Books: Harold's End by J.T. Leroy

Wild in the streets

By John Ziebell

The author--or perhaps the literary construct--J. T. LeRoy is a good example of the dictum that truth--or perhaps perceived reality--is indeed stranger than fiction.

LeRoy started writing not quite a decade ago at age 16 and has garnered accolades from a number of artists and performers who exist, or once existed, beyond the borders of the mainstream. Tom Waits, John Waters, Dave Eggers and Lou Reed provide cover blurbs for LeRoy's latest work, the novella Harold's End; even Liv Tyler, bless her literary acumen, praises the power of his work. Dennis Cooper, Bruce Benderson and Mary Gaitskill have served the author as mentors. All in all, that's a pretty good track record for a diminutive, mid-20s recluse of indeterminate gender who, we're told unflinchingly, grew up as a truck stop "lot lizard," following in the footsteps of his prostitute/drug addict mother.

Not that being the celebrity world's former child prostitute du jour takes anything away from LeRoy's prose; he's published two other books, contributed to a grocery list of respectable publications and has even written liner notes and bios for Billy Corgan and Courtney Love. But it is certainly interesting to look at who's promoting whom. I mean, what would Oprah say? Because Harold's End, though compelling, is not your feelgood kind of story; it's actually about contemporary urchins working Polk Street in San Francisco, kids turning tricks to buy heroin for themselves and food for their pets.

As you might guess, this scenario doesn't make for the cheeriest of narratives. However, while LeRoy does give us some moments that illuminate humankind in its desire-fueled failings, the tale doesn't mire itself in sordid detail. The prose is simple and lucid, and the perspective of Oliver, the first-person protagonist, is one of existential spareness. We're not supposed to miss the point that detachment is the core philosophy at work here. What saves Oliver, and by implication his friends, from the horror of their existence is a lack of engagement where commerce is involved. To care about anything is to care, period; and caring, we comprehend, opens the door to psychological ground that no underage street prostitute should want to spend much time contemplating. At least not without heroin.

LeRoy's characters are shielded even from each other by street names and personae, but in a work this compact, they've got to wear some humanity on their sleeves; we see it in their familiars, the pets they choose--a pit bull, a snake, a rat. Pets are, of course, about unconditional love, and when the story opens, Oliver is the only person among his peers who lacks one. The title character, Harold, is a common garden snail given to him by Larry, a confused but generous trick who'd be almost likable if it weren't for the circumstances under which we meet him. No, a snail is not a normal pet, but Oliver is not a character who inspires an excess of faith, so in the end they seem pretty well-matched. The conceit does inspire some unique moments, but while the novella is carefully crafted, it's neither unpredictable nor demanding. Still, the brief arc of Howard's life--less than 80 pages of prose--manages to be poignant without feeling hopeless, a noteworthy feat considering the subjects at hand.

Finally, a couple notes on the text itself: Last Gasp's clothbound volume is exquisitely made, complete with a satin ribbon bookmark for a work that would honestly be tough to stretch beyond one sitting. And there is a very creepy beauty in the color plates that accompany the text, watercolor portraits of the characters and their pets by the Australian artist Cherry Hood, which convey a sense of bruised innocence in a manner sometimes more eloquent than the words they illustrate.