I will admit straight away, I didn't finish this book. It just wasn't a story I particularly enjoyed.

However, that being said, that is entirely a personal opinion and not at all a reflection of the brilliance of the book itself.

It is written sublimely. The prose is so pinpoint perfect and yet human and witty. It is confident, and yet, easy to read and so easy to visualise every scene. I adore the way the author weaves images, describes his characters so they dance from the page.

So, I didn't finish it, because the story isn't my thing, but the writing most definitely is, and I may well pick it up again to revel in it, to learn from it, because it deserves it. I am at fault, not the author and the book.

This was a novel of two aspects. I revelled in the worlds of some of the great writers of the twentieth century and enjoyed the main character's interaction with the icons of gay literature. Capote, Baldwin, Vidal and Isherwood's conflicts with other male writers (some would be classed as misogynists now) like Orwell, Mailer and Koestler; with each other with catty remarks and put downs; and with themselves as they struggled with fame, relationships and love (both adoration and personal).
This was enough for me.
The storyline of the main character as a sociopath, whose writing career and fame was solely based on stealing other people's manuscripts and murdering them, I found less appealing. It mirrored John Boyne's excellent A Ladder to the Sky but did not have the conviction of making its central character completely self-obsessed and unlikeable. As it was narrated by Hugo himself, it gave some insights into his character:
'..can a sociopath love?' I asked, my voice almost a whisper. ..'It's not impossible for a sociopath to love, but it would be very hard for them to love without destroying the other person.' It's not impossible, I thought. It's not impossible.'
Self-centred and completely oblivious to the other person, but his care and love for Dorff were genuine before he found out he had written a novel.
You never really found out about Dorff's self-loathing and what had made him look for comfort with drugs. I was more interested in this relationship and its dynamics and was disappointed with the inevitable outcome.
Despite this, however, I thoroughly enjoyed reading Objects of Desire and its fictional exploration of gay writers.

This was well-written and I liked the way the voice of the narrator shifted according to which of the named authors he was with. The scenes with Gore Vidal, in particular, were very reminiscent of the gossipy, world-weary tone of Vidal's Palimpsest. Overall, though, I was underwhelmed. I didn't feel like there was a single thing in the story or characterisation that surprised me.

There have been a few books in recent years with the stolen manuscript premise, and none of them, for me, has quite lived up to its promise. Maybe there's less to say about it than we think. Perhaps all authors find it hard to live up to the reputation of their public persona, and over time it's hard to reconcile your own identity with that of the person who once wrote that book. So then the plot reverts to the more formulaic story of how to obtain another manuscript you can pass off as your own. Whatever the reason, I'll probably pass on the next one.

Neil Blackmore has felt like an unremarked genius for a while - I’ve loved his earlier gay historical romps, and Radical Love was a deeply moving work. Objects of Desire feels like a literary step up - a study of a (fictional) literary fraud that draws on a host of real life authors to capture the (gay) literary scene from the 1940s to the 1980s. Told by a narrator who is teasing out both his current relationships and his hidden past, I recognised what I’d read of Vidal and Isherwood etc and felt ‘Hugo’ fit in beautifully. It’s a mystery novel, a literary novel and a history of gay literature all rolled up in one fascinating and frequently horny narrative. Love love love.

I’ve bought two books from authors I’ve not read previously on the strength of this (Elizabeth Bowen sounds fascinating).

Another brilliant yarn from Neil Blackmore! I loved Objects of Desire - a humorous romp around the second half 20th century English and American literature, undercut with some deeper reflections on changing gay experience over the decades. Blackmore always creates such fun characters to spend time with, I'm never bored by his narrators and the twists and turns that come from their terrible decisions. I already need his next book!

Neil Blackmore – Objects of Desire *****
A fascinating and intriguing idea. Blending fact with fiction, creating a best-selling fictious author who interacts with real-life authors. Not just real-life but of the calibre of James Baldwin, Truman Capote, Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer, all of whom are his friends or frenemies. It’s a bold premise, which only an author as knowledgeable and skilled as Blackmore could pull off so successfully.
The story moves between England (the fictitious author is Welsh) and America over decades. We not only meet his various lovers, but discover that the one novel he wrote, lauded by critics and readers around the world as a masterpiece, he did not write at all. I won’t go further into the story but suffice to say murder is afoot.
It’s a breathtaking journey, told by a master craftsman and historian. You are there, you have to keep reading. Baldwin and Capote et al are as real as the fictious author himself. An incredible book.

As always, thank you to NetGalley and Random House UK for the eARC of this book.

When I was about a quarter of the way into this book, I knew how I felt about it was going to largely depend on the ending which doesn’t happen a lot these days. Usually I know pretty quickly how I feel about a story I’m reading — most times the ending only determines half a star or so.

I have very mixed feelings about this book. Having your main character and narrator be a self-diagnosed sociopath can be fun in its own way but I think there needs to be something to catch the reader, something that makes a character with next to no redeeming qualities worth spending your time on. I believe the two major ways to do it is to give the reader something to feel sympathy for or through suspense. Here, I personally think Blackmore succeeded with neither of these options. Hugo Hunter’s backstory is a tragic and horrific one without doubt, yet there’s nothing in particular that stands out, that gives you a hint as to why he specifically turned into a lying, murdering fraud and none of the other gay men of his time did. Again, I cannot stress enough how horrifying and unfair the treatment of Hunter and his peers was in the 30s, 40s and 50s, no one deserves to be beaten and shunned and criminalised for their mere existence. But I’d wager that most queer men of the early 20th century didn’t murder and fraud their way into a literary career — Hunter did. And what precisely makes that difference never really shone through for me.

So, there’s tension left and here I can clearly say: there is none. Not that there is no attempt at creating it, but having your narrator turn to the reader and almost cartoonishly say ‘I bet you’re wondering how that happened! Just wait a little more!’ doesn’t really cut it. Yes, of course people want to know how Hugo Hunter stole his two novels, but that’s what the book is about, the reader knows that that’s a question that’s inevitably going to be answered, so having your main character look metaphorically into the camera while monologuing like Caesar Flickerman during the Hunger Games to really hammer it home isn’t nearly as effective as it was probably intended to be. In general I’m not very fond of having a narrator repeatedly grab my hand and drag me through the novel, and this habit of the narrator gets worse as the story goes on. I can make this trek on my own, thank you.

Despite my ragging on this book, there are things that I liked about it. How visceral Hugo Hunter’s emotions felt, for one. His rage, his fear, his self-righteousness. For all his flaws, our main character is still human, terribly so. He’s insecure and lost and yearns for love even though he barely admits that last one to himself. His feeble attempts at true connection with various men over the decades are tragic but one of the few gripping things about the story.

The premise of this book is right up any #bookish reader’s alley: a renowned celebrated writer who frauded his way to where he is and rubs elbows with some of the most notorious authors of the 20th century. I’m not too well-versed in that particular area so I can’t judge how accurate the (albeit fictional) portrayals of Baldwin, Capote, Vidal and co truly are but the literary scene through the 20th century feels alive and Hunter seems deeply immersed and a vital part of it. (Blackmore’s portrayal of Christopher Isherwood and James Baldwin are particularly dear — here they are warm, kind men, offering true friendship.)

Now, I did say the ending would determine how I felt about this book and I’ll try to make my point without spoiling anything: The ending was a saving grace. Had this story ended any other way, I would’ve walked away not liking it at all. The conclusion is entirely logical and consequential and I’m glad the author did not back down here.
To tell you without telling you: Hugo Hunter finds an ending very befitting of him.

All in all, this is a fine book — it didn’t dazzle me but it also wasn’t entirely abhorrent to me. To be honest, I’m quite ambivalent about it. It’s certainly given me a lot to talk about, whether it be in the form of long tangents to family or my poor co-workers. That’s gotta be something, right?

If you like not particularly sympathetic main characters, biography-style narration and the writers sphere of the 20th century, give this book a try, you might end up really loving it. Or you’ll end up like me, with no clear opinion but something to talk about.

It's faggy, it's queeny, it's bitchy, it's angrily queer, and it's chock full of literary references. It's everything I ever wanted from a queer novel and then some. The takedowns of queerphobia and the straight literary and non-literary world are both hilarious and cutting. I can't remember the last time I felt so much sheer joy while reading. Fingers crossed that Neil Blackmore actually writes those three Hugo Hunter novels. I'd be all over them.

Sadly this book was not for me. I loved the author’s last book because it was so original, but this reminded me very much of Yellowface. I also found all of the characters, including the protagonist entirely unpleasant. I’m afraid I gave up at the 50% mark. I didn’t have sufficient interest in the characters to carry on reading.

This is a fictitious novel about a gay author and and how he came to be famous. The structure of the book is a dual timeline, historical and current, with the former leading towards the latter. It is a story of how success is quite hollow and that despite good intentions it suits those who, like the lead character, are sociopathic and can justify any action in the name of the greater good.

Given the nature of the central character and many of those around him, there is little to be empathic about. That the character was gay is used as a device to highlight how marginalised people can act to rise above bigotry, but not every successful gay needs to be a bigot nor need to be successful to move beyond bigotry. As such the sexual orientation of the character is merely a device and one that was more widely used decades ago. As a sociopath he comes across to others, as well as himself, as being pleasant and well-meaning, but there is something clearly damaged inside. That he moves from success to success over the wreckage he leaves behind, there is always a hope that his past will come back to bite him. That the book is written in the form of a memoir also gives the reader hope that revelations will reach the light of day.

The book concludes as one stage in his life ends and he is free to move forwards again on the back of further success. It is difficult to judge if there was an implicit meaning here or that the author wished to leave things open.

This is a good read, it is clever and sharp and provides an intimate view of that group of authors, but this reader became more and more distanced from the central character and so I am afraid this book is not one for me.

Beautifully vicious, sharp and funny, Blackmore’s latest novel is a real treat. Set amongst the literary set of the mid 20th C gay scene, the main character is deplorable, egotistical, insecure and utterly compelling. The story weaves an immersive tale of ambition, desire and power, all delivered with delicious twists. Highly recommend.

Hugo Hunter is a complex being. He is a writer who fled his home country, and found himself along the ranks of acclaimed writers.
Set in the literary and gay scenes of New York and London, in Objects of Desire, Gore Vidal makes a cameo, the impact of AIDS becomes more pronounced, many literary names and books get their admiration or criticism, and life goes on.
Until the revelations, I found the plot and characterisation fascinating.
In my experience, even if Hugo Hunter had not done what he had done, I would have still enjoyed this book.
As for the writing, especially until Hugo travels, I thought I was reading a memoir! I had to go and double check the blurb to make sure this was not a memoir, I am not joking. It was so vivid, so sassy, so authentic that I would believe HH was a real person (knowing some but perhaps not enough information about Vidal added to that effect, but it is mainly down to Blackmore’s exquisite writing).
I have more to say on this novel, and will add them to my reviews on other platforms.
The bottom line is; this was a compelling and complex, witty and smart, subtle and meta novel with amazing commentary and locations.

Some in-jokes:
Have you loved him, Hugo Hunter?
They are inviting you to Iceland, Hugo.
This is your last chance, Hugo.

Neil Blackmore’s *Objects of Desire* is a sharp, darkly funny, and utterly compelling novel that dives into the mid-20th-century gay literary scene with biting wit and unflinching honesty. The book pulls back the curtain on the ambitions, betrayals, and egos of writers seeking both artistic greatness and personal validation. Blackmore’s prose is razor-sharp, making every scene crackle with tension and sardonic humor, while also exploring the deeper complexities of desire, power, and identity. What I loved most about this novel was how it balanced its acerbic tone with genuine emotional depth.

Hugo Hunter is a literary legend, a celebrated gay novelist who once moved among the greats—Truman Capote, James Baldwin, and Gore Vidal.

His masterpieces secured him a place in history, and for decades he basked in fame, excess and the company of New York’s cultural elite. But as the 1980s dawn and AIDS casts its long shadow, Hugo is out of money and out of time.

Then comes an offer too good to refuse: two million dollars for a memoir and a brand-new book.

There’s just one problem. Hugo Hunter is a fraud.

His two acclaimed novels? Stolen.

Now, faced with his greatest deception yet, he must find a way to produce a third. As he navigates the treacherous world of publishing, clinging to his legacy with a mix of desperation and audacity, the question looms—how far will he go to maintain the lie?

A wickedly sharp novel exploring:

📜The price of success – Fame, fraud and self-destruction in the literary world

📜A dazzling yet dangerous scene – The 20th-century cultural elite at its peak

📜Dark humour and gripping drama – A tale of ambition, betrayal and reinvention

Brilliantly vicious and utterly compelling, this is a razor-sharp satire on art, ego and the cost of genius. With a story that spans decades and a cast of unforgettable characters, it’s a must-read for fans of dark, intelligent fiction.