A SINGLE MAN by Christopher Isherwood. 186 pages. Simon & Schuster. $4.
In Berlin in the '30s, watching Sally Bowles salute the morning with raw eggs and gin, he smiled sadly, "I am a camera." There was no question of love or hate, of reaction; the sensitive recording device functioned, but the rest of the apparatus was missing. Years later in California, that boneyard for aging British intellectuals, Isherwood's camera still clicks away. Its subjects are less often street scenes than the landscapes of the mind, but the limiting flaw persists. The camera now...
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