@spendius,
Oh, naivety can also be bliss.
Barrowman was obviously using the time to side swipe the homophobes with a left-handed comment about the fundamentalist society (slowly becoming a minority) that goes so far as to forbid gay marriage, hell -- forbidding it at all in the not too distant past.
You can dip into Proust and find all sorts of observations about women and heterosexual sex but it means little in regards to his being gay. Capote explored the feminine mystique in depth writing "Breakfast At Tiffany's," was a close friend of Marilyn Monroe and wrote a hilarious and profound anecdote of one of their Big Apple outings. As usual, you're one of the vacant heterosexual men that still don't understand why women have gay friends because they relate on a plane you blokes can't possibly seem to get. Yeah, he did get into the kinky sadism associated with the sexual underworld of Paris. So what.
Proust's Way
BY PAUL REIDINGER
Thursday July 6, 2006
Although literary critics of the conventional school will tell you that Marcel Proust's greatest achievement was his mammoth novel Remembrance of Things Past, a credible case can be made for his dodging the dumdum bullet etched with "gay writer."
Proust was gay, certainly " the lifelong evidence of his passion for men amply flows through William C. Carter's new book, Proust in Love (Yale, $26) " and he also wrote about same-sexuality with something like candor: Remembrance is rich in homosexual couplings, described by Proust in near-graphic, though not graphic-graphic, detail. These small moments of self-restraint give us our clue. Proust may have been a literary genius and homo apologist, not to mention a relentless pursuer of lower-class young men and, as he aged, a haunter of boy brothels, but he was also mindful of such practical matters as hanging Remembrance with enough heterosexual window dressing to allay public misgivings as to what was actually going on in the novel's pages. Of course, a reading public that accepts as a woman a character named Albertine, even while the Baron de Charlus and M. Jupien (keeper of a boy brothel!) are noisily shtupping in the courtyard, is asking and maybe begging for the relief of unbearable suspicions.
End of article
The newest biography, although it's had pressed to find one that doesn't reveal his homosexuality, his many visits to gay brothels and a relationship with his chauffeur, even a storied long term relationship with a well-known concert pianist:
Marcel Proust: A Life
by Steve Weinstein
EDGE Editor-In-Chief
Wednesday Mar 4, 2009
Brevity is the soul of wit, but it also doesn’t hurt when you’re writing history or biography. Edmund White’s biography of Jean Genet was stuffed with information, from grade-school records to police complaints. Some people (including myself) at the time complained that it was an example of the word processor (as we called "home computing" in those times), in which it’s easy to dump information into a book.
In stark contrast, Marcel Proust: a life is a model of concision. In only 165 smallish pages, White has produced a masterful biography-appreciation of this literary giant. The irony is that Proust himself wrote the longest novel in the World Canon.
Whether you call it by its original English translation, "Remembrance of Things Past" or the newer, more accurate (but, I think, less evocative) one, "In Search of Lost Time," "À la recherche du temps perdu" stands alone in world literature: a complex (to put it mildly!) interweaving of personal remembrances, family, lust and love and romance, politics, high society and lowlifes, and the texture of France at the turn of the century (with a world-weary nod in the "present time" to the horrors of the Great War).
It was also the first great novel widely read to deal honestly and openly with homosexuality, both gay male and lesbian. This is one of the reasons why White is such a perfect biographer. It also helps that he’s an unabashed Francophile, who spends much of every year in Paris.
I’ll leave to others to compare the style of such elaborate tomes as "Forgetting Elena" and "Caracole" to the "Recherche." But you don’t have to be a scholar of White’s life and method to see how he moved from the relatively spare style of "A Boy’s Own Story" to the more rococo "A Farewell Symphony."
Peeling away the onion layers of Proust’s life and how they are reflected in his supremely autobiographical novel, White reveals delicious detail after detail. Oscar Wilde ran away from the young man’s house because the furniture was so ugly. (Proust’s fabled aesthetic appreciation was very conservative; he never even acknowledged the Impressionists, let alone appreciate them.)
Take only one delightful personage who made her way into Proust’s life, Laure Hayman, a real-life courtesan who could have stepped right out of the pages of Colette, but was the model for Odette Swann. She was not only the lover of Proust’s father and uncle; she also bedded, at various times, of the pretenders to the French and Serbian thrones; the king of Greece; Prince Karl Egon von Fürstenberg (ancestor of the first husband of the clothing designer); a banker; and a handsome stud who worked at the British embassy.
Such real-life models for Proust’s characters don’t diminish the "Recherche": rather, they help us understand Proust’s mindset and flesh them out. This is a good thing, because, as anyone who has plowed through the "Recherche" knows, it can be heavy slogging at times. I’ve done it twice, and let me tell you: It took more commitment than any other prose I’ve ever read, even Joyce.
For one thing, Proust’s sentences are elaborate to the point of byzantine. White comments that Proust is one writer who really would have benefited from word processing, and he’s probably right.
In a volume this small, there’s not much room for literary criticism or exegesis. I don’t agree with White’s complete appreciation for the "Recherche." For me, there’s no excuse for the long, languide, drawn-out passages of the pursuit and sexual enslavement of Albertine, the fictional female stand-in for Proust’s chauffeur, in the sub-books "The Captive" and "The Fugitive."
I also would have liked more detail about Proust’s life during and after World War I. I find it hard to believe that his quotidian existence wasn’t affected by Paris being so near and so affected by the Western Front. But this is a minor qualm.
As a half-Jew (raised a Catholic but always self-identifying with his beloved Jewish mother) and a gay man, Proust was a double outsider in the high society circles he adored. It’s interesting to contrast Proust with the contemporary writer that--in this way, at least--he has the most in common.
Unlike Proust, Truman Capote didn’t sequester himself in a cork-lined room. Instead, he drank his way through the salons and saloons of the Upper East Side and produced only a slim volume that exposed his friends’ shallow lives.
In contrast to the popular image of him as a secular monk, Proust never did in fact completely withdraw from society. He was a great correspondent and enjoyed daily meals at the Ritz.
He did, however, discipline himself enough so that he could spend hour upon hour reflecting and writing on his experiences and the interesting people and places he knew. Battling the terrible asthma that eventually killed him, he managed through sheer force of will to bring forth a book that continues to marvel. White’s little jewel box of a biography gives us an intimate glimpse of a man who was able to distill his experiences into literature.
End of article
Now you're going to tell me that Somerset Maugham, Anthony Burgess and E. M. Forster were not gay men. Pardon me while I LOL
Would it be that you recognized that brevity is the soul of wit but as you are often witless, it's no mystery.