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Millennium Approached: Reflections on the State of Queer Literary Studies at the Fin-de-Siecle.

Corber, Robert J. 1997. Homosexuality in Cold War America: Resistance and the Crisis of Masculinity. Durham: Duke University Press. $49.95 hc. $16.95 sc. v + 240 pp.

McRuer, Robert. 1997. The Queer Renaissance: Contemporary American Literature and the Reinvention of Lesbian and Gay Identities. New York: New York University Press. $50.00 hc. $18.95 sc. xi + 257 pp.

McFarlane, Cameron. 1998. The Sodomite in Fiction and Satire, 1660-1750. New York: Columbia University Press. $45.00 hc. $16.50 sc. 216 pp.

Woods, Gregory. 1998. A History of Gay Literature: The Male Tradition. New Haven: Yale University Press. $39.95 hc. 456 pp.

In the "Epilogue" ot Perestroika, Fart Two of Angels in America, Tony Kushner's 1993 epic tragi-comedy about life and love in the age of HIV/AIDS, three of the main characters sit at the Bethesda Fountain in New York City's Central Park discussing the recent changes in Russia under Gorbachev. At the same time, the play's protagonist, Prior Walter, observes, occasionally stopping to address the audience and comment on the conversation that we are overhearing. Two of the speakers are Louis and Belize, both former lovers of Prior who seem to have become a couple themselves (at least as the scene was staged in director George C. Wolfe's original Broadway production); the third is Hannah, a Mormon woman who, unexpectedly or not, turns cosmopolitan in the course of the drama and now counts all three gay men as her friends. Here is what they have to say on the subject of Russia:

LOUIS: Whatever comes, what you have to admire in Gorbachev, in the Russians, is that they're making a leap into the unknown. You can't wait around for a theory. The sprawl of life, the weird...

HANNAH: Interconnectedness...

LOUIS: Yes.

BELIZE: Maybe the sheer size of the terrain.

LOUIS: It's all too much to be encompassed by a single theory now.

BELIZE: The world is faster than the mind.

LOUIS: That's what politics is. The world moving ahead. And only in politics does the miraculous come.

BELIZE: But that's a theory.

HANNAH: You can't live in the world without an idea of the world, but it's the living that makes the ideas. You can't wait for a theory, but you have to have a theory. (144)

As she intervenes in this debate, Hannah, like a modern-day Diotima, instructs men with whom just four years earlier she would have thought herself to have had little in common. Nonetheless, she imparts her own brand of wisdom to them and, of course, to us: praxis and theory, theory and praxis. You can't have one without the other, it seems. Or can you? But if you can't, evidently it's impossible to tell which should come first.

With Millennium no longer simply approaching, as it was when Kushner first began writing his play over a decade ago, but approached, the theory/praxis paradox considered by Louis, Belize, and Hannah is no less close to being resolved today in the year 2001 than it is at the end of the play. This is especially so if that paradox is understood in terms of the position of lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, and transgendered people who continue to live in the face of so much uncertainty about their happiness, their health, their homes, their safety; and, of course, their ability to take pleasure in their sexuality. How do we begin to reconcile the perhaps all too "mundane" needs and wants of sexual dissidents living their "normal" day-to-day lives with the importance of imagining and building a better world, a world in which queerness itself along with all the productive contingencies that it may bring, becomes, oxymoronically, its own sort of habit of being?

This tension between "normalcy" and "queerness" is at the heart of contemporary lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender politics in the United States and is nowhere better examined than in Michael Warner's incisive study The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life (1999). In the Introduction to his Fear of a Queer Planet (1993), an earlier collection of essays on queer politics and social theory by a range of queer theorists, Warner asked, point blank, "What do queers want?" (vii). His perhaps surprising answer at the time was, "not just sex," but a critical engagement with the social and discursive institutions that produce what he calls "heteronormativity" and that compel queers themselves toward restrictive notions of sexual identity. In The Trouble with Normal, Warner addresses further the increasing desire among lesbian and gay activists to become part of mainstream America, to become "normal," as it were, and thus to eschew a principle important to the earliest queer liberation ists: the establishment of a radical sexual culture that celebrates sex itself and that revels in its outlaw status. As Warner puts it,

[T]he official gay movement--by which I mean its major national organizations, its national media, its most visible spokespersons-has lost sight of that politics [of sexual shame], becoming more and more enthralled by respectability. Instead of broadening its campaign against sexual stigma beyond sexual orientation, as I think it should, it has increasingly narrowed its scope to those issues of sexual orientation that have the least to do with sex. (Warner 1999, 24-25)

Warner takes the gay marriage movement as symptomatic of a desire for assimilation that has virtually erased the safeguarding of a right to sex from the political agenda. In this light, he advocates the cultivation of a vibrant public sexual culture not in spite of, but directly in response to, the AIDS epidemic. No doubt much to the consternation of more politically conservative lesbians and gay men, he conceptualizes the decisions of some queers to take sexual risks even in the face of HIV as a vital affirmation of life. "There is no sublimity," he writes, "without danger, without the scary ability to imagine ourselves and everything we hold dear, at least for the moment, as relatively valueless" (213). It's a possibly frightening, and yet surprisingly refreshing, perspective that we may have forgotten when we're every day reminded that disease and death are lurking just around the corner: Take chances. Live dangerously. The moment may be what matters most. Walter Pater could not have agreed more.

In a recent review of The Trouble with Normal, Martha Nussbaum largely concurs with Warner's conclusions, but, in a move that brings into powerful relief the tensions between "praxis" and "theory" in which I'm interested here, she takes issue with his particular cynicism about lesbians and gay men whose romantic impulses have prompted them to seek the right to marry. "But isn't love an argument for marriage?" Nussbaum asks (35). In this question, we can see the problem that I'm addressing writ large. We well may need a radical theory of queer world-building that "remembers" sex in all its beautiful messiness, that foregrounds indeterminacy and uncertainty, that involves experimentation, and that, in turn, brings risk and peril. But perhaps we also need to provide access to identities and institutions that "ground" people--at least those who need or want grounding. "If there are some people who find improvisational lives more tolerable than others," Nussbaum remarks, "they should not look down on those others who cannot stand so much uncertainty" (36).

The struggle in evidence here is by no means limited to the national LGBT political stage; we can see this contest between the "mainstream" and the "radical" played out in the academy as well, particularly in the field of literary scholarship and, perhaps most specifically, in English departments. A 1998 feature in the "Arts & Ideas" section of The New York Times announced, no doubt to the surprise of some, "'Queer Theory' Is Entering the Literary Mainstream." The article begins with Eve Sedgwick's definition of the field: "It's about tying to understand different kinds of sexual desire and how the culture defines them. It's about how you can't understand relations between men and women unless you understand the relationships between people of the same gender, including the possibility of a sexual relationship between them" (B1). Thereafter, we are given a brief account of queer theory's history and its increasing popularity across college and university campuses in the U.S. As Morris Dickstein puts it, "[Q] ueer theory has become more and more part of mainstream literary scholarship" (B1). The scare quotes in the headline, however, suggest a slightly different story in which queer theory is still accorded outsider status and remains far from "mainstream." In fact, less than a year after the Times assured us that queer theory was now happily part of the status quo, The New Republic ran the following cover story by Lee Siegel: "Literary License: How 'Queer Theory' mindlessly sexualizes Henry James, William Shakespeare, and just about everything else." In the essay itself Siegel not only attempted to discredit the work of Sedgwick and just about everyone else working in the field, but also suggested that these "tenured radicals" (to use Roger Kimball's well-known phrase) were wreaking havoc in the halls of higher education.

It's not hard to see here, in somewhat more microcosmic form, yet another possible example of the dilemma with which Warner is concerned. One can't help wondering whether courses in "lesbian and gay literature" or "lesbian and gay studies" that might affirm the existence of fixed (desexualized?) heterosexual and homosexual identities and, implicitly, the primacy of heteronormativity, might pose less of a threat to critics like Siegel--as opposed to those in "queer theory" that might seek to challenge the hetero/homo binarism and the stability of identity itself and to render that which is "familiar," "normal," or "natural" thoroughly strange, ab-normal, and un-natural. This, of course, is still debatable. Would such distinctions between the acceptable and the "extreme" in the classroom translate into the very same kind of desexualized assimilationism against which Warner is cautioning in the larger political sphere? At the same time, would a rejection of "lesbian and gay literature" or "lesbian and gay studi es" smack of the same kind of disdain for "certainty" that Nussbaum finds objectionable in Warner's analysis? Would capitulating to the hysteria evident in Siegel's jeremiad shortchange us of edgier, more complex ways of thinking about sexual representation that we may need and want? Is it enough simply to speak of a "lesbian and gay tradition" in literature and leave it, more or less, at that? Or is a "lesbian and gay literary tradition" itself still a bit too queer for some folks? I ask these questions in order to begin examining some recent publications in the field of queer literary studies and to think about the various directions that queer theory might be taking as one millennium comes to an end and another begins. In this light, I want to look at four relatively new studies by Gregory Woods, Cameron McFarlane, Robert J. Corber, and Robert McRuer and think about what they might tell us about the discipline's possibilities.

Gregory Woods, a reader in lesbian and gay studies at Nottingham Trent University, is the author of Articulate Flesh: Male Homo-Eroticism and Modern Poetry (1987), a useful study of male-male desire in twentieth-century AngloAmerican verse. His latest work, A History of Gay Literature: The Male Tradition, is an ambitious attempt to sketch the emergence and development of literary representations of male love from the classical era to the present. Ranging across historical periods, genres, and the globe to consider poetry, drama, novels, and non-fiction prose in England, Continental Europe, the United States, and "the Orient" [sic], Woods strives for an encyclopedic account of the making of what he calls in the title of the book's first chapter "the gay tradition," Both the book's title and this chapter heading are bound to raise red flags for those already immersed in sexuality studies. However much Woods may attempt to qualify his analysis, by considering under the overar ching rubric of "gay" literature su ch Greek and Roman classics as Plato's Symposium and Catullus's love poems or any number of texts written before the mid-twentieth century for that matter, he runs the risk of anachronistically imposing modern conceptions of "homosexual identity" (which I by no means want to suggest is itself a monolithic concept) onto literary representations of same--sex desire that obviously predate that identity and whose historical specificity countless queer theorists since Michel Foucault in The History of Sexuality, Vol. I, have been at pains to assert.

This is not to say that Woods is by any means unaware of the minefield that he is entering when, for example, he refers to Karl Heinrich Ulrichs on the first page of his study as the author of "'Bylaws for the Urning [i.e., homosexual] Union a kind of premature gay liberationist manifesto" (1). Indeed, Woods remarks that "every gay theorist warns us to be careful" if we are going "to speak of a continuous, or even intermittent, 'gay tradition' in literature" (1). Furthermore, Woods views the task of contemporary literary scholarship as learning "to conceive of how the mind of a poet might work in a society with completely different sexual rules from our own" (2). And in his chapter on the novel as an emergent site of gay representation, Woods concedes: "Retrospective impositions of twentieth-century concepts on early novels are not helpful to anyone" (136). In Woods's estimation, the year of the Stonewall riots in New York, 1969, rightly or not generally considered the inaugural moment of the "modern" lesbian and gay rights movement, "is the point in cultural history after which, at last, we can unproblematically speak about a certain kind of text as 'gay literature': that is to say, literature about being gay, by men who identify themselves as being gay" (9).

However difficult it may be to accept Woods's belief in the ease with which we can discuss "gay" literature, post-Stonewall, it's perhaps even harder to countenance some of his apparent skepticism about literary studies that question and problematize essentialized notions of "gay" identity. His chapter on the Christian Middle Age illustrates my point. In his consideration of Chaucer, Woods bluntly asserts that "the issue of homosexuality gathers most detail in the figure of the Pardoner. I suppose we could call him the first gay character in English literature, certainly the first major one" (51). In spite of his own statements to the contrary, Woods still seems to be operating with a belief in some kind of continuous gay identity across the ages. Moreover, he appears impatient with critics who want to complicate our grasp of sexual representation:

The Pardoner is apparently characterised and stigmatised by personal essence, regardless of whether he ever acts on that identity with the bodies of other men. In the General Prologue, [the Pardoner] is famously described as 'a geldyng or a mare' (I, 691), which most commentators take to mean, after all the niceties of definition have been worried over for a sufficient period, that he is a homosexual." (Woods 1998, 51-52)

The suspicion about much of the work of queer theory is hard to miss here. What then of the valuable scholarship by medievalists like Monica McAlpine and Glenn Burger who explore the productive blurriness of the Pardoner's gender and sexuality? In a word, Woods is likely to collapse important distinctions and to miss finer shades of meaning in his attempt to write a grand narrative of gay literary history. Those already familiar with the ever-growing corpus of queer literature and with queer theory, thus, are unlikely to find much especially new in Woods's summary of centuries of writings on male love. But, then again, who is to say that Woods is by any means writing only or primarily for the already initiated? Indeed, A History of Gay Literature may serve as a valuable starting point for those wishing to learn the lay of a potentially foreign literary land. But in terms of its conceptual and analytic density, it isn't enough. We need more.

Three new works by McFarlane, Corber, and McRuer, each concentrating on a specific literary-historical period, serve as representative examples of queer literary scholarship that aims for more focused and more nuanced analysis. Take, for example, McFarlane's study, The Sodomite in Fiction and Satire, 1660-1750. Situating his analysis of Restoration and eighteenth-century literature within the context of Foucault's perception of sodomy as "that utterly confused category," McFarlane argues that although terms such as "buggery" and "sodomy"

could and did denote a 'confused category' of acts, in many other sources we find increasing evidence of a more narrow and specific usage, a usage in which these words refer first and foremost to sexual contact between two males; likewise, sodomite comes to refer specifically to a man who engages in a sexual act with another man. (McFarlane 1998, 3)

But McFarlane does not take this specificity of usage as indicative of a "homosexual," much less a "gay," identity. Indeed, he resists the impulse to assume "that the increased discursive presence of the sodomite during this period necessarily indicates the emergence of a proto-modern 'homosexual identity,'" seeking, rather, to explore the systems of signification in which "sodomy" and "sodomite" were implicated (4). In contrast to Woods, whose study bespeaks a belief in a unified self and identity, McFarlane intervenes in what might strike some by now as an all too familiar debate about essentialism and constructionism and seeks "a more historically engaged discussion of representation and the social production and circulation of meaning" (5).

Although historians and literary historians continue to disagree about just when a coherent identity rooted in male-male desire emerged, McFarlane tries to examine instead the complex meanings of sexual repre sentations of, in this case, men who have sex with other men. Commending Alan Bray, Jonathan Goldberg, and Gregory Bredbeck for their studies of sodomy in seventeenth-century texts, McFarlane wishes to follow their lead and demonstrate how in the eighteenth century "a continuing 'confusion' inheres in apparent specificity" (20). And yet even if the uses and meanings of "the sodomite" are often still "extra-sexual," the sodomite nonetheless is recovered as a distinctly sexual subject. Indeed, McFarlane doesn't overlook the fact that representations of "the sodomite" could be enabling: "[S]odomitical practices constitute the discursive field within [which] sodomitical desire can be, not simply excoriated, but also articulated" (22). Although "sodomite" may not connote a modern sexual identity per se, the term signaled the possibilities of sex between men and, in turn, may have served to challenge normative notions of sexuality in the period. Through readings of less well-known texts, such as Sodom: or, The Quintessence of Debauchery and Love Letters Between a certain late Nobleman and the Famous Mr. Wilson, and the novels of Tobias Smollett and John Cleland, McFarlane complicates our understandings and puts sex back into the discourse of "the sodomite."

This complexity of analysis is evident as well in Robert J. Corber's Homosexuality in Cold War America: Resistance and the Crisis of Masculinity. This compelling study picks up on Corber's previous book-length examination of Alfred Hitchcock and homophobia in post-war America, In the Name of National Security. Whereas McFarlane examines the shifting cultural meanings of "the sodomite," Corber is interested in "homosexuality" in a period when the term was gaining currency as a signifier of abnormality, and, thus, he considers the ways in which "homosexuals" were constructed as national security risks during a period of anxiety about communism. Corber notes, "The homosexualization of left-wing political activity by the discourses of national security enabled Cold War liberalism to emerge as the only acceptable alternative to the forces of reaction in postwarAmerican society" (3). Thus, he does not engage simply in the excavation of homosexual "identity," but, rather, exposes the chilling effect to which the te rm "homosexuality" could be deployed. Yet like McFarlane, Corber also identifies important enabling moments, for gay male writers did in fact "[treat] homosexuality as a subversive form of identity that had the potential to disrupt the system of representation underpinning the Cold War consensus" (3).

In this light, he considers the creative accomplishments of Tennessee Williams, Gore Vidal, and James Baldwin since they "tended to treat homosexuality less as a category of identity resembling other categories of identity such as race and ethnicity than as a form of oppositional consciousness" (4). Corber's book is important, therefore, as a work of queer literary theory (even though, as I'll remark below, he himself would resist calling it such) because he examines writers who "stressed the construction of gay male subjectivity across multiple axes of difference" (4). Moreover, these writers "conceived of sexuality as an emancipatory force that had the potential to disrupt postwar relations of power" (4). Indeed, they "looked forward to the end of 'the homosexual' as a category of individual" (4). That, no doubt, is a queer idea, as is the fact that "these writers also stressed the political interests gay men had in common with women, African Americans, and other disenfranchised groups" (5). Near the end o f his study, however, Corber addresses his own methodology and raises questions about whether his book is, in fact, a "queer" literary analysis. He notes in a passage worth quoting at length,

Gay and lesbian studies has incorporated the poststructuralist critique of identity politics and begun to foreground race, class, and gender as constitutive elements of gay and lesbian identity and experience. Discarding sexual object-choice as a master category of social and sexual identity, many theorists have adopted the term queer as more inclusive than the terms gay and lesbian, which reinforce the binary opposition between heterosexuality and homosexuality and cannot accommodate sexual identities tat do not fall under either category (for example, bisexuality, transvestism, and sadomasochism). Their use of the more fluid and ambiguous queer is governed partly by a desire to construct a community that is no longer defined by the sexual object-choice of its members. Like the male writers we have examined, 'queer' theorists seek to identify modes of solidarity and collectivity that acknowledge difference and that depend primarily on opposition to normalizing, disciplining social forces. (Corber 1997, 195)

Although the writers that Corber explores, along with his own subtle interpretations of their texts, seem to fit this definition of "queerness," Corber--perhaps unexpectedly--distances himself from the aims of queer theory itself on the grounds that the field "does not adequately address the political needs and aspirations underlying identity politics" (196). Although his own sophisticated analysis does much to problematize the very notions of identity that queer theorists often find so troubling about mainstream "lesbian and gay" politics and scholarship--and the resistance against which these queer theorists, no doubt, would themselves define as profoundly political--Corber sees "queer theory" as somehow removed from the real world. "[W]e need a politics that is less culturalist," he asserts, "a politics that does not confuse our increasing visibility at the level of mass culture with our political and economic enfranchisement" (197). But perhaps this sharp opposition between the "practical" and the "theor etical," between, say, "LGBT studies" and "queer theory," as it were, needs to be challenged. No doubt, the world-building aims of queer activism and queer academia have much to offer the "mainstream" LGBT movement; and, at least as Corber sees it, gay and lesbian studies as a discipline itself already has been engaged in its own poststructuralist critique of identity politics, a critique that some might construe as decidedly queer.

In contrast to Corber's study, the title of Robert McRuer's The Queer Renaissance: Contemporary American Literature and the Reinvention of Lesbian and Gay Identities makes clear its author's commitment to queer politics and queer theory, while simultaneously acknowledging the undeniable and potentially productive relations between queerness and lesbian and gay identity politics. Examining the explosion of novels, poems, prose, and plays by what McRuer terms "openly queer" writers, the book "not only highlights that phenomenon but also considers how it works in tandem with a 'renaissance' of radical queer political analysis that reinvents lesbian and gay identities and alliances in order to challenge dominant constructions of sex, sexuality, gender, class, and race" (viii-ix). One of the study's strengths, no doubt, is its effort to take as its subject the writings of both women and men, for as McRuer remarks, "such a queer gathering is actually more representative of the way men and women have indeed worked together in many locations over the past fifteen years" (ix).

Some may be troubled by McRuer's tendency at times to use queer and "lesbian and gay" somewhat interchangeably. In his introductory chapter, "Reading the Queer Renaissance," for example, McRuer remarks that "[t]his 'renaissance' is 'queer' not only because it is by and for lesbians and gay men but also because it is different from other renaissances" in that it isn't about a great nation's "transcendence" of its own time and place (3). The potentially problematic equation of "queer" with "lesbians and gay men," however, may bring the issues that I've mapped thus far into greater relief. Is McRuer's study really less an example of "queer" theory than it is an instance of identitarian-based lesbian and gay studies? Undoubtedly, McRuer is right to recognize and affirm the connections between queerness and LGBT politics. He notes that "queer is still used as a simple synonym for embodied lesbians and gay men, And indeed, such an association should remain primary" (25). He then reminds us of Eve Sedgwick's belief expressed in Tendencies that "to displace [the meanings of same-sex sexual expression] from the term [queer]'s definitional center...would be to dematerialize any possibility of queerness itself" (25). Both the texts that McRuer examines and his analysis of them do more than simply reify notions of unified, mainstream LGBT identities under the guise of "queerness." "Instead," he notes, "the efflorescence of creative work is contingent on and, in turn, represents and fuels the proliferation of queer identities and political analyses" (4). It's hard to tell, however--and perhaps this is a positive consequence--whether LGBT identities become a, if not the, basis for queerness, or whether queerness as a theoretical concept becomes the starting point for a useful complication of sexual identities. Do LGBT identities and queerness mutually constitute and elaborate one another?

This question is all the more relevant when we recall that the political agendas that McRuer identifies with these texts--including Edmund White's A Boy's Own Story, Audre Lord's Zami: A New Spelling of My Name, Randall Kenan's Visitation of Spirits, and Gloria Anzaldua's Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza--are linked so intimately to those of the early stages of the Mattachine Society in the 1950s and the Gay Liberation Front in the 1970s, groups that undoubtedly recognized "gay" and "lesbian" identities, but that also were deeply committed to a radical politics of sexuality. As McRuer puts it: "A consideration of the specifically queer identities that emerge from this return, moreover, brings us back to the impudent identities with which I began this introduction: identities refusing fixation in any one sexual or gendered location, reshaped across difference and in opposition to systematic injustice" (16). Specifically queer identities? A contradiction in terms? Or an acknowledgment of the interrelat ionship, the "weird...interconnectedness" (to recall the words of Louis and Hannah) between praxis and theory with which I began?

Although some critics have argued that Angels in America, which McRuer examines in the final chapter of his book, is quite normative in its lesbian and gay politics, McRuer exploits the queer potential in this work, even as the play itself seems thoroughly imbricated within mainstream LGBT politics and aesthetic productions. In this light, perhaps McRuer's analysis exposes the need to blend together both the grounding vital for daily living that Nussbaum recommends in her critique of Warner and the risk-taking that Warner himself wants to promote. Angels in America gained particular notoriety for the climax of Part One, Millennium Approaches, in which an angel appears to Prior Walter, calls upon him to be a prophet, and asserts, "The Great Work begins" (119). In the course of the play, the "Great Work," however, shifts away from the Angel's desire to avert disaster by arresting people's tendency toward movement to Prior's refusal to give up a peripatetic existence and to his concomitant willingness to embrac e uncertainty and risk. Perhaps we have here an allegory of the state of queer literary studies. Order and stability are not such bad things after all, and perhaps "lesbian and gay studies" is one means of providing them. Moreover, it would be naive, at least, to assume that lesbian and gay studies itself still doesn't raise eyebrows, still doesn't smack, for some, of "queerness" itself. But we also need riskier work willing to remember sex, even if that remembrance may raise the specter of death, and to challenge fixed ideas about identity. Yet perhaps we need as well works that try at least to bridge the gap between these two seemingly opposed scholarly projects. Let's not forget "the sheer size of the Terrain," as Belize imagines Russia. Or Louis's further observation: "It's all too much to be encompassed by a single theory now." Maybe we need a more capacious view of the field that can accommodate works like A History of Gay Literature, which might strike some as narrow and reductive, and like The Sodomit e in Fiction and Satire, which might, in Corber's estimation, be too "culturalist." At the risk of attempting to have it both ways, such chances might be worth taking. I daresay that we need more of it all: praxis and theory, theory and praxis. We can only hope that the Great Work will continue.

Lankewish is Assistant Professor of English at The Pennsylvania State University, University Park. He has published on nineteenth-century British architectural discourse, the Victorian "Early Christian" novel, and queer pedagogy.

Works Ciled

Foucault, Michel. 1978. The History of Sexuality: An Introduction, Vol. I. Trans. Robert Hurley. New York: Vintage Books.

Kushner, Tony. 1993. Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes, Parts land II. New York: Theatre Communications Group.

Nussbaum, Martha. 2000. "Experiments in Living." The New Republic. 3 January, 31-36.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. 1993. Tendencies. Durham: Duke University Press.

Siegel, Lee. 1998. "The Gay Science: Queer Theory, Literature, and the Sexualization of Everything." The New Republic. 9 November, 30-42.

Smith, Dinitia. 1998. "'Queer Theory' Is Entering the Literary Mainstream." The New York Times. l7 January, B 1, 11.

Warner, Michael. 1999. The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer New York: The Free Press.

_____. ed. 1993. Fear of a Queer Planet: Queer Politics and Social Theory. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
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Author:Lankewish, Vincent A.
Publication:College Literature
Article Type:Book Review
Date:Jan 1, 2001
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