Tales of the City

I've read Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City almost as many times as I've read The Lord of the Rings. At times it was a vice, honestly... it seemed like every semester in university the week before final exams I'd dig into these volumes instead of studying. Alternately silly and tragic, the books now span thirty years. As much as I sometimes malign the cultural accomplishments of the boomers, these books chronicle some of the best stories of the generation.

The latest volume, Michael Tolliver Lives, brings us up-to-date with the San Francisco clan, and is flavoured with not a little of Maupin's current love life (it feels by far the most autobiographical of his books) and is once again focused mostly on the title character. His writing has lost a fair bit of its satirical sting, but the depth of characterizations has improved, as has his subtelty. The sympathy with which he depicts his characters' internal conflict is more moving than ever. And although he leaves it open ended, this book feels like closure, which makes me rather sad – but honestly, I'm very pleased because I never even expected to see it written, and by all indications Maupin never expected to write it, either.