RUN AWAY WITH ME (Book Review)

By Brian Selznick

 

(Scholastic, 2025)

 

I’ve been a fan of Brian Selznick since before I knew it. His name first registered with me with the publication of thick-as-a-brick books The Invention of Hugo Cabret (2007), adapted into the 2011 Martin Scorsese film Hugo, and Wonderstruck (2011). What I didn’t realize—or I’d forgotten—is that Selznick also illustrated middle grade novels by Andrew Clements such as Frindle (1996) and The School Story (2001). What makes Selznick’s novels distinct is that they are chock full of illustrations which are not presented in the traditional way where they are spread out throughout chapters; instead, his illustrations come in large chunks, pages and pages of detailed black and white, full-page sketches. The illustrations often move the story along, filling gaps between the sections of prose that come before and after.

 

His new book, Run Away with Me, is a slight departure from Hugo and Wonderstruck which were both what I would classify as middle grade. Run Away is decidedly young adult in terms of content and its two sixteen-year-old main characters, Danny and Angelo. As well, the chunks of illustrations appear at the beginning (the first ninety-three pages) and the end (the last eighteen), none interspersed within the prose. For the most part, the illustrations don’t propel the story but enhance it. For instance, I found myself constantly flipping back to the first set of illustrations as particular places were mentioned in the story.

 

I would say this is a book about storytelling, both oral and in print. In the prologue, the narrator (Danny), tells the reader that the book is set in Rome in the summer of 1986. The prologue goes on to say that he met “a strange, curly-haired boy…who told me he had no name and shared true stories that couldn’t possibly have been true.” Indeed, the boy, Angelo—a name Danny ascribes to him—claims to be nearly three thousand years old. Selznick also gives us an idea of the tone of the novel when he writes: “He took over my imagination until he was all I could see, in every brick and stone and sculpture of the city. He looked like an angel…”

 

Yes, Selznick, the immensely successful children’s author has decided to tell a gay love story. (After the prologue, I immediately flipped to the About the Author page at the end wherein Selznick’s husband is mentioned.) A gay love story for younger teens. Not the first, but a welcome addition. Hallelujah! 

 

In the main story, Danny and Angelo spend their days wandering—running, often—through the streets of Rome where Angelo seems to have his own stories to go with every statue, fountain and, of particular interest to Danny, obelisk. Some stories are one-time tellings while others continue throughout the novel, most notably a story about the twin Mondo brothers, Alberto and Vittorio, and a sculptor and a young man who seemingly needs to live at sea, Dante and Giovanni. Incidentally, Danny’s mother works at the Mondo Museum, a site dedicated to books, especially known for restoring old and damaged works. 

 

Yes, the story is not just a love story between two boys, but also and ode to storytelling, books and the city of Rome. 

 

More than anything as I read the book, I wished I’d had something like this to read when I was fourteen or fifteen or even while I was still mostly closeted in 1986 at twenty-one. There is a tenderness between these boys from the very beginning:

 

                                    He looked at me with a dazzling 

                                    kind of joy, deep and pure and full 

                                    of surprise. I’d spent so long hiding 

                                    in the shadows, looking longingly at 

                                    others, I’d never imagined someone

                                    might look back.

 

This is a love story young queer readers deserve. The boys’ first kiss:

                                    He was quoting a famous poem by 

                                    Keats…When he was done reciting, 

                                    he slipped off my glasses, folded 

                                    them, and put them in my shirt 

                                    pocket. He then placed his hands

                                    on either side of my face. He was 

                                    trembling slightly, and so was I. 

                                    We both leaned forward, closer to 

                                    each other. Our lips touched, and 

                                    I understood what I’d been

                                    running toward all this time.

 

                                    We kissed, and he tasted of 

                                    honey, and figs, and Rome.

 

I wish my taste buds were that good.

 

As the boys spend more time together, they share more about their real lives and interests but the storytelling never stops. In fact, there are three other gay couples whose stories are told within the book. How great to have a book like this on shelves young readers can access! Selznick is masterful in putting just enough on the page while leaving details to the reader’s own mind, thus thwarting book banners who might salivate at the chance to rid libraries of another gay book. (I Googled and it doesn’t appear that the book has created a ruckus.)

 

As an adult reading Run Away with Me, it’s another reminder how far we’ve come in terms of gay visibility and validation. It also emboldens me to fight for other queer stories on bookshelves so readers with other identities can access their own love stories…or mysteries, thrillers and fantasies. 

 

   

STUMBLING--AND CYCLING--INTO A QUEER SPACE

Back in January, I signed up to be a volunteer for an organization called Cycling Without Age. The opportunity seemed a perfect fit for me. I’m an avid cyclist and CWA’s primary intention is to get seniors outdoors, riding on trishaws, offering new experiences in the outdoors. There was one big glitch. There were five training sessions, including four that involved learning how to operate each of the trishaws which had been bought over a span of years so each one had its quirks for how to operate. I’m not a technical person. Anything mechanical quickly overwhelms. Still, I wanted this volunteer experience so much that I dug down and did all I could keep my anxiety in check. I passed training. (And, yes, each of us was formally evaluated.) I was happier—and more relieved—than when I got my driver’s license.

 

Something unexpected came along with my volunteering. It came with a gay twist. During the first training session—a PowerPoint about the organization and the commitment we were getting into—one of the veteran volunteers casually mentioned his boyfriend. I may have jolted in my seat. 

 

Another gay! Hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even turned on my gaydar.

 

To be sure, this volunteer adventure was primarily about connecting with seniors from seventy-something to ninety-one (my oldest and liveliest rider). Every time I’ve ridden, I’ve worried about messing up. My anxiety is always spinning in place, wondering how I will mess up. And, yes, that anxiety has had a rational basis. My trishaw’s bike chain broke on my second outing with an eighty-five-year-old woman and her daughter. We were in the thick of Stanley Park and I managed to conclude the incident was all my fault. (Maybe it was.) On two other occasions, despite the trishaws having e-assist, I have gotten stuck trying to get up a hill. Wrong gear to start with, wrong level of power. Definitely my fault. The errors happen just often enough that I can’t quell the worry about when the next one will occur. 

 

It’s one thing to get, say, a flat tire when I’m out on my own bike. Then, it’s just myself that I have to worry about getting back home (sometimes after dark). With the trishaw, I have seniors I’m responsible for. I have to get them back to the nursing home or seniors’ centre at or around an expected time. Aside from the broken chain incident, everything has worked out in the end.

 

The good thing is I am never out alone as a solo volunteer. There are always one to three other trishaws with other volunteers and seniors. Quite often, at least one of the other volunteers just happens to be gay. There are times on each shift when seniors are not with us, such as when we have to do a thorough check of each trishaw before leaving the warehouse and when we have to go through a task routine upon returning them. As well, there is wait-time upon arriving at a seniors’ facility as the riders are often still getting ready and often need wheelchairs and walkers to reach the trishaws. 

 

Last week’s ride involved two trishaws picking up senior riders at Qmunity in Vancouver’s West End near Coal Harbour and Stanley Park. Qmunity is an LGBTQ centre so I had the pleasure of taking Ben for a ride while Bob, the other volunteer (who happened to be gay), pedalled two women. We were a full queer contingent, darting through park spaces on a sunny afternoon. No rainbow flags were needed. We just had regular conversations as our regular selves.  

 

My last volunteer gig was with AIDS Vancouver where I fully expected a lot of contact with queer people. As for Cycling With Age, the interactions with other gay men have been a pleasant, unexpected surprise. It’s particularly nice since my social anxiety has increased over the past two decades so it’s rare for me to meet new people. 

 

I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten close with any of the volunteers—I’ve turned down attending CWA’s social events (again, anxiety)—but I’ve enjoyed casual conversations with other gay men, most of them in their fifties and sixties like me, a couple younger. All but one is partnered so there is none of the flirtiness that may occur at a gay bar or pub. Mostly, we talk about biking and travel. 

 

It's all so normal—or as normal as it can be when it involves a guy like me who is terrible with chitchat. 

 

I love my time with seniors, especially that ninety-one-year-old who waves her purple cane at everyone we pass and turns to me and jokes, “Next time, you sit; I pedal.” Yes, more rides with Agnes, please! But I’ve also loved the bonus of regular conversations with older gay men. It’s not what I signed up for, but I’ll gladly take it.

HOW GAY ART THOU, SHAKESPEARE?

I came across an article in the Advocate last week, another piece speculating that William Shakespeare was gay based on—Hark!—NEW EVIDENCE! 

 

Shakespeare’s sexual orientation…Is it much ado about nothing? 

 

There was a time in my life when it would have mattered. In my teens and early twenties in the pre-internet world, I was still a closeted gay. I lived in Texas and nobody was gay. Nobody dared. 

 

By the time I was twenty-four, I had the sense to get the hell out of the state. I moved to Malibu, perhaps hoping Ken would come to his senses and dump Barbie. Ah, but that would not go my way. In Southern California, there were plenty of gays for Ken to choose from. 

 

Still, we were a restrained lot, passing for straight as best we could until we’d hit West Hollywood on weekends. Shouting, “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it” was not a daring feat in the gay ghetto. I longed for the chance to shake off the drama of having to come out to people in my life, one person at a time. I wanted to be free to be gay in Santa Monica, in Calabasas…even in—gasp—Orange County.

 

Back then in the late ’80s and early ’90s, coming out was especially important. We needed the numbers. We needed people in every household to know someone who was gay. Knowing people of a certain minority humanizes that minority, chips away at reflex stereotypes and ultimately reduces hate while reaching toward acceptance. It’s why I longed for a politician or celebrity to come out. Such were the times that coming out risked career kill for people in the public eye.

 

One of my favourite t-shirts I owned back in that era was white with an inverted pink triangle, front and centre. Surrounding the triangle in small all-caps block lettering were the names of public figures in history who were queer. The fact that Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and Gertrude Stein were included implicitly legitimized gayness. Yes, famous, talented gays in history contributed to advancing science and culture. Ain’t gays grand?!

 

Of course, I only dared wear my shirt in my apartment—kind of like a pajama top—or when I went to West Hollywood. I wasn’t educating others, but I suppose I was still assuring myself that I was okay. 

 

Back then, I would have loved to have had Shakespeare on the t-shirt. What a coup if the gays could claim Sir William! (Actually, he was never knighted. Humph.) 

 

Henry Wriothesley

The evidence that Shakespeare may have had a male lover comes off as straining matters. It goes back to a photograph of his first patron, Henry Wriothesley, the third Earl of Southampton. (Oh, Henry. Was thou a gent of importance?) Reputed scholars are making much of the earl’s appearance in the photo, a portrait that was apparently in Shakespeare’s possession (though the article never states this). As described by the Advocate, “[i]n the miniature, Wriothesley’s long blonde [sic?] ringlets, fair skin, and pearl earring make him look more androgynous than he does in other portraits.”

 

Well, here we go, playing up stereotypes regarding a person’s looks…

 

By gosh, the man is even wearing a “floral night jacket”!

 

And there’s more!

 

As was common during the time, the miniature was “mounted on the back of a playing card” and—wait for it—this card just happened to be a heart.

 

And…there’s more!

 

One of the hearts is “vandalised,” the symbol covered by the image of a “spade (or maybe a spear).”

 

This quite obviously reveals heartbreak, according to some reputed scholars. Alas, whatever Shakespeare and Wriothesley had did not endure.

 

In my twenties, I would have nodded my head to every piece of circumstantial “evidence” in the article. Lo and behold, Shakespeare was gay! I would have been gleeful. If the world’s most famous playwright was gay, then being gay was surely okay. Maybe I’d have added his name to my t-shirt in permanent marker.

 

There you go, world. Since Shakespeare was gay, it’s okay for me to be gay, too.

 

Ah, yes, such were the early ’90s when we had so few out public figures to be our trailblazers and role models. 

 

How far we have come.

  

BAN BANTER & TARGETING TRANS

No gun, no shooting. That’s my firm stance regarding the American “right” to bear arms. (Read the Second Amendment and tell me how gun-owning Joe Citizen living in an apartment in Peoria is part of a “well regulated militia.”) When it comes to gun control, I’m firmly against gun possession unless someone is on the job in a militia-like position, say a police officer, security guard or member of the military. 

 

That said, I’m also against stripping gun rights from certain people in the population while gun possession remains permissible to regular folks. The only exception I can accept is when someone is determined by a judge or a psychiatrist to be a threat to oneself or others. Safety then becomes a greater concern.

 

But gun advocates in the U.S. always blame the shooter and never see a problem with the existence and widespread ownership of guns. This blaming occurs following every mass shooting. Recently, two children were killed and eighteen were injured when a twenty-three-year-old shot up a Minnesota church. According to multiple reports, the shooter identified as transgender. 

 

You can guess where this is going…

 

In addition to the obligatory, ineffectual thoughts and prayers, some people are calling for a ban on gun ownership for all people who are trans. If one shooter who happens to be trans can cause harm with legally-obtained guns then, by golly, maybe every trans person is similarly dangerous. Yes, preposterous.

 

It’s a slippery slope when laws start cherry-picking who has a certain right and who doesn’t. Such tactics are inherently discriminatory. The onus then falls on the government to show that the discrimination is justified. 

 

According to a CNN article (and other news outlets), the Department of Justice is “seriously considering whether it can use its rulemaking authority to follow on to Trump’s determination to bar military service by transgender people and declare that people who are transgender are mentally ill and can lose their Second Amendment rights to possess firearms.”

 

My initial response was an eye roll. However, nothing said or associated with Trump can be dismissed as rhetoric. There are plenty of executive orders (including the ban on transgender people serving in the military) that have arisen from what might have once been considered idle threats and/or cheap talk to “rally the base.”

 

The argument for labelling people who identify as transgender mentally ill arises from the current DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) of the American Psychiatric Association. “Transgender” is not listed as a mental health condition but “gender dysphoria” is. There are nuanced differences in definitions such that gender dysphoria may only include some people who are transgender, that being those with “strong” desires or convictions associated with discontent regarding gender. The nuance can unfortunately feel tenuous.

 

As I’ve noted in previous posts (for example, here and here), because transgender people are a relatively small sector of the population (say, 2%) and are unlikely to vote Republican, they are easy targets of a conservative agenda seeking to demonize or freak-ify not just trans people but anyone who is anything under the LGBTQ umbrella. 

 

I will admit I cringed when reports came out the shooter was trans. Trans people must be perfect citizens. There can be no opportunity for criticism or attack on account of the words or actions of any single person who identifies as trans or genderfluid. Conservatives froth. As noted in the CNN article, however, only five trans people have been perpetrators in the 5,700 mass shootings in the U.S. since 2013. (5,700! Let that number sink in. Clearly, mass shootings cannot be significantly reduced by banning guns as acts of politically-based tokenism.)

 

Selective gun bans are unlikely to be upheld in court. In January of this year, a federal appeals court struck down a law that prevented 18-20 year olds from buying handguns. I suspect any executive order, policy or law that restricts the gun ownership from people who are trans or even gender dysphoric will be deemed an overly broad infringement on the hallowed Second Amendment. Still, that talk and the contemplation further villainize and cast hate on the trans community. Damage is done.

 

This “serious” talk may go away within days. It may only be part of the blame game that conservatives play after every mass shooting. Blame videogames, blame a song, blame a book. Blame divorces, blame basement living, blame an affinity for Goth appearances. Just never, never blame guns.  

 

 

 

 

 

  

I AM ROBIN

I don’t know how accurately this comparison will fit, but if my partner Evan and I were superheroes, I’d be Robin to his Batman. 

 

When it comes to style, holy rockin’ it, Batman/Evan always looms larger. In the Batmobile, Robin/I always ride shotgun. Yes, I’m the sidekick.

 

This comes as no surprise. On our first date, Evan talked of his most recent date, before which he told the guy how to dress. “That won’t be me,” I said. “I dress as I dress.” And yet, holy inchworm, Evan’s style sense has gradually entered my closet. 

 

Even with his style influence, Batman will always shine over Robin/me. Just look at the characters in the old TV series. Batman dresses in classic black and silver, with a full hood and golden accessories. Robin, by contrast, is a bit of a mess. Is he an elf, clad in red and green? What’s with the clashing yellow cape and underwhelming goggles? Even Batman’s chest-centered bat logo has more flair than Robin’s unimaginative “R” on the left pec. 

 

If Batman is GQ, Robin is Highlights magazine for children. Batman is primetime; Robin is “Sesame Street,” with Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch as influences.

 

I’m acutely aware of our Batman/Robin roles when we travel. I pack decent clothes with comfort in mind. Evan packs to be a statement, practicality be damned. From his swoopy hair to his snakeskin cowboy boots, he has a complete look whereas I sometimes come off as promoting an adult line of Garanimals. I have lots of nice, pricey clothes but most everything would be characterized as understated.

 

We spent the long weekend in Taos, New Mexico, a town of characters, the men sporting slicked back hair pulled into a ponytail, modest t-shirts and faded denim jeans. Wherever we went, Evan’s cowboy chic garnered compliments. Holy shadow lurker, I didn’t even register.

 

Our looks suit our personalities. Evan is outgoing and, yes, likes attention. Compliments immediately lift his spirits. I’m an introvert who prefers not standing out. Let me go about whatever I’m going about without having to engage in chitchat. I am proud to stand by my man, but I’m relieved not to put so much thought and work into my look. In many ways, we’re an opposites-attract couple. And, holy Fashion Week, it seems to work.