Christopher and His Kind by Christopher Isherwood

innocent to be true. When he grins, two large dimples appear in his peach-bloom cheeks … Otto moves fluidly, effortlessly; his gestures have the savage, unconscious grace of a cruel elegant animal … Otto is outrageously conceited … Otto certainly has a superb pair of shoulders and chest for a boy of his age—but his body is nevertheless somehow slightly ridiculous. The beautiful ripe lines of the torso taper away too suddenly to his rather absurd little buttocks and spindly, immature legs. And these struggles with the chest-expander are daily making him more and more top-heavy.
    This is how Otto is described by “Christopher Isherwood,” the narrator of the novel. The fictitious Isherwood takes the attitude of an amused, slightly contemptuous onlooker. He nearly gives himself away when he speaks of “the beautiful ripe lines of the torso.” So, lest the reader should suspect him of finding Otto physically attractive, he adds that Otto’s legs are “spindly.” Otto’s original in life had an entirely adequate, sturdy pair of legs, even if they weren’t quite as handsome as the upper half of his body.
    Otto—as he will be called in this book, also—was a child of the borderland. His family came from what was then known as the Polish Corridor, the strip of Germany which had been ceded to Poland by the Treaty of Versailles, after World War I. Like many other families in that area, the Nowaks had moved west and settled in Berlin, rather than lose their German nationality. Yet Otto himself seemed Slav rather than German, in his looks and temperament. His sensual nostrils and lips reminded Christopher of a photograph he had once seen of a Russian dancer.
    When Otto was in a good mood, Christopher would be enchanted by his eagerness to enjoy himself. He delighted in watching movies and eating meals and making love. Like Christopher, he was a play actor. In the midst of their lovemaking, he would exclaim, in a swooning tone, “This is how I’d like to die—doing this!” Once, when they had seen a film about a psychopathic killer, he turned to Christopher and said solemnly, “Let’s thank God, Christoph, we’re both normal!” And he told stories, with immense tragic gusto. Of how, for example, he was haunted by a huge spectral black hand. He had seen it twice already, once in childhood, once in his early teens. “One day soon, I’ll see that Hand again—and then it’ll be all over with me.” Otto would say this with his eyes full of tears. And there would be tears in Christopher’s eyes too, from laughing.
    For Christopher, during their first months together, Otto’s physical presence seemed part of the summer itself. Otto was the coming of warmth and color to the drab cold city, bringing the linden trees into leaf, sweating the citizens out of their topcoats, making the bands play outdoors. Christopher rode on the bus with him to the great lake at Wannsee, where they splashed together in the shallow water amidst the holiday crowds, then wandered off into the surrounding woods to find a spot where they could be alone. Otto was the exciting laughter of the crowd and the inviting shadow of the woods. But the crowd and the woods were also full of menace to Christopher; within them lurked those who might lure Otto away from him.
    Otto preferred women to men, but he was a narcissist first and foremost. Therefore, the degree of his lust was largely dependent upon that of his partner. Christopher could compete successfully with most women by showing more lust, more shamelessly, than they would. (Older women were a greater threat than young ones.) “I love the way you look when you’re hot for me,” Otto used to say to him. “Your eyes shine so bright.” Otto was perpetually admiring his body and calling Christopher’s attention to its muscles and golden smoothness—“just feel,