Wherever gay men in the late 20th century could safely convene in New York City, they had things to discuss: character actors losing Tonys, Newport mansions collecting dust, WASP scions tempting fate. The arc of these topics bends toward injustice, and they are plotted carefully in Farrell Covington and the Limits of Style, a comic novel that overflows with bons mots and bad turns.
Paul Rudnick’s is a byline you have seen (in The New Yorker’s humor pages, on Twitter, in the credits of funny movies), and he echoes the argot of long ago, when many a gay man flexed his command of longer ago. That was a survivor’s currency: amid the hateful threats, a sophisticate’s wit gained him entry to the exclusive properties of protective sponsors. Once inside, all you had to do was explain the provenance of this marble doodad and that unrecognized masterpiece, while watching your step. To some, it was a living.
