'A Single Man' by Christopher Isherwood
- Reed
- Apr 19
- 2 min read
Updated: May 8
Author: Christopher Isherwood
Rating: ★★★★★ (A)
Vibe: Quietly devastating portrait of grief, identity, and solitude—capturing the profound loneliness of losing love and carrying on.
Quick Take: Introspective, timeless, and heartbreakingly honest. A deeply moving exploration of grief that understands how much can remain unsaid—and unhealed.
In A Single Man, Christopher Isherwood follows George, an English professor living in Southern California, through a single ordinary yet utterly transformative day. Still quietly shattered by the loss of his partner, Jim, George navigates the mundane rituals of his life while silently wrestling with overwhelming grief. Set in the early 1960s—a period marked by profound social constraints and limited acceptance of gay relationships—the novel’s emotional precision and profound introspection resonate even more powerfully, illuminating the hidden complexities of George’s internal life in ways still relevant today.
The novel's careful exploration of these universal yet profoundly personal themes of loss resonated deeply with my own experiences. I found myself confronting the uncomfortable yet very real anxiety of losing my husband someday, and how either of us would cope alone, especially given that our partnership forms the entirety of our support system without traditional familial or community safety nets. Gay couples, who often rely solely on each other without traditional familial support structures, feel uniquely vulnerable in grief—and this vulnerability is captured exquisitely by Isherwood.
Isherwood’s introspective, literary style elevated the experience dramatically. His depiction of a single day—meticulous, intimate, and achingly honest—allowed profound emotional truths to surface naturally. Nothing felt forced; every revelation emerged organically from George’s quiet suffering—like the way a simple memory of Jim brushing his teeth could send George reeling, or how a passing thought about the gym became a meditation on aging and invisibility. These moments never feel staged; they surface like emotional landmines, quietly embedded in the day-to-day.
A moment that still haunts me is the phone call—George’s polite yet crushing exclusion from Jim’s funeral. It distills not only his private sorrow but the historical erasure of gay relationships. George’s identity isn’t incidental; it deepens the emotional weight and casts his solitude in sharper relief.
Ultimately, the novel’s timelessness astonishes me, particularly in how it captures the quiet grief and emotional invisibility that still echo in the lives of many gay men today. Published in 1964, its emotional authenticity feels strikingly contemporary. While visibility and acceptance have improved, the fundamental struggles George faces—loss, loneliness, invisibility—remain powerfully relevant.
