Books

TOTEMPOLE, by Sanford Friedman, E. P Dutton & Co.. New York. 1965, 411 pp., $5.95.

It's no secret that the "gay" novel has long been a sorry thing. It has often not even rarely been literary literate and rarely profound, it has usually been defensive or senti mental, if not offensive and down right trashy Guilt ridden and fearful of the censor's wrath if sin were to has often been go unpunished, it unnecessarily tragic and hopeless. There have, indeed, been a few (particularly those written by British writers) which have avoided some of these faults but have not avoided them all. The great homosexual novel has not yet been written, and, in my opinion, it cannot and will not be. This does not mean that there will not one day be a great novel with a homosexual protagonist. A few years ago this seemed a vain hope, but as our and society's attitudes toward homosexuality change and as the freedom to write and to publish books about this once tabooed aspect of human life increases, it becomes increasingly evident that there is no valid reason why there can't be a great novel about a homosexual or homosexuals.

There are real difficulties to be overcome. Can a heterosexual (who, we must assume, is a good writer) no matter what his tolerance and pow ers of observation, really write an honest novel about homosexuality? sensitive obThis, I doubt. Can a servant, and talented homosexual, capable of distinguished writing for a conventional press, dare write what,

if it is to be of any value, must be a self revealing account? There seems to be increasing evidence that today he can. There still remains the problem of perspective.

The primary trouble with the "gay" novel has usually been that the author has chosen to regard homosexuality as the only "raison d'être" of his novel and has made it the backdrop against which the entire drama of his novel has been played. Often the writer has been obsessed with homosexuality as such and has interpreted all life as seen through this obsession. If he has been a heterosexual he has usually been seeking either to display his own tolerance and his powers of observation of an alien world, or, if he has been a homosexual, he has attempted only to portray the compulsive agony, relieved here and there by physical pleasure, of a homosexual destiny which dic tates every act of an innocent victim's life.

Neither approach can produce a satisfactory novel. Important as sex may be in our lives, essential as it may be for our well-being and happi ness, it is not all there is to life. Sexuality, whatever it may be, exists only against the backdrop of life itself Food and shelter, companionship, affection, ambition, and achievement are still present. We must live before there can be sex of any kind.

Let us, for a moment, consider a "heterosexual novel." I can think of no modern novel in which there is "sex" than there is in John O'Hara's From the Terrace. Even so,