"The Hot Dog Clock" and "The Forever Diaper" are also must-haves. A San Francisco comedy group is once again poking fun at the in-flight catalog SkyMall.
The online retailer has reached a multiyear deal with Simon & Schuster, one of the "Big Five" U.S. publishers. Meanwhile, Amazon's pricing dispute with Hachette Book Group persists.
Rage / Making / Love. Trans, working-class, femme Columbian-Puerto Rican poet Morgan Robyn Collado splits her debut collection, Make Love to Rage, into these three sections that, when read alongside the book’s title, prompt essential questions: How does one “make love to rage,” how does one embrace their righteous furor at the injustices of the world and turn it something new, rather than simply explode or burn out? And how can we imagine “rage making love”–anger begetting healing?
Collado’s poetry works to answer these questions and, in and of itself, is part of the answers to these questions. Her fiery, cutting, damning poetry is both an observation on how generations of colonized peoples have remained alive and resistant, and an illustration of how storytelling is integral to this process.
In the collection’s first poem, “The Ceiba Tree,” the female speaker talks to a Mother Tree about Her centuries–old memories of colonization and slavery. Ultimately, the tree shares that “insanity is the only appropriate response to genocide / but the Sun Still Rises.” This wise-woman voice reverberates throughout the rest of the book, and Her message is clearly heeded. One must go “insane”–which, for women, often means simply expressing their anger or refusing to be silent — to cope with systematic erasure. Yet, one must also keep in mind to not self-destruct, for future generations await, and they need strong roots. This is a tentative, skillful balance that Collado wants us to see is disproportionately foisted not just on women as a monolithic group, but on women of color and working class women in particular.
“The Ceiba Tree” sets the tone and illustrates the simple, forceful poetic elements that will remain in each of Collado’s following poems — a reality that may make this collection feel repetitive to some (save, it should be noted, a shift to a somewhat lighter tone during the final, shorter “Love” section), but which, at least for this reader, worked to build emotional momentum. The experience is not unlike a briefer version of reading the escalating passion and fury of Gloria Anzaldua in Borderlands / La Frontera.
One of these elements of particular note is the constant sound of women talking to other women. Many of Collado’s poems feel like women-centric spaces that the reader, should they happen to not be female-identified, may feel intrusive of, or, alternately, privileged to silently witness. It’s an important reversal of the often unspoken understanding that the spaces within a piece of literature are male-centric. Not that the conversation between Collado’s women is always harmonious; for instance, in the book’s second poem, “Girlhood Trapped,” the speaker listens to the lost dreams of non-white female prison inmates while stewing about the motivations of their guard, who is also a woman of color.
The female prisoners are survivors (albeit compromised ones) of a system set up to destroy them. Similarly, Collado gives voice to the stories of sex workers (“The Stroll”), youth of color (“Remember Trayvon”), immigrants forced to assimilate (“Palabras,” “Mi Madre”), the female targets of physical violence (“Gifts of Failure”) and trans women who are pressured to feel less-than-whole (“Whole/Pieces”). Make Love to Rage highlights the resonances and dissonances among diverse groups of people thrown together in a struggle against being extinguished by oppression, and encourages a deep, constructive, heartachingly upfront examination of the patriarchal and colonial roots of current social inequalities.
Make Love to Rage
By Morgan Robyn Collado
Paperback, 9780993793509, 50 pp.
A new biography of the Russian political prankster/author/revolutionary Edward Limonov asks what turns out to be an unanswerable question: What's Limonov thinking, and what does he really want?
Michael Denneny: On Working in Publishing During the 1970s, Starting ‘Christopher Street Magazine,’ and the Future of Gay Literature
“[...] 1978 was a banner year for gay writing; it really marked the dawn of the new gay literary movement that would swell into a torrent over the next fifteen or twenty years.”
When I started in publishing more than twenty years ago, answering phone calls at a customer service desk, the only gay man in the industry whose name I knew was the renowned editor Michael Denneny. This says as much about Michael as it does about me. I’d been hired for the position literally off the street when I walked in and asked if the company had any job openings for someone with no experience. Michael, on the other hand, had been operating his famed Stonewall Inn Editions imprint out of St. Martin’s for years and produced some of the best-known gay titles of the 1980s and the early ’90s, including books by Randy Shilts, Larry Kramer, Ethan Mordden, Larry Duplechan, Malcolm Boyd, Michael Nava, Paul Monette, and Quentin Crisp, among others. I can’t remember where I’d first heard about Michael or how I’d even come to know about an editor in New York when I was a publishing newcomer in California, but he was what you’d call today a brand: someone known almost more for who he was than the books he published. Put another way, he stood out. In case you’re wondering, this is not standard stuff in publishing circles. Most editors spend their career, however distinguished, unknown to the average person—sometimes even unknown to their fellow publishing colleagues. Michael was different and so were his books.
To be sure, there were other gay editors who published gay books, most notably Sasha Alyson, but I was unaware of him, or anyone else, when I started. (Once I became established, however, I learned Sasha’s name rather quickly, such was his notoriety and the novelty of Alyson Books.) As far as I could tell, only Michael and Sasha had done what I aspired to do back then: edit a line of quality gay titles. I don’t imagine there are many professions where you know of exactly two people who have walked your career path before you. Yes, I knew lesbian editors through the feminist presses, and I also learned there were heterosexuals who published gay books on an ongoing basis, notably Arnold Dolan at Plume, but I wasn’t aware of any other gay editor who’d devoted his career to gay literature. Which accounts for why, as an editor, I’ve had to make most of it up as I went along all these years, not always successfully, either.
The following conversation with Michael (conducted via e-mail) underscores that gay literature doesn’t just “happen.” There are individuals behind it, so to speak, and it’s about more than writers and readers. This conversation could have easily been with one of the many committed agents, booksellers, journalists, or librarians who’ve championed the cause of gay literature over the years. I chose Michael—now a busy freelance editor—because I wanted to know what preceded me on the editorial front. Also because he was the first of his kind, and how many people can you say that about?
Since book editors don’t typically grow up wanting to be editors and many have never taken an editing class, or in some cases even been formally trained (I’m speaking for myself here), what led you to become a book editor?
In 1971, as a result of Stonewall, I moved to New York City, mainly to be gay. I didn’t have a job or an apartment or even a concrete plan, so the first few months were difficult: sleeping on friends’ couches, walking to job interviews because I didn’t have subway fare, watching my few dollars shrink. Among other things, I tried for publishing jobs since I’d worked half-time for two years at the University of Chicago Press. When a friend told me he was leaving his editing job at the old Macmillan publishing company to go to Paris and be a poet, we arranged it so that I came in for an interview a couple of hours after he handed in his resignation. On paper we looked like the same person (except that I did have some experience in publishing), and they hired me. It was an accident really, I was just desperate for a job.
I thought it was a bit of a coup, since I skipped the usual step of first being an editorial assistant. But in retrospect that was a mistake. The wear and tear of the first few years, when I had to figure out what the job was while actually doing it, was enormous, and in retrospect I don’t think it was worth it. I think the only way you really learn this job is by watching someone else do it for some time, like an apprentice, since it actually is a craft skill.
I really identify with your comments because something similar happened to me. I’d moved to San Francisco from Los Angeles without a job, and I was desperate for work. One day when I was job hunting, I came to a stop sign and noticed the words “Publishers Group West” painted on the side of a warehouse. I had no background in books, but I was an English major so thought this might be a fit. I went in to ask about jobs, they had one, and I was then interviewed for a customer service position. I was hired a couple days later. It was five years before I edited my first book. Which was helpful in a way because I learned sales, marketing, and publicity in the interim. But as an editor, I felt like a fraud at first because I never had instruction. I simply came up with an idea for an essay collection, put it together with the author’s permission, and just like that I was an editor.
I certainly knew that feeling my first few years. So in the beginning it was just a job, so I could live here. I never thought it would last. In the early ’70s at Macmillan everyone wore suits, white shirts and ties and had two martinis at lunch. That wasn’t me. I had spent the ’60s at the University of Chicago being a hippy intellectual and a political activist. I thought the job would only last a few months, until they discovered who I really was. It amazes me in retrospect that I lasted thirty years. What happened was I got involved with a couple of books that really intrigued me and gradually realized that one might be able to do something interesting in publishing.
I’m curious about those suit and tie/two-martini days of publishing: What was it like being an openly gay man in that old school world?
It wasn’t exactly the case of “being an openly gay man.” In the early ’70s, in spite of the fact that there were quite a few gay men and lesbians working as editors, it was something never spoken about. I swore to myself I wouldn’t lie about it or try to hide it, but on the other hand I didn’t go out of my way to broadcast it, either.
I remember the first time I had to confront that decision. It was at the Christmas party my first year working there. In the ’70s, publishing companies had these really terrible Christmas parties where everyone got drunk out of their minds and all sorts of indiscreet things got said (and done). At one of these parties the head of Macmillan’s warehouse and inventory control, a short, really feisty Puerto Rican lesbian whom I liked a lot, came up to me, clearly very drunk, and asked if I was bisexual. When I said, “No,” her face really fell and she realized she’d gone a step too far, but then I added, “I’m gay” and she broke into this terrific smile. And she was one of my best allies in the company from then on.
I suppose I really came out to the whole company because of a book by Alan Ebert, the first gay book I ever published, called The Homosexuals: Who and What We Are. Great title, right? (Laughter.) I’d actually been fired over it when the CEO of the company, a twisted little man called Raymond C. Hagel, found out about the book as we were preparing for an upcoming sales conference in Phoenix. But after I was fired every other editor, right up to the editor in chief, refused to present the book at sales conference, and since legal told the company they were obliged to publish it, they ended up hiring me back—really, just to present one book! (Laughter.)
One of our New York sales reps who was a friend of mine had been reading the manuscript, I think in order to support me from the floor. And he had come to an interview in the book with a gay rabbi who, among other things, described fist fucking. And my friend didn’t believe there could be such a thing as a gay rabbi, or that fist fucking was physically possible. This was said at sales conference in front of everyone, and I’m standing on stage at the microphone in front of 250 people. It was one of those moments when you just wish the earth would open up and swallow you. I had a split second to make a decision and I realized that the whole credibility of the book—as well as my own—depended on the answer.
I took a deep breath and said, “Chuck, you know that bar at the very western end of 14th Street (his territory was lower Manhattan), on the south side of the street in the triangular building? It’s a gay bar (it was the old Anvil) that, among other things, has sex acts performed on the bar. It’s a place I’ve been to a few times and I can assure you that it’s physically possible,” and I held up my right hand and with my left measured off about halfway up my forearm and said, “You can get it in about this far.” The silence in that room was palpable; as they say, you could have heard a pin drop. (Laughter.) “And as for the rabbi, I happen to know him socially and I guarantee you he’s a real person.” So the cat was definitely out of the bag.
As a follow up question, in reference to the books interesting you, what else did you acquire and edit initially, and how long was it before you decided there was a market for LGBT lit?
That took a while—I was a bit dense, I guess. The first books that really hooked me on publishing were political. I might not have known much about editing or publishing, but politics was what I knew from the ’60s and the earliest books I really got involved in were political.
I soon came to see that this could be an interesting job, and I started feeling my way into it. The most notable book I edited in the beginning was probably for colored girls who have considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enuf. It was actually Ntozake Shange who raised the issue of gay books with me, saying, “You’re publishing all these women’s books and black books, how come you aren’t publishing more gay books?”
Which was a good question.
In New York City at the time, in the years following Stonewall, there were intense discussions going on among gay people as to whether or not there was such a thing as gay literature, or gay culture in general. I’d gotten involved with the Gay Activists Alliance, and in time we’d started our first gay magazine, OUT, in 1973, but it only lasted two issues before folding. During that period I’d gotten close to a young guy just out of grad school named Chuck Ortleb, and we continued that discussion—intensively!—for the next couple of years. These discussions with Chuck ended up convincing me there was such a thing as gay literature and, more importantly, that a change of consciousness, a change in our imaginations, had to be the first step in fighting for gay rights. The best way to do that was through a literary magazine. Electoral politics was not at all a promising avenue at the time. So we ended up founding Christopher Street Magazine in 1976, one of the first gay literary magazines—and that got me fired for good from Macmillan.
So I needed a job. By then I was a hot young editor, my books were getting a lot of attention, and, more importantly, making good money. I had, if memory is correct, forty-seven job interviews. (It’s hard to remember but in the mid-seventies there were something like 280 publishing houses in Manhattan. Today there are five, and a handful of small presses.) At each one I’d put a copy of Christopher Street on the table and say, “Look, I’m gay and publicly involved with this gay literary magazine, so if that gives you a problem, we should just forget about the job and enjoy lunch, since this is a very good restaurant and you’re paying for it.” (In those days they always took you to these incredibly fancy restaurants for the interview.) And they would say, “Oh no, no,” picking up the magazine and leafing through it, “how interesting…interesting.”
And of the forty-seven interviews, I got exactly one call back, from a guy named Tom McCormack who was running a small place called St. Martin’s Press in the Flatiron Building. Most of my publishing friends had never heard of St. Martin’s. I only knew it because they had published a couple of the earliest gay books (Weinberg’s Society and the Healthy Homosexual along with Roommates Can’t Always Be Lovers and Fire Island by Liege Clark and Jack Nichols). I ended up having five interviews with Tom, telling him that I was convinced there was a new market for gay fiction, and I wanted to try to publish to it—without a huge hullabaloo every time I tried to sign up a gay book. He agreed, and so I moved to St. Martin’s in 1977.
If I hadn’t run into Tom, I don’t think I ever would have had a career in publishing; it would have just been a five-year adventure in the business world.
Who besides you was openly gay and publishing gay titles in a mainstream house back then? I’m talking about gay men who’ve made a career publishing gay literature.
In corporate publishing? Nobody. We’re talking mainstream New York publishing here. I don’t know about the rest of the country, but in New York publishing there was no one who was out. Which is why it was such a big deal when I came out publicly. And there were no small gay presses at the time with the exception of Gay Sunshine magazine, which put out a couple of gay books. Interestingly enough there were already several lesbian/feminist presses; Daughters in Vermont and a couple of others. One of the things that motivated me was that I had several very close lesbian friends, and I saw that they had several presses, and a number of magazines, but by 1976 gay men had virtually nothing comparable, except The Advocate.
Of course, lesbians had the advantage of the Women’s Movement. The women’s presses were basically lesbian (in most of their personnel and an awful lot of what they published) but were presented to the world as feminist presses. That’s why at the time lesbian literature was way ahead of gay literature; they had an allied audience of straight women interested in the work of lesbians, which made publication of such books and magazines financially viable, if limited. But gay men had no such allies who could augment the audience for gay books, so there were no small gay presses. Sasha Alyson started Alyson Books some years later, and when he did, he came to me for advice.
What were the challenges for you as a gay book editor beyond the expected homophobia? Were there gay writers with books lined up to be published now that there was a prominent outlet for their writing?
I think I made the same mistake at St. Martin’s that we initially made at Christopher Street. Knowing there was some samizdat gay literature going around (W.H. Auden’s “Ode to a Blow Job,” for instance, and other stuff), we assumed that gay writers had all this material in their bottom drawers because there was no outlet for publishing it, and it would come gushing in. But gay writers are no dummies; since there hadn’t been any outlets, most didn’t waste their time writing work that could never be published. This we discovered to our chagrin at Christopher Street, where we were always scrambling to fill up the new issue. Once Edmund White wrote, I think, four different articles under four different names to fill the issue at the last moment, although I think the title goes to Andrew Holleran, who once did five articles under five aliases. (Laughter.) If we’d known anything about magazine publishing, we would never have tried to start Christopher Street, which, mind you, lasted for over twenty years.
When I went looking for gay books, the pickings were slim. There was Wallace Hamilton who had published a novel called Coming Out. He wrote a Biblical, historical novel for me about King David and Jonathan (David at Olivet), and Pete Fisher and Marc Rubin (old friends from the Gay Activist Alliance who had worked on OUT magazine) wrote Special Teachers, Special Boys about a gay high school teacher. Now you could say that this was ideological fiction, akin to the old socialist realism school of fiction. But you had to start somewhere. You had to show that gay books could be published if you wanted to encourage gay books to be written.
Then there came along Ed White’s Nocturnes for the King of Naples. Ed’s first novel, Forgetting Elena, had been published by Random House and then in paperback by Penguin and had gotten rave reviews—and, in a comment endlessly repeated in publishing circles, Nabokov had declared Ed the best young American novelist (or something like that). So it was a scandal that he couldn’t find a single publisher willing to take on his second novel because it dealt with homoerotic love (although the beloved was safely dead and gone, which should have made it easier for straight people to deal with). So I published the novel in 1978, to rave reviews I might add. And quite decent sales for a literary book.
In fact, 1978 was a banner year for gay writing; it really marked the dawn of the new gay literary movement that would swell into a torrent over the next fifteen or twenty years. Among the books published that year were Ed’s Nocturnes, Andrew Holleran’s Dancer from the Dance, Paul Monette’s Taking Care of Mrs. Carroll, Larry Kramer’s Faggots, and Felice Picano’s The Lure. After that we were off and running, and ten years later enough gay books were being published that I could start a new paperback line, Stonewall Inn Editions, totally devoted to gay writing, both fiction and nonfiction.
And what was the impact of all this on gay writing, gay literature? What changes were seen as a result of the culture opening up more?
By the early ’80s there was this remarkable flowering of a new literary culture. And everybody everywhere was busy building the necessary infrastructure. When I started there were something like eight or nine gay bookstores; within a few years there were forty-five of them, and my sales people loved those stores; they were among their best customers. People were creating new magazines, new local gay newspapers, which were a fabulous review outlet for these gay books. I could get twenty or thirty reviews for a first gay novel and a bunch of author interviews, whereas publishing a first novel by a straight person you might gather four or five reviews—if you were lucky. National gay literary conferences, like Outwrite, were started, and all sorts of new organizations. David Groff and me along with others founded the Publishing Triangle, a professional networking organization for gays and lesbians working in book publishing.
Before the threat of AIDS started darkening our horizon, there really was a halcyon moment that people today forget. It was morning in gay America, for sure.
You can get some sense of that time if you look at the fiction Christopher Street published during those years. The magazine introduced writers like Robert Ferro, John Fox, Brad Gooch, Andrew Holleran, David Leavitt, Ethan Mordden, David Plante, Felice Picano, Christopher Bram, and, of course, Edmund White.
The point is, there was this huge social movement going on; gay people were emerging everywhere and organizing into coherent communities, into neighborhoods, into professional associations, religious associations, athletic associations. There was a cultural revolution going on, and the emergence of the new gay writing was an exuberant manifestation of that.
But I think this historical moment, say 1977 to ’83, has been so overshadowed by the catastrophe of AIDS as to be nearly forgotten. It needs a name, a label, something better than borrowing “morning in gay America” from President Reagan. But this is why I think if you were considering the history of gay writing, you’d have to break it into two periods here: the dawn, the new beginning, post-Stonewall/pre-AIDS, and then the writing that arose as a response to the great disaster of AIDS.
So what did the landscape look like, then, in the first years of the epidemic? And how did AIDS transform the new writing you mention earlier, the gay writing of the late ’70s and early ’80s?
The first public notice of this new disease appeared in Christopher Street’s sister publication, The New York Native, two or three weeks before the first report by the CDC, which was then picked up by the New York Times, in a little article on page eighteen, I think. And the Native continued to have the best medical as well as political coverage of the new disease for the first five or so years of the epidemic. Chuck Ortleb should be proud of that, I am for him.
By 1983 it had become utterly clear: AIDS was a catastrophe, an epidemic, an event unleashed like a hurricane, and this event threatened our very existence. AIDS seemed so unbelievable at first; it looked like a metaphor for the homophobia of the whole society—but reality isn’t supposed to come prepackaged in metaphors, I kept muttering. Larry Kramer’s great 1983 essay, “1,112 and Counting,” ended all that for me and I think for an awful lot of gay men across the country. (After being published in the Native, that essay was reprinted in virtually every gay newspaper and magazine in America, one of the most successful pieces of political rhetoric ever seen.) After two years of confusion, denial, evasions, fear and growing panic, we realized that AIDS was going to be the major event of our time; that it threatened our continued existence, not only as individual gay men but as a community, as a culture, and that we had to mobilize every resource within our power against it,”
And in that moment of crisis it was the gay writers who, disproportionately, led the way—who sounded the alarm, who told the stories of what was happening, who tried to repeat in the imagination the desperate lives we found ourselves living. And I think this is a very unusual event in the history of writing. Writers have a spotty history in terms of political involvement, if they get seriously involved at all. But, for once, a community’s writers turned all their energies, their resources, their talents, their work, toward a political end, mobilizing the community against an ultimate threat. We can’t go into it in detail here, of course, but I think the gay writers of the ’80s rose magnificently to the challenge history had presented us with. To my mind, it made a whole generation of writers heroic and raised some of the most elemental questions about the nature and value of writing that I’ve ever encountered in my career.
And again, to my astonishment, I think this whole remarkable episode has been forgotten, has slipped under the waters in our historical wake. I mean, a few academic books have been published about this AIDS literature, but mostly it seems to be forgotten, as we’ve waded further into the “post-AIDS” moment, which you can probably date from 1996, the year they discovered combination therapies, the year it went from being an epidemic to being a so-called manageable condition.
So maybe both these episodes of gay history, of gay writing, will be forgotten. Or maybe it will be like the Harlem Renaissance, whose writers seemed to disappear in the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s, only to be unearthed again. We’ll see.
So where do you think gay writing is going now?
Lord only knows! Let me tell you about the last two gay books I published, just before losing my perch in corporate publishing for good. This was 2002 and I thought they reflected where we were at the time as a community. There was An American Family by Michael and Jon Galluccio (with David Groff); two gay men in New Jersey who became foster parents and fought, successfully, for the legal right to adopt their child, and later for marriage equality. And there was David Nimmons’ The Soul beneath the Skin: The Unseen Hearts and Habits of Gay Men, which brilliantly marshals evidence of the social sciences to argue that gay men have since Stonewall created new and valuable forms of community, relationships, and masculinity. One book asks us to assimilate into the dominant culture; the other wants to change it radically (the liberationists).
As anyone can plainly see, the assimilationist wave has been dominant for the last decade, balancing the first decade (the ’70s) dominated by the liberationists–the middle two decades essentially devoted to the fight against AIDS. I suspect these two poles of the culture will always be with us. Which is the right strategy depends on the historical moment. We’ll see what emerges.
And for you personally, what came after corporate publishing?
A surprisingly soft landing. Besides giving me a plethora of business and literary adventures, which I really enjoyed, thirty years of this work had given me the opportunity to thoroughly develop and hone a craft skill.
And that is what manuscript editing is, what the academics call a praxis, an art. And craft skills can only be developed by actual practice, preferably a couple of decades’ worth. Malcolm Gladwell has calculated in one of his essays that mastering a skill—violin playing, tennis—takes approximately 10,000 hours of actual hard practice. Which seemed about right to me—that would be, say, twenty years as a working editor.
And, given how corporate publishing has evolved, there is a great need for freelance manuscript editing today, as so much more of it is being done outside of publishing houses. So I get to keep doing what I always loved best, working with writers and their manuscripts. And get paid for it. What’s not to like?
Photo by Khary Simon
Joel Beckerman is a composer who specializes in sonic branding. His new book is called The Sonic Boom: How Sound Transforms the Way We Think, Feel, and Buy.
When police pulled a gun on Bryan Stevenson as he was sitting quietly in his car in Atlanta, he knew he had to effect change. His memoir describes his attempts, including freeing men on death row.
The Nobel laureate taught at Princeton University for 17 years. Now, her papers — some 180 linear feet of them — are returning to be housed in the school's library. Also: a roundup of new releases.
Morning Edition's David Greene has taken this 6,000-mile ride twice. He shares his experience in the cramped third-class cars — borscht and all — in his new book, Midnight in Siberia.
In her new book, The Lives of Muhammad, Boston University professor Kecia Ali discusses the different ways that Muslim and non-Muslim biographers have depicted the prophet over the centuries.
Duende Literary Journal seeks your literary and visual art for its Spring 2015 issue.
If your poetry is rough-cut diamonds, slightly off-kilter; if your fiction will make us feel more human and less alone; if you enjoy exploration of new forms at the edges of the literary universe; if you can bring us elegant translations of literature from far corners of the globe; if your nonfiction is wild and honest; if your visual art is raw and earnest, we want to see it.
Our mission is to publish work from writers and artists who are queer, of color, differently abled, immigrant, working class, youth, elder, and / or otherwise from communities underrepresented in U.S. literary magazines and journals.
Read our Fall 2014 issue and full guidelines at duendeliterary.org. Open for submissions until November 15, 2014.
Duende is edited, curated and produced by students in Goddard College’s BFA in Writing Program.
Join Red Light Lit for a magical night of erotic readings, music, and mayhem on the rooftop of Ace Hotel, Downtown Los Angeles.
Saturday, October 25th
6:00 pm to 9:00 pm
Ace Hotel Downtown Los Angeles
933 South Broadway, Los Angeles
Free with RSVP.
Stuart Schuffman (aka Broke-Ass Stuart)
Wendy C. Ortiz
Special guest reader: Antonia Crane, Author of Spent: A Memoir.
Special musical guest: Sonia Rao & Angelina Moysov of Persephone’s Bees.
Mistress of Ceremonies: Jenn Stokes of Moonlighting SF
Curated by: Jennifer Lewis and Veronica Christina
Featured Artists: Celine Guillou, Kana Manglapus, Gabrielle Revere Photographer, DUSER and more.
DJ stylings: Duserock
You can purchase a print or e-book copy of Red Light Lit here.
NPR's Rachel Martin speaks with Azar Nafisi about her new book, The Republic of Imagination, a reflection on America through three of its most memorable books.
Israeli chef Yotam Ottolenghi talks with Rachel Martin about the difference between supermarket hummus and Middle Eastern hummus and why he doesn't like to call his cookbooks "vegetarian."
It's literary awards season. The Nobel, the National Book Awards shortlists, and the Man Booker Prize were all recently announced. Author Jason Sheehan recommends some reading on all this reading.
It's not often that a book can mix machetes with hedge funds. Then again, few industries are as chaotic, and compelling, as debt collection — which Jake Halpern's book reveals in alarming detail.
Michael Nava, Mexican-American gay lawyer of counsel to the California Supreme Court, is the winner of six Lambda awards for his mystery stories featuring Henry Rios. Michael has now published City of Palaces, the first of four volumes tracking the history of Mexican-American immigration from Mexico during and after the 1910 Revolution to the Southwestern US.
The principal figure is loosely based on the life of gay star Ramon Navarro, the first Latin film heartthrob. In this first volume Jose is born to an unlikely pair, an atheist physician and a devout Catholic aristocrat: their love story and struggles in Mexico City up to the Revolution of 1910 is deeply moving on many levels. The Lambda Literary Review called it “a magnificent contribution to American letters . . . a masterwork.”
Nava will read in Santa Fe at Collected Works, 202 Galisteo Street, at 6.00 p.m. on Thursday, 30th October 2014.
He is eager to meet with people interested in the history of the Southwest, Mexican immigration, gay history and fiction, the early film days in Hollywood, and the historical novel in general.
It’s a story as old as Tennessee’s Chickasaw Bluffs: two young lovers who plan to elope are torn apart by their disapproving families, and bloodshed ensues. What makes the title pair of Alexis Coe’s Alice + Freda Forever worth writing about is the confluence of their era and their sex. In 1892, 19-year-old Alice Mitchell slashed the throat of 17-year-old Freda Ward, whom she had planned to marry and support by posing as a man before Ward’s sister intercepted their plans and forced her to cut off contact. The murder trial drew swarms of national reporters to Memphis, where Mitchell’s lawyers built a successful insanity defense on the premise that her belief that two women could live together as spouses was itself delusional.
It should be admitted that, as attempted by these two particular women, it probably was. They chose tissue-thin pseudonyms and planned to be married by Ward’s family reverend. Ward encouraged the attentions of a male suitor throughout their engagement, while Mitchell periodically threatened violence against herself, her girlfriend, and the would-be beau. Pare away the context and you have the story of a teenage girl being stalked and murdered by her jealous ex—hardly the stuff of the romantic formula on the cover.
But for Coe, the context is where much of the action is. She closely follows Lisa Duggan’s expansive 2000 treatment of the case, Sapphic Slashers: Sex, Violence, and American Modernity, in framing Mitchell and Ward’s story against concurrent developments in journalism, medicine, racial justice, and the whole of American progress.
Whereas Duggan took an explicitly academic tack, Coe’s book is published by an imprint specializing in “juicy nonfiction” for the 16+ market. In this format—complete with Sally Klann’s notebook-doodle-style illustrations and cursive reproductions of archival letters—the doses of academese she retains are sometimes jarring. Chapters tend to run aground on blandly unexceptionable statements such as “Mass media played an influential role in regulating the boundaries of American modernity,” which read as if written to satisfy a term-paper requirement. Other arguments feel overblown, as when Coe posits Mitchell as “a gendered threat to white men’s authority” that “served as a dire call to claim what belonged to them.” However true this may be in the abstract, there is little hint in the discourse of the day that Mitchell was seen as anything other than a deranged oddity on her way to safe confinement, and Mitchell herself was so obsessively focused on her single love as to void all questions of political identity.
There was, however, a lot going on in Memphis in 1892, to the extent that one hopes the inevitable next rendition of this tale will come in the form of historical fiction. For instance, Mitchell’s stay in jail overlapped with the confinement and lynching of three African-American grocers arrested for defending themselves when a mob led by a white competitor broke into their store. The case spurred then-local journalist and activist Ida B. Wells to access greater depths of outrage in her writing, which in turn incensed the white reading public enough to burn down the offices of her newspaper. Meanwhile, the judge who heard Mitchell’s case was pulling double duty as head of the local Klu Klux Klan. Clearly, Southern white men of the time did perceive themselves to be under attack—but not, primarily, from murderous lesbians. Instead, their benevolent sexism towards white women made the gentlemen of the jury easily susceptible to the argument that Mitchell was a victim of insanity, passed down, the defense’s medical experts theorized, from a mother who suffered what doctors today would call post-partum depression.
It’s unclear how much attention Ward, Mitchell, and their friends would have paid to this racial violence. Their correspondence, liberally quoted in Alice + Freda Forever, betrays little knowledge of the world at large. What it does reveal—through Coe’s sympathetic curation and commentary—is just how stifling late adolescence was for these women, caught in limbo between the leniency of childhood and the looming obligations of marriage and motherhood.
To occupy their days, they drifted into realms of playful fantasy: tracking the great actresses who stopped through town, penning unserious letters to men who placed newspaper personal ads, and striking up platonic same-sex courtships so common that there was a term for them—”chumming,” used to describe a demonstrative but unthreatening affection between girls. Given these pastimes, it’s not so hard to imagine how the romantic scenario Alice Mitchell dreamt up for herself could have come to seem real. Her society paid little enough attention to the mental and emotional lives of its young women. Coe affectingly conveys the tragedy that this neglect never quite amounted to the freedom to slip away.
Alice + Freda Forever: A Murder in Memphis
By Alexis Coe
Hardcover, 9781936976607, 224 pp.
Eric Kaplan's son had a zoo trip canceled because one mom worried about reindeer-induced questions. So Kaplan, a comedy writer and philosophy grad student, started pondering the puzzle of St. Nick.
It’s tempting to over-intellectualize the work of French novelist and photographer Hervé Guibert. Guibert saw his heady friend, the theorist Michel Foucault, almost every day from 1977 to 1984. Then, much to the chagrin of others, Guibert fictionalized Foucault’s AIDS-related death in To the Friend Who Did Not Save May Life (1990). To the Friend is one of Guibert’s last novels and the novel which made him a literary cause célèbre in France. Guibert died of AIDS shortly after a suicide attempt in 1991.
Guibert also had had an earlier and rather difficult rapprochement with another older gay intellectual—the theorist Roland Barthes. Like Barthes, Guibert often wrote about photography and about the body. Like Barthes, he often wrote in a form consisting of “fragments”— paragraphs isolated one from the other, sometimes single sentences, sometimes even sentence fragments.
It’s just as tempting to romanticize the work of Hervé Guibert. Guibert had a beautiful face but, at the same time, suffered from a concave chest. Guibert was a gay man of his time, “highly sexed” and “promiscuous,” but at the same time, Guibert shunned popular gay culture and lived instead a rather unconventional artist’s life. To add to the romanticization factor, Guibert was also a difficult person. That didn’t keep him from having lovers, though, including a long-term relationship with a bisexual—“T.,” as Guibert usually refers to him in books. The relationship between T. and Guibert was so central to both of their lives that Guibert was close to T.’s other lover, a woman, and their two children.
Add to the above the fact that Guibert wrote. Guibert wrote a lot. He wrote so much that many of his novels remain untranslated and the newly-translated Mausoleum of Lovers: Journals 1976—1991 (Nightboat Books, translation Nathanaël) weighs in at over 500 pages. With few exceptions, each of those pages is beautifully filled with the kind of highly wrought language Roland Barthes himself considered literature. But while Mausoleum decidedly advances Guibert’s reputation as a novelist and photographer, and as an intellectual, the final effect of Mausoleum is the force of Guibert’s humanity, his wisdom and sometimes, even, a glimmer of his dark-hearted sense of humor. Mausoleum of Lovers also contains a good deal of sadness, as when Guibert writes, “No longer enough muscles to walk without difficulty in a headwind.”
The poet Wayne Kostenbaum has written that Roland Barthes’ books “can’t be skimmed or summarized.” It seems to me the same can be said of Guibert’s Mausoleum. I am, nevertheless, going to give it a good old college try.
In Mausoleum of Lovers Guibert addresses an array of subjects: AIDS; aging; dreams (35 entries concern dreams in the first 200 pages alone); his thoughts on whatever book he was reading (books by Musil, Isherwood, Guide, Hamsun, Bernhard…); his ideas for prospective novels—some of which he had the time to write and many more which he only hoped to; his observations on daily life in Paris, including a lot of cruising on the bus and the Metro; his travels, which afford him glimpses of gay life in places like pre-glasnost Eastern Europe. He also revisits the many leitmotifs he established in his many novels—himself, his conflicted relationship with his parents, his ambitions as a writer, his love affairs, his preoccupation with the life of the blind (which grew to include his own impending AIDS-related blindness), suicide, and the daily life of his two sick and aging great-aunts.
Shot through all these subjects is Guibert’s aesthetic, an artistic means by which he sought to empty himself, to spill the beans, all the beans, his own beans and the beans of others, and, thereby, achieve catharsis. “I empty myself slowly,” Guibert writes early on in Mausoleum. “I exploit myself.” Also overriding many of Mausoleum’s entries are Guibert’s penchant for transgressiveness, a penchant brought on in part by his admiration of Jean Genet.
There is, thus, much violence, both real and/or imagined, and much lusting after jail-bait, both real and/or imagined, in these journals. There is a good deal of drugs too. The extent to which the violence and taboo sex and drugs are real or imagined are often left up to the reader’s trust in what is, in true transgressive fashion, an unreliable narrator, a narrator who often writes to achieve a dark and hallucinatory effect—verisimilitude be damned.
But what about the humanity and wisdom? The humor? It’s best here to let Guibert to speak for himself through a few passages from Mausoleum.
As to Guibert’s difficult lack of sentimentality and concomitant humanism:
My relations with my parents have been reduced to expressions of care, fear, reciprocal worry. I am extremely cold with them, they don’t dare ask me any questions. But I think: just letting them see me, and still alive, is the greatest gift—the only one—that I can grant them.
Z. asks me what drives me to take these photos of my great-aunts, first I say love, then I say, “What can you do, I nonetheless have something of an attraction for that almost moribund flesh.”
Writing is my faculty for love, my human faculty.
As to Guibert’s philosophical bent, and as to his wisdom, which is often expressed in aphorisms:
Jealousy isn’t only malicious paranoia, it is also a sort of homage.
Dinner with Philippe is the thing that relaxes me the best…. To see T. is a pleasure of another order, obviously more profound, but also darker (more available to darkenings), more susceptible, more rigid (difference between love and friendship?).
The only way to master time is work.
The worst is experienced in dreams to lessen the worst of life.
And as to Guibert’s humor, his occasional lightheartedness and self-deprecation:
At the back of a small car with a white eight-month-old Labrador, he has an erection, he stuffs his tongue into my ear; it had been a long time since I had been made love to so well.
T.’s daughter stumbles upon fellatios in a magazine and says that these people are eating carrots.
On Christmas Day, my sister …announced to me that she intended to call her son Hervé ….I had always considered my sister to be a balanced person.
A word, in closing, about the form: A journal is in a way a fractured or unfinished memoir. And as we know from the many recent controversies surrounding the veracity of memoirs, memoirs often have some element of fictionalization in them. Mausoleum of Lovers is to some extent best understood as a fictionalized memoir or, indeed, a novel. Mausoleum, in other words, is replete with narrative threads. As Guibert’s great-aunts age, for instance, his own health declines and he begins to feel as though he’s aged. In the process, he develops a greater communion with his aunts.
And just as Guibert choose to begin Mausoleum of Lovers with an entry that describes the book as a place where T. “could come and read, at any moment, in my absence,” it ends with this tortured entry concerning his beloved T.: “T. cried in my arms, on my bed, it was worse than the suffocation I had around my heart after having had my lung pierced with a syringe.”
The Mausoleum of Lovers: Journals 1976–1991
By Hervé Guibert
Translation by Nathanaël
Paperback, 9780062225061, 584 pp.