In 1950s Paris, American expatriate David finds himself caught up in a relationship with Giovanni, a newcomer to the local gay scene. Everything goes awry when his fiancée returns from traveling, and David struggles to know who he is and what he wants.

GIOVANNI’S ROOM is one of the most beautiful and most painful books I’ve ever read. The writing is gorgeous: evocative without being overwrought. The plot is engaging and gripping. But oh, the layers of emotions David experiences, and that you experience with him.

So, so much of this book is rooted in self hate. David hates himself for wanting Giovanni. He hates flamboyant men in bars and on the streets. Both David and Giovanni hate their older friends’ furtive way of finding boys. Possibly every man calls another man “disgusting” at some point. And yet...they cannot fully break away from each other.

I cannot imagine living such a deeply closeted life - yes, even though they all knew what they wanted and what they were doing, every one of them was trying to pretend it wasn’t true. I felt so bad for them all.

I have seen some talk about how strange it was for Baldwin to make his main character a white gay man. However, I see the logic in it. Adding the layer of race to the already complex web of feelings around homophobia would have made this a different story entirely. In order to tell David’s story this way, he had to be white.

I wonder how I would have received this book had I read it in college before I came to terms with my own sexuality. Would it have helped me along? Would I have felt less of a visceral connection to the characters? I don’t know, but I’m glad I have discovered it now and I know I will reread it many times throughout my life.