My frequent conversation partner Blake Smith is back on the pod today to talk about his book-in-progress on the pioneering gay editor Michael Denneny as well as a related essay, “For the Love of the Gay World,” just published in a new anthology. In both endeavors, I think, he’s doing some version of the same thing, which is to make his case, that gay men briefly had, then lost, but could have again a coherent, self-reflective cultural and intellectual world by and for themselves. As he writes: Part of what the playwright Larry Kramer called, two decades ago, the tragedy of today’s gays is that in order to begin a potentially generative, or productively divisive, conversation about the state of male homosexuality (its culture and politics, its problems and affordances) we must undergo an ordeal of conceptual and historical clarification. Without doing so, we are likely to miss the real objects of our agreement and disagreement, wasting time with opinions expressed in each interlocutor’s jumble of inherited, half-comprehended categories. It is hard for gays to talk sensibly to each other about where we are and how we got here; the ideas by which we understand that ‘we’ and its emergence in time are so contested and confused. This makes gay thinking peculiarly dizzied, harried and disoriented. It is often in doubt whether there is any gay ‘we’ (or any gay thinking) —or whether ‘we’ do in fact wish for our talk to reach out to such a ‘we’ rather than merely confirm ourselves individually in what we already take ourselves to think and know. In the following I will try to do two things at the same time. I will try to clarify the routes through history by which certain concepts have come down to us, and to trace their relationships and contradictions. Disentangling homosexual, gay, and queer, and the movements by which these terms were conceived and contested, may allow us to talk more with more clarity about the objects of our dis/agreement. At the same time, as I lay out—in a sketchy, rapid, and admittedly contestable fashion—this history, I will show how there came to be, at a few different times and places, a self-conscious articulation of the interest and pleasure that we take in talking to each other about ourselves, and of the desire to perpetuate ourselves individually and collectively that is adumbrated in this talk. Our talking together both reflects and forms what Hannah Arendt (whose relevance to gays will become clearer over the course of this essay) called a world. Which is not a physical place. A world, in this sense, is what is communicable to a group of people, what they can hold together in their talk. It is also the set of practices by which that communicability is maintained (the fact, for instance, of our having a shared vocabulary and grammar, but also of our having reasonably similar psychologies and common objects of perception). Worlds can expand and contract, and also collapse. Whether we want to speak to someone about an apparently external object or an apparently internal thought, the possibility of our doing so successfully depends there being already a world that contains us, our intended interlocutor, and the topic we want to address. His framework involves a periodization of three distinct eras: the “homosexual” phase of the late 19th and early 20th century, when doctors, psychologists, and the men they studied were constructing new categories of identity; the “gay” era that emerged in the mid-20th century and flourished after Stonewall; and the “queer” phase that began in the 1980s and now dominates how we talk about sexual minorities. His argument, stripped down, is that the gay era represented something genuinely new in the world. Before that point there existed various ways of characterizing sex between men, but there wasn’t a publicly visible and accessible identity oriented around the idea of two men being together as romantic equals, without one becoming feminized, without requiring a status differential, old and young, top and bottom. This emerged organically from bars and cruising spots and men finding each other in mid-century American cities, and then from that base there evolved a self-conscious culture, one in which Denneny, through his magazine Christopher Street and his editorial work at St. Martin’s Press, was a central figure. Then in some respects this culture died, or attenuated. Literally died, in many cases, with so many deaths from AIDS. But also at the hands of the queer paradigm, which supplanted it first in the universities, and then much more broadly in the culture. Queer as an identity, in Blake’s construction, did a few things. It conceptualized the queer as a potentially universal, or universally accessible, counter-normative, transgressive force. Anything could be queer, or queered, if it stood or was understood at certain angles to the normative. More problematically, from Blake’s stance, it subsumed the gay male identity into a larger queer collective identity that included first lesbians and transgender people but soon anyone, including old fashioned straight folks, who wanted to align themselves with the queer. And this has meant, among other things, that there is simply less psychological and cultural energy available for the maintenance and development of the gay world, as Denneny understood it, particularly in the aftermath of the death of so many gay men from AIDS and particularly because gay men don’t biologically reproduce themselves. They need more conscious, deliberate reproduction of their culture, their world. A subtext of our discussion, which we reference but don’t really delve into, is that Blake’s political orientation has shifted a lot over the last year or so, since Trump was left. He hasn’t gone left, precisely. His policy preferences remain roughly the same, basically old new school new deal left liberal social democracy-esque. He’s just not interested anymore in aiming his fire at certain elements of the left. I think I’ve undergone a shift as well, though to a much lesser degree, and with no guilt. I’m more interested in critiquing and thinking about the flaws of the right, now that those flaws are so evident and so damaging to the country. That’s definitely a shift. But it still feels important to me to critique the left, in part because that’s just my beat, but also because the stakes are really high. To this point, my brother Jonathan said something to me the other day that I hadn’t thought about but made a lot of sense. He lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, and has been involved in the organizing there against the ICE invasion. What he said is that it’s pretty clear to him that people in the Twin Cities have internalized the hard lessons from mistakes made after the George Floyd killing. They’re thinking, much more strategically than the last time, about how to act so as to elicit sympathy rather than aversion from the broad mass of people in the middle politically. They’re sidelining the idiots from antifa and the abolish the police crowd. They’re super conscious of the need to avoid riots and looting. Etc. And you can see the results, how powerful and effective their opposition has been. I think critique is a small but important element in the process that leads to that result. So I’ll keep being a pain in the ass on that front, but spend more time looking at the right and also try to spend more time in the space where I think blake is right now, which is trying to think constructively, creatively about new possibilities for culture and politics that we might want to explore on the other side of the culture wars. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit danieloppenheimer.substack.com/subscribe
