Daniel's book signings attract an interesting, diverse crowd. Perhaps most pleasing, a scattering of people who would have purported to being fans of his work prior to Interview with the Vampire and were genuinely intrigued with his latest offering, what might be interpreted as a sort of avant-garde commentary on the state of biographical writing these days, this being a genre he had already left behind, or perhaps? Real, somehow?
Then, the intellectual fans. Those who like the book for what it is, a metatextual artifact that invites a state of suspended disbelief in a world of cynicism and science, a strange and perverse gothic romance told in the brisk and efficient, often comedic tone of an award winning journalist. Fans who gamely ignore the question of is this real, because if you have to ask, you're not ready for the answer.
Or something.
For them, the book is about homophobia during a specific period of time, processed through modern sensibility. It's about the AIDS crisis, which is obvious if you have read Molloy's work. It's about abuse, about forgiveness, about love. It's about the grief of time and parenthood. The vampire is a metaphor. The vampire is not a metaphor.
Younger fans, in it for the romance, who would like to know if Daniel ever met Lestat, if he still talks to Louis. Full conspiracy theorists and skeptics alike, sharing a row of cheap seating set up in the innercity bookshop.
And then, there's Armand.
Dressed a little like he imagines people should dress for a book signing, in a warm forest green cardigan, full sleeved and cosy, over simple greys, glasses with a very dim tint to take away from the brightness of his irises, and hair tidied into a bun like any modern young man might in this corner of the world. He sits with a leg crossed over the other, a copy of the book balanced on a knee.
The questions are good, lively. He hasn't decided if he intends to raise his hand or not, content to listen to the proceedings, the murmurs of thoughts from the audience, and occasionally impatiently glance towards the podcaster who is graciously hosting Daniel any time he acts particularly sycophantic and familiar.
The picture of innocence, otherwise. Interested and engaged.
no subject
Then, the intellectual fans. Those who like the book for what it is, a metatextual artifact that invites a state of suspended disbelief in a world of cynicism and science, a strange and perverse gothic romance told in the brisk and efficient, often comedic tone of an award winning journalist. Fans who gamely ignore the question of is this real, because if you have to ask, you're not ready for the answer.
Or something.
For them, the book is about homophobia during a specific period of time, processed through modern sensibility. It's about the AIDS crisis, which is obvious if you have read Molloy's work. It's about abuse, about forgiveness, about love. It's about the grief of time and parenthood. The vampire is a metaphor. The vampire is not a metaphor.
Younger fans, in it for the romance, who would like to know if Daniel ever met Lestat, if he still talks to Louis. Full conspiracy theorists and skeptics alike, sharing a row of cheap seating set up in the innercity bookshop.
And then, there's Armand.
Dressed a little like he imagines people should dress for a book signing, in a warm forest green cardigan, full sleeved and cosy, over simple greys, glasses with a very dim tint to take away from the brightness of his irises, and hair tidied into a bun like any modern young man might in this corner of the world. He sits with a leg crossed over the other, a copy of the book balanced on a knee.
The questions are good, lively. He hasn't decided if he intends to raise his hand or not, content to listen to the proceedings, the murmurs of thoughts from the audience, and occasionally impatiently glance towards the podcaster who is graciously hosting Daniel any time he acts particularly sycophantic and familiar.
The picture of innocence, otherwise. Interested and engaged.