A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood

Isherwood’s 1962 novella is a day in the life of George, university lecturer, British expat and ageing curmudgeon. He drifts around the home he used to share with Tom, his partner of many years, who died a year before in a car accident. Now George grumbles about the local kids winding him up, the homophobic fulminations of the letters page in the local paper, and the inability of his students to read the books he has set them.

George’s friend Charlotte is another expat, grieving for the breakdown of her marriage and the estrangement of her only son. She persuades George to come round for supper, and invitation he reluctantly accepts when he realises he can’t face another night alone in his house. He walks over to her house in the nearby hills where she’s promised a stew, and a couple of drinks:

“Have I told you Geo – no, I’m sure I haven’t; I’ve already made two New Year’s resolutions – only they’re effective immediately. The first is, I’m going to admit that I loathe bourbon.” (She pronounces it like the dynasty, not the drink.) “I’ve been pretending not to, ever since I came to this country – all because Buddy drank it. But, let’s face it, who do I think I’m kidding now?” She smiles at George very bravely and brightly, reassuring him that this is not a prelude to an attack of the Buddy-blues; then quickly continues, “My other resolution is that I’m going to stop denying that that infuriating accusation is true; Women do mix drinks too strong, damn it! I suppose it’s part of our terrible anxiety to please... So let’s begin the new régime as of now, shall we? You come and mix your own drink and mine too – and I’d like a vodka and tonic, please.” She has obviously had at least a couple already. her hands fumble as she lights a cigarette. (The Indonesian ashtray is full, as usual, of lipstick-marked stubs.)

The conversation quickly turns to Charlotte’s disastrous marriage and George is sent back to refill the glasses:

George goes into the kitchen, fixes another round. (They seem to be drinking up much faster now. This one really should be the last.)

After a long evening of putting the world to rights, and perhaps even making a plan for the future, George finally decides it might be a good idea to go home:

George turns, swings open the house door, takes one stride and – OOPS! – very nearly falls head first down the steps – all of them – oh, and unthinkably much farther – ten, fifty, one hundred million feet into the bottomless black night. Only his grip on the door handle saves him.

Fortunately, Charlotte doesn’t see the near catastrophe. George makes it home in one piece... before setting out on a whim to a local bar where he gets drunk with one of his students. It’s an eventful twenty four hours, and when his ticker gives up the next morning, it feels a reasonable send off.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K Dick

One of the most powerful books I’ve read this year, Dick’s science fiction classic is a thought provoking observation on empathy and what it means to be human.

In a future world devastated by nuclear war, Rick Deckard is a licensed bounty hunter employed by the state to ‘retire’ renegade androids; exact breathing replicas almost indistinguishable from human beings, created as slaves for the off-world colonies.

Deckard’s ultimate goal is to own a real animal, now incredibly rare after the World War Terminus, and his mission to kill off half a dozen Nexus-6 androids is inextricably bound to his desire to replace the electric sheep on his rooftop with a living, breathing goat.

With most items now synthesised or modified, even comestibles we currently take for granted are incredibly rare or impossible to obtain. Alcohol features only twice in the book, but the poignancy of a glass of Chablis or bottle of bourbon made before the WWT and the subsequent radioactive dust is almost crushing.

Deckard’s mission almost comes unstuck when he starts to empathise with his quarry and even believes it possible to fall in love with an android. The beautiful Rachel Rosen flies down from Seattle to San Francisco to meet him in a hotel room, bringing a special gift in a paper bag:

She held out the paper bag. “I bought a bottle. Bourbon... It’s worth a fortune, you realize. It’s not synthetic; it’s from before the war, made from genuine mash.”

The effect on Deckard is intoxicating:

He sipped the bourbon; the power of it, the authoritative strong taste and scent, had become almost unfamiliar to him and he had trouble swallowing. Rachel, in contrast, had no difficulty with hers.

But that’s because Rachel, being an android, can feel nothing...

Rum Punch by Elmore Leonard

I had the privilege of reviewing one of Elmore Leonard’s books a while back for the FT, so while leafing around the library looking for inspiration, I decided to pick up something from his extensive back catalogue.

Rum Punch is probably better known through Quentin Tarantino’s film adaptation Jackie Brown, which is a shame, because it’s a tightly written crime thriller that is more than worth investigating in its own right.

Odell Robbie sells guns to criminals, but his operation is under the surveillance of the feds and when they arrest Jackie Burke who ships his money into Miami from the Caribbean he’s under pressure to get her out of the picture, fast.

Unfortunately for Odell, some of his accomplices don’t work to his level of professionalism. Louis Gara, for example; a three time jailbird who knows Odell from Detroit. Louis has lost his edge since he’s been inside:

Four years staring at the walls and drinking shine, the man was burnt out, useless.

You see, in this business, you have to stay sharp:

Louis was thinking he should not drink rum. Or he should find a glass and have another one... He had started this afternoon in the bar at the Ocean Mall, Casey’s, hiding out from Melanie, thinking of her as a female cannibal. Bourbon this afternoon, rum this evening, nothing to eat in between...

So when the final pick up takes place and Louis has to get back to his car, he needs to remember where he’s left it:

Sometimes when he was living in South Beach and drinking a lot he’d forget where he parked and have to roam up and down the streets. He’d had a few pops this afternoon before he’d picked her up.

That kind of sloppiness will get you more than a hangover. Let’s just say, Louis doesn’t get to go to prison a fourth time...