My Weekly Book

Tales of the City - Armistead Maupin (re-read)

I first read this book many years ago, when I was at university. And I am amazed to find on re-reading it how little impression it managed to make on me then. So much so that I am now wondering whether I ever did actually get around to it, or whether I just put it on my bookshelf where it would look good and give me a nice, warm, cosmopolitan feeling. Recently I’ve had a hunch that I needed to read it again and then to continue on with the series. And so, when it came up on offer on a Bookcrossing book ring, this seemed like the ideal opportunity.

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On first acquaintance, the tale seems as light and sugary as frosted angel cake – possibly the reason why I took such a sprint through it in early-1990-something. Part of this is due to the format. The stories were originally written as a series of newspaper columns which means each episode is remarkably homogenous in its construction: of a similar length; starting with a line to hook the reader and ending on a punchline the rhythm of which soon starts to sound as familiar as the drumroll punctuating an old-time comedian’s jokes. This format, incidentally, also makes the book extremely hard to put down and meant that I read 100 pages straight on the evening I picked it up and the whole thing within 24 hours.

But, to carry on with the angel cake analogy, there’s a lot more going on than just the sugary, fondant-pink top layer. As you read through the volume you realise that each tale, and by extension the lives of the characters that Maupin is writing about, are inextricably linked – by circumstance, coincidence (sometimes shocking and outrageous) and the happenstance of being members of the same almost small-town San Francisco community. Our way into this as readers is through the character of Mary Ann Singleton, newly off the plane from Cleveland, Ohio, where her shocked parents are trying to absorb the news that their little girl has no intention of returning home. As the newcomer and the observer, she’s our passport into the world of the story and as it progresses her role becomes less central, although never less important. Through Mary Ann’s adventures and those of the people she meets, and the people they meet, we learn more and more about the San Franciscan community and also about some fairly fundamental tenets of human nature that would probably apply anywhere in the western world.

The book does feel increasingly like a period piece (I think I was just about born at the time it describes but certainly hadn’t made it further than infant school). For me this contributed hugely to its charm and gave it a real poignancy, given what the world had in store for many of these characters within just a few years. But it is also an unashamed portrait and a celebration of humanity at its best and worst. And the author has an obvious love of wordplay and textual jokes that I found a delight – having characters, for example, called Michael Mouse and Mrs Halcyon Day. I know, I know, I should keep my mouth shut and let you discover these jokes for yourself. But I just can’t resist. And apparently there’s a certain anagram. But maybe the less said about that the better…

Some links:

• Wikipedia: Armistead Maupin
• The author’s official website
• Salon article: Two Men and a Poodle
• Guardian authors: Armistead Maupin
• Literary San Francisco: Armistead Maupin

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This entry was posted on Monday, January 29th, 2007 at 12:49 am and is filed under 2007 reading challenge, Reads I recommend. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.