The Ghost of Fathers Past
I received an email from a dear friend in London, who happened to mention his fraught relationship with his father (a subject that we had spent many afternoons discussing, throughout the pubs of the East End). It made me think once again of the arid, increasingly violent relationship that I had with my own father. Over the years, it has become clear to me that the difficulties which grew between us with each passing year were because of my homosexuality, which became obvious to him as I stumbled through my childhood - even before it became obvious to myself. He never forgave me for abjuring sport of every kind. He could not bear it that I would rather read a book than kick a ball. He was nonplussed by my passionate interest in Art, and my self-taught knowledge of art history, which he claimed was a waste of time. There were practical jokes brought to bear upon me during my childhood, in which the level of spite and passive aggression masked a deeper, Freudian animosity