Rupert Chawner Brooke

It is arguable that Rupert Brooke's poetry and the timing of his death were a perfect tool used by the British military to bolster reserves in a flagging war - a war that was costing both the allies and the central powers so dearly. His death by blood poisoning was in no way romantic, but as one of the premier Georgian poets, he expressed with flair, on bloodless pages, the sanctity and sacred duty of serving that went unquestioned for years and turned Europe into a charnel house. Death in combat on this scale (except for the battles of the American Civil War) had never been seen before in history. Having died so young, and so early in the war, his poetry did not express the grave questioning that went on in the minds of poets like Owen (see WESO) and Sassoon. His bisexuality was hidden for years, in fact almost 100 years, before private letters (quite frank in their depictions) were released by those remaining executors of his literary estate.

"Occasionally I'm faintly shaken by a suspicion that I might find incredible beauty in the washing place, with rows of naked, superb men, bathing in a September sun..."

Gio Dell

 

Literary fur: excerpt from A Single Man

They are passing the tennis courts at this moment. Only one court is occupied, by two young men playing singles. The sun has come out with sudden fierce heat through the smog-haze, and the two are stripped nearly naked. They have nothing on their bodies but gym shoes and thick sweat socks and knit shorts of the kind cyclists wear, very short and close fitting, moulding themselves to the buttocks and the loins. They are absolutely unaware of the passers-by, isolated in the intenseness of their game. You would think there was no net between them. Their nakedness makes them seem close to each other and directly opposed, body to body, like fighters. If this were a fight though, it would be one-sided, for the boy on the left is much smaller. He is Mexican maybe, black-haired, handsome, catlike, cruel, compact, lithe, muscular, quick and graceful on his feet. His body is a natural dark gold-brown; there is a fuzz of curly black hair on his chest and belly and thighs. He plays hard and fast, with cruel mastery, baring his white teeth, unsmiling, as he slams back the ball. He is going to win...

Christopher Isherwood, 1964

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