When I Go I Go By Damian Jay Clay Published by the author 2021 Four stars
This was not at all what I expected. Yes, it’s a coming out and coming of age story, but it’s also a portrait of homophobia, both at the turn of the century (THIS century) and today in a post-Trump world. It is a moving, gripping story.
“When I Go I Go” is presented as an epistolary memoir, written by thirty-six-year-old composer and conductor Myles Maxwell-Fox, to someone named Raif. Myles clearly hates Raif, and we don’t know why he’s writing to him. As the chapters flow from Myles’ pen, we learn about Myles’ life now, and we learn about his life twenty years ago. Each page reveals some important detail, both the ugly and the uplifting, that sheds light on Myles in all his complexity.
There’s an operatic quality to the narrative, and by that I mean both romantic and tragic. That’s the surprise here: the plot arc is a long one, and it doesn’t follow the straight-forward young-adult notion of a brave young man throwing off the shackles of an oppressive family. This book is steeped in British class division and politics, and the path to its ending is more twisted than expected. The masterful stroke is Damian Clay’s use of Myles as the sole narrative voice—the lighthouse on the cliff that guides the reader through stormy seas. Myles is not an instantly likeable man, nor is he particularly noble. He is painfully human, and it is his self-awareness that makes him compelling, and keeps us turning every page until we know how it ends.
By Damian Jay Clay
Published by the author 2021
Four stars
This was not at all what I expected. Yes, it’s a coming out and coming of age story, but it’s also a portrait of homophobia, both at the turn of the century (THIS century) and today in a post-Trump world. It is a moving, gripping story.
“When I Go I Go” is presented as an epistolary memoir, written by thirty-six-year-old composer and conductor Myles Maxwell-Fox, to someone named Raif. Myles clearly hates Raif, and we don’t know why he’s writing to him. As the chapters flow from Myles’ pen, we learn about Myles’ life now, and we learn about his life twenty years ago. Each page reveals some important detail, both the ugly and the uplifting, that sheds light on Myles in all his complexity.
There’s an operatic quality to the narrative, and by that I mean both romantic and tragic. That’s the surprise here: the plot arc is a long one, and it doesn’t follow the straight-forward young-adult notion of a brave young man throwing off the shackles of an oppressive family. This book is steeped in British class division and politics, and the path to its ending is more twisted than expected. The masterful stroke is Damian Clay’s use of Myles as the sole narrative voice—the lighthouse on the cliff that guides the reader through stormy seas. Myles is not an instantly likeable man, nor is he particularly noble. He is painfully human, and it is his self-awareness that makes him compelling, and keeps us turning every page until we know how it ends.