The Lost Library: Gay Fiction Rediscovered (2 page)

Certainly there were authors whose work everyone here thought should be covered but regrettably was not (which led to an appendix of memorable books). As contributors were approached and possible publishers contacted, a few of the titles covered actually came back into print, a sure sign that the books we discussed deserve a permanent place on our shelves or at least wider attention. Contributor and gay literary historian Philip Clark wrote the closing essay on significant works returned to print, demonstrating that what is lost is not always unrecoverable.

This collection, meant to entice new readers and encourage pub-lishers to bring back a few forgotten classics, is more the start of a con-versation than the final word. We have to keep sharing our memories and discoveries and in doing so broaden the definition and diversity of the gay text. We must expand our cultural memory so that, in rushing from one century to the next, we carry with us the experience and knowledge that keeps the light burning for all.

Books about books are a rare species, special tomes for writers and book lovers. More than an affirmation of taste, a book about books is often a spirited celebration and sincere investigation. Quickly coveted, it remains on that particular shelf, guarded and revered, and eventually slips out of print. What good company we will keep then, among a library lost, only momentarily invisible, waiting patiently to be found again.

Picador, 1999

Michael Graves

One great writer led me to another. My mentor had said something like, “I think you’ll really dig his work. He’s fantastic.” I said something like, “And
how
do you spell his name again?”

Out of print? Yes. Difficult to find? Certainly. After a great deal of Internet prowling, I finally ordered
The Perv: Stories
by Rabih Alameddine. Two weeks dragged by (much to my hissy-fitting), and, at last, this collection of short stories was lying on my stoop. The box was beaten, scratched up. It looked as though it had been gang raped by other packages (possibly from Pottery Barn or LL Bean). I promptly ripped it free and delved into Alameddine’s fiction. But there was a problem: my copy was a defect and a screw-up. Many pages were absent from the book. After page 55, I stumbled upon page 70 (enter additional hissy-fits). I was forced to re-order, re-read and start at the start again. All this agitation, though, was well worth it.
The Perv
has become the trusted comrade I turn to whenever I feel moody. Whenever I feel talentless. Whenever I feel dulled by the writing of others.
The Perv
waits for me on the shelf, by the bedside, near the toilet.

Rabih Alameddine’s batch of eight stories is a tight, cohesive, well-stitched gathering. Still, he demonstrates diversity. In all areas. Considering both style and content, the author’s pieces are sometimes loud or sometimes quiet. They are post- modernly chic or classically traditional. They are straightforward or even puzzling. Alameddine avoids any sort of limitation.

He is, by no means, a two-trick pooch. He employs countless methods to construct his tales and, craft-wise, the author’s endowments gleam in every sentence.

The Perv
reveals a homosexual voice, as well as a unique queer experience. As an artist, Alameddine refuses to be constrained by the trappings of gay literature (sex/shock/sex/shock). He showcases much, much more.
The Perv
, although somewhat sexualized, remains to be a collection that is propelled by its hefty use of emotion. There is longing, loss, triumph, liberation. Amply described blowjobs and anal scenes may stigmatize gay writers, but Alameddine busts straight through these literary road blocks. The author exhibits multi-colored, multi-dimensional stories that are seasoned with Lebanese culture, political musings and crisis.

The Perv
boasts many standout stories. Choosing a favorite would prove to be a rather laborious task. “Whore” stuns readers. This selection follows Rana, a thirtyish woman who journeys home to attend her father’s funeral. Here, Alameddine deftly pulls readers into his bold setting. He writes, “Beirut spreads behind me. Interminable, a sprawling, disheveled city of mottled, self-conscious buildings … I can see the azure of the Mediterranean, the tides, the flux, the struggle of a town in bloom against its web…The city sheds its shackles only to find that chains held its soul.” Beautiful. His imagery. His hint of politics. But Alameddine juxtaposes the struggle in Beirut with the strife his protagonist carries. Rana is a painter, just as her father once was (Rana, however, is quite a success). Artistically and personally, she is enslaved by the patriarch’s cultural ideals and expectations; therefore, she builds her life around a somewhat hushed rebellion. Rana tells readers, “I was such a disappointment.” She becomes a single spinster who abandons her family (mother and four sisters included). Rumored to be a lesbian, she lives with her cousin Zouzou whom she allegedly sleeps with. The catty, gossiping townsfolk surreptitiously call her a whore. As Alameddine concludes this piece, all questions are answered. Most importantly, with flare, with grace, the writer offers his portrait of a Lebanese woman who battles societal restrictions and forges ahead on her own quest to be free. Empowerment courses through each line in this dazzling story.

With “Remembering Nasser,” a gay protagonist peers back at the loving relationship he once held with his cousin. This scattered, non-linear selection is crammed with tenderness and yearning. They shared a bed and a toilet at age three and stole cars in their teen years. Full-grown, the unnamed narrator and Nasser part ways; the main speaker flees to America and his cousin remains in Beirut. Still, these cousins remain fiercely connected. Alameddine writes, “Fred, my lover, was jealous of him. It completely confused me. Fred used to say my face lit up whenever I spoke of Nasser.” Eventually, the protagonist grapples with the task of revealing his homosexuality to Nasser. Such moments are wonderfully profound. Alameddine writes, “When Nasser had come to the United States for a business meeting, he thought he should come stay with me . . . I tried to clean up, to remove any trace of gayness in the house. Fred was livid. . . . I told Fred there was no way Nasser would accept the situation. Once he knew, all he would be able to see when he looked at me was someone who takes it up the ass.” He finally does expose himself to Nasser. Alameddine simply writes, “the wall went up.” As the narrator and his cousin continue building their own lives (the main speaker ushers Fred through a terrible ordeal with AIDS and Nasser decides that he must marry and leave his bachelorhood behind), they drift further and further apart. But the protagonist still embraces his comforting memories. “Remembering Nasser” rouses readers. While avoiding sentimentality, this story knocks on one’s soul with a full fist.

“A Flight to Paris” expertly utilizes dual points of views: a young gay man and an older Lebanese woman. This is somewhat perplexing, though. Coyly, Alameddine doesn’t unveil his chosen form in an overt, immediate manner. He, instead, requires the audience to read carefully, backtrack a bit and discover this devise. Once in fluid motion, the author’s flight mates kindly clash. They both possess strong initial impressions of one another. The man says, “For whatever reason, I found her somewhat offensive,” and the woman proclaims, “He must be a homosexual. My son must know him.” “A Flight to Paris” affords readers a possible glimpse into Rabih Alameddine’s reality. The older woman discusses her son who has written a novel. She proclaims, “I read it. They tell him its literature. I think its trash.” This may be related to Alameddine’s own life experiences and the publication of his first novel,
Koolaids
. True or false, this injects a bit of cheekiness into an otherwise heavy piece. The plane soars on and Alameddine amps up the tension. The duo discusses a bevy of topics, including plastic surgery, marriage, commitment and, somewhat uncomfortably, queerness. The man asks her, “Do you think humans can choose who they love?” And the cordial debate meanders forward until the gentleman blurts out, “my lover died of AIDS.” The woman begins to sob, tears streaking down her face and Alameddine’s clever story, like a symphony, captures this storm of sadness. And a spot of hope too.

The title story “The Perv,” is, by far, a very exceptional effort. This piece surprises readers with a brisk bitch slap. It begins, cryptically, with a salacious personal advertisement. The audience is quickly confronted by the abrasive main speaker (who we assume is named Bill). The author writes, “I know you think of me as a pervert. You judge me. By your standards, I am a pervert. But who are you to judge? If I am a pervert, it is God who made this way.” While “The Perv” unfolds, Alameddine constructs his story with chunks of narrative, as well as letters between middle-aged Bill and a 13-year-old boy, Sammy. Bill writes, “My other interests include world travel and languages . . . you said you have a really slim and hairless body; that really turns me on.” Young Sammy tells Bill, “I like soccer . . . I like reading . . .I like computers.” The atmosphere is uncomfortable, unsettling. Readers squirm and shift. But then, Alameddine ignites a nuclear bomb of sorts and this story begins to back flip. The narrator is not the narrator. Bill is not Bill and likewise for Sammy. With his words, Alameddine performs an enchanting, road side magic show and readers are left, awestruck. The author concocts pure brilliance. But the secret to his tricks cannot be revealed for you here. You must discover it for yourself.

In America, writers are afforded the freedom to express themselves in unlimited manners. Creative liberty is a privilege. Rabih Alameddine fully acknowledges this, nabbing the opportunity to offer the world a work of importance.
The Perv
is inimitable.
The Perv
is distinctive.
The Perv
is smashing, relevant, weighty. By fiercely creating his own voice and his own vision, Rabih Alameddine astonishes readers with a very special gift: These stories. I ponder Mr. Alameddine and I often remark, “Fuck! I wish I could be
this
good.”

Always a student of others, I have captured a great deal from Mr. Alameddine’s words. He reinforced what I already believed about fiction and art. Be gallant. Be yourself. Create without a filter. Create without fear.

Sometimes we need fellow radicals to remind us of what we, as writers, have set out to proclaim. He has nudged me and he has almost cradled me. And I am utterly grateful for this book.

St. Martin’s, 1990

Christopher Bram

This book of six short stories created a nice little stir when it first came out in 1990. It not only won both major gay literary prizes, the Lambda Book Award and the Ferro-Grumley, it received a special citation from PEN's Ernest Hemingway Foundation. It was widely reviewed in the mainstream press. One story, “Philostorgy, Now Obscure,” even appeared in the
New Yorker
.

AIDS was a major reason for the attention. Four of the stories deal directly with the epidemic, which casts its shadow over the other two. The plague was still in its first decade and readers — gay readers especially — were looking for fiction that addressed what was devastating their lives. This book did exactly that, not in raw slices of pain but with quiet craft and perfect prose.

That was the other reason for the attention: it was so beautifully written, the language stylish yet warm, with solid rhythms and well-constructed sentences.

But Barnett was not afraid to be funny or smartass. The AIDS quilt is described as “a foldable, dry-cleanable cemetery.” A lesbian mother tells us about her boy-crazy daughter: “My daughter thinks that lesbianism is next to laziness. She thinks this requires no effort.”

Short stories are often treated as the poor cousins of novels, yet the stories here are rich and full, like concentrated short novels. The digressive episodic construction of each tale recalls Alice Munro at her best. The panels of story don't always come in the pattern we expect, but can suddenly swing left or right, like the movement of a knight on a chessboard. Two stories follow the same set of characters, but the others stand free. Nevertheless, like Munro, the repetitions and variations on certain experiences create the fuzzy outline of an author, like the Invisible Man seen walking in the rain.

No, I’m sorry, I wanted to write pure literary criticism here, but I am leaving out something important: I knew Allen. I thought I could discuss his work in the impersonal language of high literature, but it doesn't feel right. It feels false even to call him “Barnett.” Allen and I were good friends during the last year of his life. We began by talking about books, our own and other peoples’. When he became sick with AIDS, I visited him in the hospital. Later at his apartment I tried to help him figure out the complicated IV drip and bags of saline solution and the syringes needed to clean out the port in his chest. Allen could no longer write once he was ill. All the experience in his book came from his warm imagination and the illness of friends. When he died in 1991, he left me his computer. I wrote my next three novels on it, including
Gods and Monsters
. My protagonist, movie director James Whale, served in the trenches during the First World War. I gave Allen's last name to one of Whale's dead comrades. It's strange now, and wonderful, too, to hear Ian McKellan in the movie deliver his extraordinary speech about dead friends and speak of “Barnett on the wire.”