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A review by kingabee
City of Night by John Rechy
3.0
I stumbled upon this gay cult classic accidentally and went into it without knowing its status or significance. Though, the latter became apparent as I read.
Published in 1963, it’s a picture of the underground gay culture pre-Stonewall, filled with excellent sociological observation and a cast of colourful characters (even if some of them become a little on the nose – I’m looking at you, Nazi masochist with daddy issues).
The character’s journey of wanting love but fearing it and running away from it wasn’t maybe as ground-breaking but his circumstances must’ve been a novelty for a 1960s reader (obviously those readers who didn’t live those circumstances themselves). The public loved the book, but many reviewers were condescending and treated the author as some idiot-savant, denying the book a true literary value that comes from careful consideration, or even straight-out denying the existence of John Rechy.
The narrator of the book never admits to himself he is gay, and in self-delusion insists he only turns tricks for money, and like many others in his position, fully believes one day he will abandon this life and start a wholesome heterosexual existence – the only place where real love is possible. Meanwhile he performs the fantasy of masculinity for his clients. Of course, he keeps returning to this demimonde in every city he goes to – New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, New Orleans, but never allowing himself true intimacy with another human being. He reacts with anger and contempt for anyone who attempts to get close to him.
The reader gets a glimmer of hope that the narrator can free himself from his all-consuming self-loathing and get a happy ending of sorts if only the post-orgasm shame could be overcome. At least we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that the author of this semi-autobiographical novel found love and happiness in the end.
Read this book if you’re tired of the polished, Mad Men-like vision of the 50s in America.
Published in 1963, it’s a picture of the underground gay culture pre-Stonewall, filled with excellent sociological observation and a cast of colourful characters (even if some of them become a little on the nose – I’m looking at you, Nazi masochist with daddy issues).
The character’s journey of wanting love but fearing it and running away from it wasn’t maybe as ground-breaking but his circumstances must’ve been a novelty for a 1960s reader (obviously those readers who didn’t live those circumstances themselves). The public loved the book, but many reviewers were condescending and treated the author as some idiot-savant, denying the book a true literary value that comes from careful consideration, or even straight-out denying the existence of John Rechy.
The narrator of the book never admits to himself he is gay, and in self-delusion insists he only turns tricks for money, and like many others in his position, fully believes one day he will abandon this life and start a wholesome heterosexual existence – the only place where real love is possible. Meanwhile he performs the fantasy of masculinity for his clients. Of course, he keeps returning to this demimonde in every city he goes to – New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, New Orleans, but never allowing himself true intimacy with another human being. He reacts with anger and contempt for anyone who attempts to get close to him.
The reader gets a glimmer of hope that the narrator can free himself from his all-consuming self-loathing and get a happy ending of sorts if only the post-orgasm shame could be overcome. At least we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that the author of this semi-autobiographical novel found love and happiness in the end.
Read this book if you’re tired of the polished, Mad Men-like vision of the 50s in America.