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In 1963, when Grove Press published John Rechy’s “City of Night,” a novel about a male hustler, The New York Review of Books complained, in reference to the hustler’s love scenes, that “the full extent or the exact nature of his being had” was withheld from the reader. Lesbian sex presents a different set of hazards, no less challenging to navigate, and those of trans sex remain largely uncharted.) Accordingly, the prose of gay writers, even in the sixties, was comparatively discreet. (This essay, I should acknowledge, is going to focus on the perils of representing sex between men. An unspoken sense among the arbiters of taste that, no matter how talented, such a writer is necessarily minor. An explicit gay love scene, on the other hand, would likely have had consequences: an obligation to shift from a mainstream publishing house to a specialty-interest one. Straightness matters because it seems to have protected Roth’s and Updike’s careers from any serious damage. The heterosexuality of Roth’s and Updike’s novels is in no way disestablished. Such scenes may be a tad polymorphous, but it takes more than one or two chromatic notes to compromise a key signature. Roth’s Portnoy violated a piece of liver in 1969 Updike’s Rabbit wiped another man’s emission off the face of his teen-age girlfriend in 1971. Long after gay novelists ceased to fear that a man-on-man love scene would send them to jail, they could still justifiably worry that it might cost them sales and literary status.īut everything changed, right? Sexual intercourse began in 1963, as Philip Larkin has recorded, and, in the years that followed, some straight novelists became well travelled in the corpuscular provinces. After all, the law isn’t the only force that one has to worry about when writing about sex. To succeed as a novelist, he had to find a way to universalize a sensuality that he knew to be particular. James the person doesn’t seem to have been heterosexual, and a need for disguise may have motivated his career-long experiment in omitting specifics. Which illness is the heiress expiring of? Which widget is manufactured by the young man’s family business? A reader of James never learns. Still, it’s true that James wasn’t known for being explicit about, well, anything.
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Twenty years before the movie “Nosferatu,” James wrote about the sex lives of vampires in “The Sacred Fount,” a novel that is nearly impossible to read today without construing the title as a reference to the purported sanative effects of sexual fluids. “The Spoils of Poynton,” for example, is concerned with the mistake of restraining one’s greed for physical love (though it’s sometimes misread as a sermon preaching the opposite). It may surprise those who know James only by reputation to hear that he wanted more sex in novels, but, in fact, he wrote a great deal about the difference that sex made to a relationship. “There are too many sources of interest neglected-whole categories of manners, whole corpuscular classes and provinces, museums of character and condition, unvisited.”
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(The scare quotes, the italics, and the interpolated qualifying phrase are all his.) James was fairly sure, however, that if novelists persisted in the “immense omission,” as he called it, the art form would stagnate. “I cannot so much as imagine Dickens and Scott without the ‘love-making’ left, as the phrase is, out,” he wrote.
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“There came into being a mistrust of any but the most guarded treatment of the great relation between men and women,” James wrote in an 1899 essay, “The Future of the Novel.” James conceded that discretion had its charms. (Outside respectable quarters, there were, of course, many authors who were candid about the mechanics, even in the early days of the novel pornography flourished mightily during the Enlightenment.) As the eighteenth century turned into the nineteenth, however, a “wonderful propriety,” as Henry James put it, took hold. Still, fact is something, and sometimes it is quite something: consider Diderot’s indiscreet jewels, in 1748, or the many acts of hospitality rendered to Tom Jones, in 1749. Two limitations are worth noting: the candor was, for the most part, limited to heterosexual episodes and, in respectable quarters, it did not extend to the corporeal mechanics of sex-it merely noted the fact of it. Once upon a time, novels were frank about sex. Many are the conditions that it depends upon. The half answer, half protest that immediately springs to mind is, It depends. The first thing to say, of course, is that the question is deeply silly.