Having seen nothing of Fry as an actor, I tend to think of him as a
novelist and
memoirist first. He's
not so damn bad at it, either, although he has
an ugly habit of tacking
mawkishly
happy endings onto otherwise pleasingly savage
novels. He's
funny as hell, he's
obscene, and he can write. Highly recommended.
In roughly
chronological order, he's written the following:
- The Liar, a novel
- Paperweight, a collection of essays, rants, etc.
- The Hippopotamus, a novel
- Making History, a novel
- Moab Is My Washpot, a memoir
- The Stars' Tennis Balls, a novel
I can recommend all of the above except
Making History, which is still on my
new arrivals shelf. Those with
tender sensibilities should be aware that there's
sex in most of the above, and much of the
sex is the kind without girls, so, like,
don't say I didn't warn you.
Much later: I've since read
Making History. It didn't change my life but it's good, up until the usual depressingly happy ending.
Even much later . . . er: Okay, he's got a new one called
The Stars' Tennis Balls. We'll have to have a look at that . . .
won't we?!