I recently finished (for the second time, the first being almost a decade ago) ‘Martin and John,’ the 1993 novel by Dale Peck. There are many startling and amazing qualities to this book; it’s structurally complicated and engaging without being ‘difficult,’ the language is lyrical even when Peck describes acts of horrible violence and suffering, and it’s a book that will haunt you for a long time after you’ve finished. It’s hard to believe (at least for me, particularly when I think of myself at the same age) that a novel of such insight and illumination into death and love (and sex) could have been written by a 25-year old; Peck was clearly wise beyond his years.
In its broadest terms, the novel follows John through a difficult childhood to running away to New York City, where he eventually falls in love with Martin, who has AIDS and eventually dies. Interspersed with this narrative are a series of stories in which the characters are also named Martin and John, but in each case are found in different circumstances, and — while always lovers — relate to each other in ways that may or may not shed light on the primary narrator. In this way, the book unfolds almost like a mystery, where Peck offers subtle clues about the emotional states of his characters as they age and evolve in their relationships.
Reading ‘Martin and John’ now, I was reminded of how I feel when I go back and listen to music from the early 1990s, and am shocked by a kind of abrasive violence and wall-of-sound distortion (but also melodic undercurrents) that defined so much rock music of the era. (This could be anything from the Pixies to My Bloody Valentine to Nirvana to countless others from the post-hardcore/grunge era.) At the time, it felt almost natural to listen to this music, but looking back, it seems obvious that this music was the soundtrack of warfare.
