Something From Slate On The End Of The Middle-Class & Its Literary Traditions

We weren't required to read A Separate Peace; it was on the summer reading list mailed out by the snooty, boys-only, formerly part-boarding school we attended for a while, some time ago. The book was easily available at the library; the summer doldrums of 1960s telebision weren't enough distraction, so we read it.

Nothing interesting/memorable happened beyond the unexpected end, where a character we don't remember any more than any of the others died of an infection resulting from a broken leg.

Turns out we missed the homo-erotic subtext ("Subtext" is not meant as understatement here.) Typeth Slate:

... a world of marble staircases, Latin masters, and the closet, that place into which the mutual longings of Gene and Finny are sent to hide out, perhaps even from the awareness of their own author.

The book probably lost us at marble staircases, but we wouldn't have known a homo-erotic subtext unless it (literally) bit us.

Moments Later
Having read the recap, which indicates that the broken or whatever leg merely caused permanent damage, not fatality, we'll stick w/ our memories of it. So effing dull we made up the only good part.

In defense of linking to this upper-middle-brow crap, we are going to plead that we were enticed by this vulgar come-on: A Separate Peace Is Much Gayer Than You Remember, & chalk the rest up to lame nostalgia for the fading socio-economic class we were born into.

Now pardon us while we see if there are any old movies on the not-tube.