the webbing of IVs, a surgeon hands me a silver comb and I start brushing the patient’s hair like I did my mother’s when I was a girl. The nurse lifts the sheet. It isn’t my mother. It’s the monkey. I bend my ear to its dying lips and it says: You haven’t much time— risk it all.

This is what I realized that night in that divided city. After playing the wretched hostel piano, I wrote: Dear N, I want to cut off my hair and tie it into brushes so I can paint the city of Belfast in its true humanity. All day long I passed an artist’s studio where the clay arms and hands of women were displayed in the window. Small hands to hold such a city. Love, K {24 grandfather outside There are sadnesses which cast in one’s soul the shadows of monasteries. —E. M. Cioran We arrived too late for the sundial.

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