Review: Alec

I read Maurice by E.M. Forster in college. First written in 1913-14 and revised over the following decades, it is the story of two men — Maurice and Clive — who fall in love as students at Cambridge University. It was a brave endeavor, written at a time when gay relationships were essentially illegal in Great Britain. 

Although Forster showed the book to many close friends and colleagues, he never tried to get it published, possibly fearing prosecution. A note found in the manuscript after his death read, “Publishable, but worth it?”

Once Maurice was printed, critics’ major point of contention was its happy ending. It was one thing to write about homosexuality, but quite another to portray gay relationships in a positive light. The trope of the tragically doomed gay man — a depressed, self-loathing, and often suicidal outsider condemned to a miserable existence — was expected of any author who dared to broach the subject. Anything less looked like an endorsement of homosexuality. 

​(I should note that Forster specifically wanted his book to have a happy ending — perhaps to shatter this ugly expectation.)

In the novel, Maurice finds his soulmate in Clive’s groundskeeper, Alec. William di Canzio’s book, Alec, written over 50 years after Maurice was published and almost a century after it was written, focuses on this character almost entirely.

Although Maurice was a fascinating, even uplifting book, I always wondered how an upper-crust investment banker and a lower-class working man could make their relationship work in British society. It always seemed like the two men would have to separate themselves from Great Britain altogether — maybe by emigrating to another country, maybe by hiding away in some vast wilderness. So, as this novel takes us through Alec’s early years, his sexual awakening, his romance with Maurice (as relayed by E.M. Forster), the World War that separates them, and ultimately their reunion, it also shows their intention to do just that. 

Di Canzio, having the benefit of writing in a more enlightened time, doesn’t pull any punches in showing how difficult it would’ve been for men of this era to build lives with each other. World War I notwithstanding, Alec and Maurice have all kinds of existential forces conspiring to keep them apart, and they find few allies along the way. One of the biggest challenges for both is their individual feelings about their own homosexuality. As detailed in Forster’s book, Maurice is highly mindful of his position and his privilege, often going to great lengths to repress or even “cure” his gayness. Alec, by contrast, is more accepting of himself — and much less concerned about others’ opinions. Maybe it’s because Alec has less to lose, or maybe just that he’s more defiant of a social hierarchy that is already cruel and unfair to people like him. Whatever the reason, Alec’s journey to self-acceptance means multiple and early affairs with both men and women, and none of the attempts to scrub away his sexuality we saw in Maurice. 

In the end, Alec leaves the reader exactly where Forster did: with the two men still struggling to find their place in the world, still hoping to find some wilderness where they can hide from the prejudices of others. This may not be the romantic ending some modern readers of LGBTQ fiction will want. Still, considering the era in which the book is set, it’s an honest ending, an important reminder of how things used to be, and a cautionary note about returning to that ugliness. 

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