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The SparsholtAffair opens with the delicious promise of scandal. It’s the autumn of at Oxford, windows are blacked out at nighttime to conceal the town against air raids, and the dimly flashlit hurrying about of students before curfew makes for an atmosphere of both strict regulation and rule-breaking permission. One morning, Freddie Emerald , our narrator of this so-called “little memoir,” the first of five sections in Alan Hollinghurst’s recent novel, happens upon David Sparsholt, the “new man” at the college, in a subterranean bathroom. David, 17, shirtless, possessed of a “muscular upper body,” and a bit vain, has aroused the prurient curiosity of Freddie’s friends Evert Dax, the scion of a famously underread author, and Peter Coyle, a painter. “Was he good looking?” asks Freddie, that most un-Hollinghurstian figure, a straightish man. “I hardly knew.” Upon David’s departure from the bathroom, an awestruck Indian learner, emerging from the shower, declares to Freddie that David looks like a Greek god. “I began to see,” Freddie notes, “that Sparsholt’s effect might be larger than