By Christopher Bram

« La révolution homosexual fut d’abord et avant tout une révolution littéraire. » Au lendemain de l. a. Seconde Guerre mondiale, une nouvelle génération d’écrivains américains s’est imposée. Leurs noms ? Truman Capote, Gore Vidal, Tennessee Williams, James Baldwin, Allen Ginsberg ou encore, plus près de nous, Christopher Isherwood, Edmund White, Tony Kushner, Armistead Maupin.

Point commun de tous ces écrivains, outre l’insolence de leur talent ? Leur homosexualité – cachée pour les uns, revendiquée pour les autres, envers et contre toutes les discriminations. Du mouvement des droits civiques à l’apparition du sida, loin des cortèges de manifestants et sans jamais avoir fait école ni sacrifié à l’esprit de chapelle, c’est par leurs œuvres que ces « anges batailleurs » ont brisé les préjugés et ouvert los angeles voie à une modernité littéraire, politique et sociale aujourd’hui encore bousculée. Dans cet essai émaillé d’anecdotes et de images passionnants, Christopher Bram nous invite à découvrir ou à relire quelques-uns des plus grands auteurs américains sous un jour inédit. Preuve que l. a. littérature est toujours à l’avant-garde.

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Life is not boring, just on pause between exciting things I can’t predict. “Be mindful,” people are saying. Go to. The car is full of gas too. The fun I have with you, I have with no one else. So if there’s a little rain and it’s early April and your window is open a little so you can hear it and it is the first night of peepers and you are a little worried that your marble bookends will give way during the night and wake you with a terrible crash, then you know the terrible anxiety that your pleasure will end, your life will end.

To be more than willing to give up friends and occasional health, choose the quietest room. That blue is a slate plate, that green is coming, that breeze is a clean bed, and I say there’s no joy. You ask harder questions to make sure you don’t know the answers. A critic rubs the feathers from his head and in the moment sees me where I am at home with paragraphs and spaces between them and the pauses are taken over a dying dog. 19 2. Each rock in the river is a dog. Each morning is in fog. Each person is a god.

27 We Love This Place Gently ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ The prince made a worried babyface and zipped his sweatshirt right up to his chin. The sudden descension of the season and its mood stayed until our company left. The dog thought we were all love machines. Our visitors’ energy was shared and in the throat. I was a fortunate, sharing with the brothers. I was not the center of anyone’s suffering universe even if I felt their pain always in my liver. ) floating. My prince paddled to the island of a neighbor, smearest paint.

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