Moab Is My Washpot: An Autobiography
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A number one bestseller in Britain that topped the lists there for months, Stephen Fry's astonishingly frank, funny, wise memoir is the book that his fans everywhere have been waiting for. Since his PBS television debut in the Blackadder series, the American profile of this multitalented writer, actor and comedian has grown steadily, especially in the wake of his title role in the film Wilde, which earned him a Golden Globe nomination, and his supporting role in A Civil Action.
Fry has already given readers a taste of his tumultuous adolescence in his autobiographical first novel, The Liar, and now he reveals the equally tumultuous life that inspired it. Sent to boarding school at the age of seven, he survived beatings, misery, love affairs, carnal violation, expulsion, attempted suicide, criminal conviction and imprisonment to emerge, at the age of eighteen, ready to start over in a world in which he had always felt a stranger. One of very few Cambridge University graduates to have been imprisoned prior to his freshman year, Fry is a brilliantly idiosyncratic character who continues to attract controversy, empathy and real devotion.
This extraordinary and affecting book has "a tragic grandeur that lifts it to classic status," raved the Financial Times in one of the many ecstatic British reviews. Stephen Fry's autobiography, in turns funny, shocking, sad, bruisingly frank and always compulsively readable, could well become a classic gay coming-of-age memoir.
cricket-bag and picked up his blazer. ‘Oh, I love summer,’ he sighed, looking around. ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Hang on, what am I talking about? I hate it. ‘What do you mean?’ We started to walk, aimlessly it seemed, in a direction that took us away from both our Houses, away from the school, towards nothing but fields. I explained my hatred of insects, my asthma and my inability to cope with heat. ‘Let’s face it,’ I said. ‘I’m made for the winter. The more clothes I keep on the better I look. In
corpus studenti (since we’ve gone all classical) numbered just over a hundred, boys being divided into four Houses: Kingfishers, Otters, Wasps and Panthers. The dormitories were named after trees — Elm, Oak, Beech, Sycamore and Cypress. A nightly spoonful of Radio Malt, a halibut liver oil capsule on the breakfast spoon (later replaced by the more palatable sugar-coated Haliborange), tuition in a musical instrument, riding, sailing, gliding, cubbing, elocution lessons, scouting, shooting and
context, I would blush scarlet. Immature meant me having no hair down there. Immature meant me having a salted snail for a cock. Immature meant shame, inadequacy, defeat and misery. They could peacock around without towels, they could jump up and down and giggle as bell-end slapped against belly-button, and heavy ball-sack bounced and swung, they could shampoo their shaggy pubes and sing their brainless rugby songs in the hiss of the shower-room, it was all right for them, the muddy, bloody,
heard someone say this the other day and they seemed to have got away with it. The polly flips though his book. ‘You’re not on the list as a fencer.’ Bollocks, there’s a list. I hadn’t thought of that. ‘But Mr Tozer told me to turn up,’ I whine. Mr Tozer, known inevitably as Spermy Tozer, was big in the world of sports like fencing and badminton and archery. Uppingham’s Tony Gubba. ‘I had expressed an interest. ‘Oh. Okay. Fencing, then. Make sure you bring back a chit from him so I can put you
Maybe, because sometimes pop music can hit the mark as well as anything, I could write you out a playlist. We would start with the Monkees: Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer Naaah... it’s no use. There’s nothing for it but old words and cold print. Besides, you’ve been there yourself. You’ve been in love. Why am I getting so hysterical? Just about every film, every book, every poem, every song is a love story. This is not a genre with which you are unfamiliar even if by some fluke (whether