Love Alone: Eighteen Elegies for Rog
By Paul Monette
4.5/5
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About this ebook
Following his partner Roger Horwitz’s death from AIDS in 1986, Paul Monette threw himself into these elegies. Writing them, he says, “quite literally kept me alive.” Both beautifully written and deeply affecting, every poem is full of anger, sorrow, tenderness, and a palpable sense of grief. With graceful language and emotional acuity, Paul Monette captures the enormity of a loss that ravaged a generation. But even more than they are about tragedy, these poems are about love. Each moving line is full of love for one who is no longer there, but whose presence is still achingly felt at every turn. Love Alone is remarkable for its honesty, its passion, and its depth.
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Paul Monette including rare images and never-before-seen documents from the Paul Monette papers of the UCLA Library Special Collections.
Paul Monette
Paul Monette (1945–1995) was an author, poet, and gay rights activist. Born in Massachusetts and educated at Yale University, he moved with his partner Roger Horwitz to Los Angeles in 1978 and became involved in the gay rights movement. Monette’s writing captures the sense of heartbreak and loss at the center of the AIDS crisis. His first novel, Taking Care of Mrs. Carroll, was published in 1978, and he went on to write several more works of fiction, poetry, and memoir. Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir, the tender account of his partner’s battle with the disease, earned him both PEN Center West and Lambda literary awards. In 1992, Monette won the National Book Award in Nonfiction for Becoming a Man: Half a Life Story, an autobiography detailing his early life and his struggle with his sexuality. Written as a classic coming-of-age story, Becoming a Man became a seminal coming-out story. In 1995, Monette founded the Monette-Horwitz Trust, which honors individuals and organizations working to combat homophobia. Monette died in his home in West Hollywood in 1995 of complications from AIDS.
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Reviews for Love Alone
28 ratings2 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Written after his lover Roger Horwitz, passed away from complications from the AIDS virus, Love Alone: Eighteen Elegies for Rog is a moving collection of poems by Paul Monette. He dedicates these to Roger.Reviewing poetry is difficult, I think either you enjoy reading the poems and they resonate or, they just don't strike a chord. Poetry is so subjective, I think that is why I enjoy it so much. Everyone sees it differently and can take different things from it.I enjoyed this sad collection and I found this to be a beautiful tribute by Monette for the love of his life. The way Monette shares his feelings through poetry in an intense and honest way makes this for an emotional read. He remembers Roger as he shares not only his pain and his loss, but also his love for his partner. It's really moving. And that is what real love is all about, you never stop loving someone, even when they are gone."I promise you all the last gardenias Rogbut they can't go on like this they've stopped they knowthe only garden we'll ever be is us"There are photos at the end and I always find that a nice touch, as it makes reading something like this even more real. This was a lovely tribute.disclaimer: I received my free review copy of Love Alone: Eighteen Elegies for Rog by Paul Monette via NetGalley.This review is my honest opinion. I did not receive any type of compensation for reading and reviewing this book. While I receive free books from publishers and authors, such as this one, I am under no obligation to write a positive review.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5These poems are raw and real. Written directly after the loss of a loved one of a disease that slowly stripped the man he loved away and replaced him with only memories. I'm not a poetry reader but these are some of the most powerfully written words I've ever read. Anyone who's ever lost someone will find solice in these words.
Book preview
Love Alone - Paul Monette
Preface
Above all I am not concerned with poetry.
My subject is War, and the pity of War.
The poetry is in the pity.
—WILFRED OWEN, 1918
Wilfred Owen’s Preface to the poems he wrote in 1917 and 1918 is the best caution I know against beauty and eloquence. He begs us not to read his anthem for the doomed youth of his generation as a decorous celebration of heroes. Decorum is the contemptible pose of the politicians and preachers, the hypocrite slime whose grinning hatred slicks this dying land like rotten morning dew. I do not presume on the nightmare of Owen’s war—may the boys of Flanders be spared all comparison—and I don’t pretend to have written the anthem of my people. But I would rather have this volume filed under AIDS than under Poetry, because if these words speak to anyone they are for those who are mad with loss, to let them know they are not alone.
Roger Horwitz, my beloved friend, died on 22 October 1986, after nineteen months of fighting the ravages of AIDS. He was forty-four years old, the happiest man I ever knew. He fought with an immensity of spirit that transfigured us who loved him. On his grave are Plato’s last words on Socrates: the wisest and justest and best. Rog had a constitutional aversion to bullshit and was incapable of being unkind. Though he held two degrees from Harvard—a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and a law degree—he made no show of it. The only thing he ever bragged about were his three bohemian years in Paris in his early twenties, and he didn’t so much boast of them as endlessly give them away.
These elegies were written during the five months after he died, one right after the other, with hardly a half day’s pause between. Writing them quite literally kept me alive, for the only time I wasn’t wailing and trembling was when I was hammering at these poems. I have let them stand as raw as they came. But because several friends have wished for a few commas or a stanza break here and there, I feel I should make a comment on their form. I don’t mean them to be impregnable, though I admit I want them to allow no escape, like a hospital room, or indeed a mortal illness.
In the summer of 1984 Roger and I were in Greece together, and for both of us it was a peak experience that left us dazed and slightly giddy. We’d been together for ten years, and life was very sweet. On the high bluff of ancient Thera, looking out across the southern Aegean toward Africa, my hand grazed a white marble block covered edge to edge with Greek characters, line after precise line. The marble was tilted face up to the weather, its message slowly eroding in the rain. I hope somebody’s recorded all this,
I said, realizing with a dull thrill of helplessness that this was the record, right here on this stone.
When I began to write about AIDS during Roger’s illness, I wanted a form that would move with breathless speed, so I could scream if I wanted and rattle on and empty my Uzi into the air. The marbles of Greece kept coming back to mind. By the time Roger died the form was set—not quite marble, not quite Greek—but it was in my head that if only a fragment remained in the future, to fade in the sulfurous rain, it would say how much I loved him and how terrible was the