The first book of Dennis Cooper’s George Miles Cycle Series, Closer, follows the fictional and beautiful George Miles who is a drug-addicted, depressed gay high schooler with what seems to be total disregard towards himself. It’s written in the form of a series of portraits of disenchanted young adults (and sometimes creepy old fuckers), with the common thread usually being despondency and the characters’ infatuations with George. As the book progresses, the coercion and exploitation of George worsens, sometimes devolving into brutal violence that George doesn’t seem to care to stop.   

What do you do with beauty? Can something be so beautiful it becomes disgusting? Is fucking loving?

There’s times I think Closer misses the mark, primarily the first half. The apparent shock value isn’t always redeemed by the stomach turning nihilism. There’s oftentimes we simply have to take Cooper’s word for things and we never really find out the reason behind George’s self bondage. I found the second half much more promising. (Please don’t read further if you don’t want to spoil the book).

At one point, Closer takes an unexpected turn, becoming strikingly brutal, yet filled with eloquence and pathos. In that moment, its themes—subtly woven throughout—suddenly come together with surprising cohesion although not previously apparent. I was pleasantly surprised by the inconclusive ending, as abrupt as it began. However, Closer doesn’t really end here. Cooper wrote this series based on someone he knew as a teenager was ultimately unable to get in touch with. He published the series with the hope that Miles would one day be able to read them. Unbeknownst to him- the real Miles killed himself two years before the publication of Closer in 1989, which isn’t all that surprising once you’ve read the contents of the book. It’s one thing to stomach the endless tragedy and abjectness of a fictional book, and another for it to be sealed in reality. Frankly, I’m devastated, and I will probably be thinking of this for a while.