Vladimir by Julia May Jonas is a novel with, as is increasingly prevalent in modern literary fiction, an “unlikable female narrator.” But her unlikability stems from her refusal to sugarcoat the realities of aging and its attendant loss of power.
Still, in the foreseeable future the country will be, as Elliot puts it, “mostly brown.”
“He was soon to become the second most powerful man in Nazi Germany,” reads the tagline for Luchino Visconti’s 1969 film The Damned. It’s an improbable caption for the image below it: a man in drag.
The Old West is an invention, as fake as a ride at Disneyland. It’s a desert filled with paradoxes.
Often, I tell people, “I like the word queer both for my gender and my sexuality because it makes me feel free.” I love the capaciousness.
The diva, by definition, surpasses her surroundings. Her towering presence commands attention, and everything else fades away.
And of course, it’s always important to say that gender, like genre, is a racialized structure.
Before meeting Phil and Elizabeth, I’d hypothesized that longings for pity, care, or power might motivate or inform BIID desires.
It is said that McCullers remarked to a cousin about Lee, “Well, honey, one thing we know is that she’s been poaching on my literary preserves.”
I rode my bike to Ridgewood, Queens, where Clement was already outside rolling a cigarette.