And at another point, addressing the lost Leapling: “I wonder if you would have come to hate me if I had left the final residuals of maleness behind me during your lifetime, during our love affair? JJ is someone who is incredibly naive while being willfully ignorant, almost seeking to place themselves into situations wherein they are tumbled like dry leaves. Despite the attractions of this mirror world, and of Leapling, who is at home there, the narrator finishes university and takes off as quickly as possible for “acid-soaked Northern California” — a destination not so much chosen as accepted: “[A]s all butterflies abide by their predestined migrations, it was in my queer genes. In fact, the parts about digital preservation were some of my favourite bits of writing in the book, musing on how a MySpace profile could endure if civilisations couldn't.

It would mark the beginning of a deep if unlikely friendship between the then thirtysomething journalist, born in London to Indian immigrants, and the octogenarian Wugas, both of whom had fled Nazi Germany on the Kindertransport. Beyond the raw emotional core of the novel is a fantastical presentation of lyrical writing and repeating motifs that stoped me cold every time I encountered them. for fresh contemporary observation and an impressive and intriguing lean towards showcasing bohemian life and centring those who are often overlooked in mainstream literature. But he’s brought to life so three-dimensionally that — even as a reader who knows as well as the narrator does that it would be better to stay away from this “handsome bastard” — it’s hard not to see his deadpan appeal. I was SO looking forward to reading this after the furore within the industry of ringing in this new talent I am left totally dumbfounded.

It’s a novel of moments and of memory, the ultimate unreliability of both, and the pain of incomplete connection: whether that’s because of gender, or class, or geography, or, y’know, actual death. The writing in this one was really wonderful, I have to say that, and that was one of the reasons I thought I was going to like this book way more than I did. All along, there are friends, artists, art, parties, performances, lovers, collaborations, heartbreak, betrayal, more art, more performances, and more parties.

At Certain Points We Touch is a story of first love and last rites, conjured against a vivid backdrop of London, San Francisco and New York – a riotous, razor-sharp coming-of-age story that marks the arrival of an extraordinary new talent. There’s lots of things about this book that I loved… the locations, the references to places in London now long gone that I also used to know and love, the pace of life in both London and NYC that vividly reminded me of my own 20s - living in London, but spending a lot of time across the Atlantic. Therefore, should you have come upon my little review sent into the void of the inter-webs, please note that my sentiments are purely subjective. At Certain Points We Touch is a story of first love and last rites, conjured against a vivid backdrop of London, San Francisco, and New York-a riotous, razor-sharp coming-of-age story that marks the arrival of an extraordinary new talent.

It’s overshadowed by the mysterious death of Thomas James - the reality of which you only find out in the epilogue. i am getting truly Comfortable with the idea of leaving books behind this year, but i'm sad this is one of them.

This book was not an easy read under every aspect, but I think it is an important novel nevertheless. I’m not sure what I ever did to earn your desire or deserve your contempt, but I took comfort in knowing that this was how you acted with any number of people. With an almost haunting sense of the recent past and grief, At Certain Points We Touch is a novel that really paints a portrait, not just of the narrator's lover, but of the narrator themselves, of cities and bad rooms, and of growing up as a millennial and traversing different kinds of culture and community. The old avant-garde never dies, apparently and thank goodness, it just continues the quest to love, to be heard, and to really live. Thank you to the publisher for providing me an advanced e-copy via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.Looking about me now, ten years since we met, six years since we last spoke, four years since your death, acknowledging this indefatigable era of puerile talking heads who have clawed their way to infamy, with a little of manufactured outrages, stoking, their phony, moral panics, I can’t help thinking that you were a sort of John the Baptist for them all. A phenomenal eulogy to, presumably, a fictional gay lover from a trans woman in what appears to be the early oughts almost coming-of-age story nested in the (again, fictional, I presume) London queer scene of the time.

From an electrifying new voice, a "stone-cold masterpiece" (Olivia Laing) of queer friendship, first love, and unbridled youth. Another part describes using a T-shirt to clean up spunk in the same motion you'd use to scoop up guacamole on a tortilla chip. Their ensuing affair, with its violent, animal intensity and its intoxicating and toxic power play will initiate a dance of repulsion and attraction that will cross years, span continents, drag in countless victims - and culminate in terrible betrayal. I don’t mean that, as a compliment, only a thought that comes to mind when I think of the world where left to deal with now”.

Each of these phrases binds together a story that is about both reality and what we imagine to be real (about ourselves and others).