August 21st, 2011 § Leave a Comment
It seems that we are on the verge of something. Although the snows of
winter still linger, the light of the queer morning seems surprisingly
strong. The thrust and counter-thrust over the matter of so-called gay
respectability occur with such shocking regularity that colleagues,
friends, and family alike continually remind us that though we remain
in the wilderness, and even though the manna has become stale, we
should rejoice that soon and very soon the promised gift of propriety
will be ours. Still, to invoke Leo Bersani, there is a big secret
about the dawn: most people don't like it. The strange shock of light
and life is a pale and peculiarly unfulfilling substitute for the
technicolor majesty of our dreams. And no matter how supple the body
that we may lie alongside, we are always frighteningly alone. Indeed,
stink, crust, and the painful creep of age are our only constant
companions as we rise from our beds, sweaty or cold, eager or anxious,
always obliged to fix our manufactured faces for a world sublimely
indifferent to the never-quite-articulate passions that under-write
our secret pleasures and public labors. (Robert Reid-Pharr, "Clean:
Death and Desire in Samuel R. Delany's Stars in My Pocket Like Grains
of Sand," American Literature 83.2 [2011]: 389-90)
Robert Reid-Pharr makes me believe critical prose can be astonishingly
beautiful.
http://gukira.wordpress.com/2011/08/21/a-most-perfect-introduction/
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