Praise for David Gilmour “If someone put a gun to my head and forced me to commit the most literary of misdemeanors—naming a voice of my generation—I’d first ask, do you mean . . . that part of my generation that kept a light shining in the chamber of their sweetly flawed and sometimes sinful dreams? And if the answer was yes, I just know I’d blurt out, David Gilmour.”—Bob Shacochis, winner of the National Book Award "Rarely has a midlife crisis been so entertaining."—People Magazine "[How Boys See Girls] is everywhere about the pathos of sexualized seeing, and it has the fascinating effect of a lurid confession, which is to say that it seems true as well as self-punishing, insanely intense, funny and very serious." —New York Times “Heartfelt . . . more than once I was moved to tears.”—Douglas McGrath, New York Times Book Review “Mordantly hilarious and dazzlingly written . . . Even as Gilmour provides some of the familiar satisfactions—a caustically articulate narrator à la Humbert Humbert and an increasingly bleak and dangerous series of humiliating adventures—he also manages to put a new twist or two into it. . . Halloway may be a major league jackass, not to mention vandal and worse, but he’s a hugely entertaining one. As Humbert Humbert used to say, you can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.”—Washington Post “Gilmour's prose has flashes of bright metaphor, and his dialogue is alert and alive. Darius is a believable aesthete—he's consumed with status, the impression he's making and the gnawing power of the past.”—New York Times Book Review "Gilmour tells this story with emotion but avoids, what in less talented hands would become, mawkish sentimentality. His spare poetic style makes Extraordinary a compelling novel.”—Publishers Weekly “[Gilmour’s] latest is sure to solidify his reputation as an edgy, intelligent author. This work offers a great deal of mordant wit, and the writing is consistently first-rate, layering memory, inner monolog, and fast-paced action. Recommended for all collections.”—Library Journal “With Sparrow Nights, David Gilmour joins the list of inspired modern monologists that begins with Dostoevsky and includes Sartre, Camus, Beckett, Thomas Bernhard and Céline . . . [Gilmour] is a brilliant stylist capable of an extraordinary range of effects.”—Boston Review “A masterpiece of irony, subversive humour and astonishing self-mockery . . . a beguiling book . . . Gilmour handles his material with style and finesse, with a delicious sense of irony and with a creative jouissance. Here is a novel that gleams with intelligence, humour and wickedly precise observation. Read it, and wince.”—Globe and Mail "Gilmour has created a classic or textbook anti-hero . . . And, as always, Gilmour writes in a clear, concise, lapidary prose. In a literary landscape littered with victims, interlarded with heroes, it is refreshing, for once, to spend time with a character as unrepentant as he is unpleasant; a real bad egg.”—David Eddie, National Post "In its riveting evocation of teenage angst, Lost Between Houses recalls J.D. Salinger's classic Catcher in the Rye . . . Funny, surprisingly moving."—Maclean's “David Gilmour’s voice is a charm. As with all of today’s best conversational prose stylists—think of names like Nicholson Baker, Julian Barnes, or John Banville . . . [Gilmour] has the relaxed, informal, intelligent but unpretentious manner down pat.”—Toronto Star

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Chapter One A couple of weeks ago, a friend dropped by to see my new condominium. We barely know each other; I saw him in the mailroom with a copy of The New Yorker under his arm, and we got to talking. Lester Woolf, retired like myself, in his case from a remunerative career in criminal law. He did the Monique Leon case, got her manslaughter instead of what she should have got. My wife and I hadn’t really settled into the place when Lester arrived: big cardboard boxes stacked in corners, plates, inherited china, wineglasses and silverware still in their crates; a few pictures hung, but not many. My father’s piano was in the living room; I’m still not sure I’m going to leave it there. It takes up a lot of space, rather like he did. In the study, maybe. He’d like it in there, the comforting proximity of Proust, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Capote, Scott, Ernest and so on. (Hemingway needs no apology. The old duffer refuses to go away, the signature, I suppose, of great writing.) Oh, just to be clear, no Ulysses. One of the life lessons I learned from my father about literature was this: Don’t say you “just love” a book if you didn’t finish it. (Which goes for this one, too, I suppose). Lester was standing in front of one of the bigger photographs. “Did you take these?” he asked. “Some of them. Why?” “They’re terrific. They’re professional.” “It’s the subject, not the photographer.” “They’re like those pictures by, what’s her name? The one who took that shot of Jack Nicholson with a lit match in his mouth. Annie--?” “Annie Leibowitz.” “Yeah, yeah, that’s her.” “Different Annie.” “Huh?” I was just giving his scotch martini a soft stir when he picked up a book from the window shelf. Opened it. “What are you doing with this?” he said. It was a hardback of Jimmy Carter’s memoir about trout fishing in Georgia. He opened it up. “Signed, too,” Lester said. “Thanks to Peter for a well-informed interview. I like a professional. J. Carter, 1988.” I handed him the martini. He said, “You have a signed book from the President of the United States.” “I do, indeed.” “I don’t have one of those. Nobody I know has one of those. Who’s Peter?” “That’s my Dad. Was my Dad.” “Oh,” he said with a moderate gear shift, “I’m sorry.” “No, no, he had a good kick at it. An excellent kick at it.” Lester took a sip of his martini, then looked at it appraisingly. “Never had one before. A scotch martini.” “A trace of scotch rather than vermouth.” “Dry as a bone.” “My wife’s favorite,” I said. He considered that for a moment. Lester had good manners; “Is she the lady in the photos?” “Most of them.” Lester took another sip. “Are you sure you won’t join me?” “Yep.” I could see he wanted to ask. But he didn’t and I was glad to have invited him over. I don’t plan to ever move again, so Lester and I have a long time together. “So how did your dad get a signed book from the President of the United States about fly fishing?” “It’s a long story.” “I’m retired. What I’ve got a lot of is time.” We went to that little French place over on Yorkville for dinner. Coquilles St. Jacques and their lovely mushroom soup. The French may have got it wrong about Jerry Lewis and Le Sacré du Printemps but no one makes better mushroom soup. Lester was just finishing up a heated cognac (he drinks a bit, I notice, but not contrary to the rhythm of the event, which is what counts) when he returned to the subject. “So tell me,” he said. “The Jimmy Carter book?” He nodded. So, I did. Back then, I told Lester, who had settled in the leather chair just under the photograph of my wife, I was playing in a string quartet. Weddings, dinner parties, road shows, that kind of thing. I was good enough to earn a reasonable living but knew in my heart, as one always does, that I’d never be more than good. As a young man, I’d wanted to be a lawyer—there was something about the ritual that attracted me—but I wasn’t smart enough to get into law school, smart the way you need to be. So I stayed with the violin, thinking something better would come along. That life would give me something to make me truly happy. Near Christmas that year (Leaving Las Vegas was playing in the theatre down the street and O.J. Simpson had just been acquitted), our quartet was invited to play at the mayor’s re-election dinner in Oxbridge. It was a pleasant town whose surface made you wish vaguely that you had lived a different life. Errol Blackman, our plump, baby-faced cellist drove us, stopping once to pick up a hamburger—he hadn’t had breakfast—and another time to have a cigarette. Our second violinist, an angular, neurotic, Winston Raleigh, was theatrically allergic to smoke. He was a new addition, a bit weak on Shostakovich and Bartok, if I may say so, but he played a Cremona violin with that lovely, warm tone. Besides, he was the best for the money we could offer. We stayed at a small ‘historical’ hotel on the main street and that night played for the mayor and his family and guests in the living room of his high-ceilinged Victorian house on Charlotte Street. Across the way was a lovely, illuminated skating rink, right next to the bandstand. Like the music of Erik Satie or the smell of Pears soap, it was a town that made you nostalgic for something you never had. We played the usual stuff. Beethoven before dinner; Bach afterwards. We don’t take requests but we got a few anyway. To wit, the mayor’s daughter, a blond, curly-haired high school student, asked us for Stairway to Heaven which I thought we should learn because it kept coming up. While we were playing, I looked out the window; it was still snowing; it had been snowing all day, big flakes whirling around in the park floodlights. I thought, this could be trouble. Later, the four of us were having dinner in the kitchen—it was between sets. Pretty penguin girls were going in and out with trays when the mayor himself came in wearing a Scottish kilt. He was a red-faced noisy fellow (they’re always short) who prided himself on being a “character.” But he was friendly and I like friendly people. “If this snow keeps up, you folks aren’t going anywhere,” he declared. He had an engineering degree from Stanford but like many ageing private school boys, he patched his speech with occasional rural intonations. He offered to put us up for another night in the hotel until the roads were cleared. “We get the last of everything here,” he said, “including getting the roads shoveled.” He gave us four tickets to the local orchestra’s performance the following night. “They’re not in your league,” he said, “but they’re pretty damn good and they work at it.” He gave us a meaningful look, his mayor’s look, through two slightly blood-shot, protruding eyes. “Which is all you can ask from anyone, right?” A volley of laughter rocked his short body. We accepted the tickets but, really, can you imagine? The last thing I wanted to do on a day-off was to listen to an orchestra recital. As we were filing out of the kitchen, he gave us his gold embossed card. “If you’re ever in town, folks, just call me.” Pause. “Just don’t call me late for supper.” Ha-ha! ha! Supper. Next morning when I looked out the second-floor window of the hotel, I could see the whole town was snowed in. Tree branches weighed down, cars buried; there must have been two feet of snow on the main street. Very quiet. The cellist’s car, a mound of white. So we stayed on. Oddly enough, the library down the street was open and, after a generous breakfast (homemade whole-wheat bread and thick back bacon) in the Talk of the Town Café, I wandered in later that afternoon. I looked at the “We Suggest” table, novels by the usual Canadian nightmares, one of them signed by its cavern-voiced, peculiarly unattractive author; a musty edition of Montaigne’s essays (how did that get there?), and an oral history of the town. I chatted to the lady librarian, fiddled on the computer, looked up the names of a few old childhood tormentors who, I was happy to see, had done nothing special over the years; watched a YouTube video of Bruce Springsteen doing a cover of the Stones’ Last Time. Just knocked around in the snowbound library and had a nice time. Felt as though I was “living well,” that my blood was clean, which is a pleasant sensation but not one I can describe. The bell on the church across the street rang out the hour, the brass vibrations expanding and shrinking in the cold air. There was a clank in the old-fashioned radiators. I wrote my girlfriend, Mary-Anne Deacon, an email. I always liked her best when I was out of town. Sometimes I even imagined I was in love with her. But when I saw her standing in the doorway of my apartment, after I’d looked forward to seeing her all day, something always sank in me. Something must have sunk in her, too. But I didn’t see it at the time. It was a period in my life when I got a lot of things wrong, especially what people thought of me. Looking back on it now, I think I was suffering from some kind of reverse paranoia, the assumption that people were going around thinking good things about me all the time. If you live long enough, you find out how a whole bunch of your own stories end and it’s usually not the way you thought they would. Not at all. The day passed slowly as it always does when you’re away from home. I kept looking at my watch; it seemed to be running at half speed. I watched television in my room; I read a chapter of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. (My father gave it to me when I was having dinner at his apartment. He liked Russian writers. Especially when he was depressed. Whenever I saw War and Peace—his favorite—on the night table, I knew to stay an hour or two longer, that he’d like the company even if he was too shy to ask for it.) Darkness fell shortly after five o’clock and with it came that slight relief that I always experience with the onset of darkness, a sense that the world is a more mysterious place; the street lights came on; kids in snowsuits pulled toboggans across the park. Somebody had built a snowman in the bandstand; carrot nose, black eyes. From the angle of its head, it appeared to be looking right at my window. A kind of rural take on the T.J. Eckelburg billboard. I returned to the Talk of the Town for dinner, the “early bird special” with cranberry sauce. The snow lying even and sparkly on the outside window sill; teenage boys in toques and ear muffs: you could see little puffs of their breath when they talked. It reminded me of a place in the deep south that I hitchhiked through when I was fifteen, when I thought you could outrun a broken heart. For three days, I descended through the heat and gradually thickening air; got in and out of cars and trucks and eighteen-wheelers, slept here and there; somebody gave me twenty dollars; somebody took me up a deserted country road when I was asleep and put his hand on me. It was a long walk back to the highway. But it was oddly sweet; birds chirping, cicadas in the high grass, the hot sun pouring down, a dog trotting along beside me and then disappearing into the trees. Hard to believe that the world could contain all this in the same hour. A day later? Maybe two? I can’t remember the name of the town, it was just a cluster of white cottages by the sea, the waves gently patting the sand, clouds from a child’s coloring book overhead. But I was very young and I hadn’t learnt yet to stay put when you’re happy. So I moved on and when I got to the next beautiful place…etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. They were glad to see me back at The Talk of the Town. The librarian was there with her husband, who was missing an arm. They asked me if I wanted to join them, I said thank you but I had some work to do. I put my book on the table, face down, and pulled my pen from my pocket and laid it ostentatiously on top of the book, all as if I were just about to start something important. The truth is, then as now, I preferred eating in the company of my own thoughts, alone. They may be prosaic, these pensées, but they didn’t bruise me as people often do, albeit accidentally. There’s a curious quality to loneliness: you hurry back to it. You end up sort of protecting it. I sat by the front window; people passed by on the sidewalk. They smiled at me or nodded. It was like sitting in a painting. A man shoveled his driveway soundlessly. A snow plough paused at a red light. By eight o’clock, the streets around the park were mostly cleared, but Errol, the cellist in our group, had got drunk that afternoon with a couple of the locals, and didn’t want to leave. Ever. Said he wanted to move there. You could see his point. Christmas lights in all the trees, teenage girls with white skates over their shoulders going somewhere pleasant. Everybody asking how you are.