As the media landscape expands and new platforms for content consumption are created, LGBTQ+ movies and TV shows are gaining prominence. Numerous queer-themed movies and TV shows are available on streaming services, while many LGBTQ+ documentaries shed light on the struggles and triumphs of our community. LGBTQ+ content aimed at teens is also becoming more common, which is a win for future generations who won’t have to grow up ashamed of who they are.
Literature is not far behind; From novels to comics to graphic novels, queer stories are gaining ground in a field once dominated by straight, cis, and mostly white romance. It’s not that queer writers never existed; on the contrary, literature was home to many outsider figures who expressed their longings and desires through their writing at a time when their preferences were still frowned upon at best. From Oscar Wilde to Walt Whitman to Virginia Woolf, many queer authors have risen to fame and some have even become legends.
Yet while some of these figures were able to experience their sexuality largely freely (Wilde and Whitman may have experienced something more than a professional relationship, according to some), others remained in the stifling safety of the closet, whether by choice or not. Writing gave them the opportunity to express their desires—unspoken hopes and dreams—through a more ambiguous lens, disguising their intentions behind a more digestible facade.
And while it’s rare to find an overt reference to homosexuality in classical literature, from time to time we may come across a certain passage that makes us raise our eyebrows and wonder. Take, for example, Jo March in Louise May Alcott’s seminal novel Little woman, expressing her empathy for older, single women. “Don’t laugh at spinsters, dear girls, because many times in the hearts that beat so quietly under sober dresses very tender and tragic romances are hidden.”
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Jo March is a perfect example of a queer code character. She is not open about her romantic feelings for anyone, not Laurie, and especially not Professor Bhaer, no matter how much the narrative tries to support her ill-conceived romance. In fact, Jo is more comfortable with herself, expressing a sense of individuality and willpower that few literary characters, classic or modern, possess. Whether or not Jo is queer to her is up to the reader’s interpretation, but the suggestion of her is there for anyone who wants to find her.
Numerous other female literary characters exist under the umbrella of queerness; the signs are sometimes subtle and sometimes not. Take Clarissa Dalloway, the main heroine of Virginia Woolf, for example. Mrs Dalloway. Clarissa is shy, restless and trapped, just like Woolf herself. She spends the novel reminiscing about a friend from her youth, Sally Seton. They shared a kiss, which Clarissa considers one of the highlights of her life and often expresses her feelings for her. The book never openly states that Clarissa is a lesbian, but is outright in showing her interest in Sally.
In addition to the rich and interesting ideas about sexuality and identity that it raises – in fact, Clarissa may be one of the first examples of a pansexual character in literature -, Mrs. Dalloway it is revolutionary in its depiction of romance and romantic feelings. The narrative does not concern itself with definition and instead presents the history and reflections of the characters who see themselves as people in love, regardless of gender restrictions.
Then there’s someone like Charlotte Lucas, Elizabeth Bennet’s devoted spinster in the Jane Austen movie. pride and prejudice. In perhaps her most famous quote, Charlotte defends her decision to marry Mr. Collins, telling Lizzie, “I’m not romantic, you know? I have never been. I’m just looking for a comfortable home.” Charlotte’s choices clash with Lizzie’s vivacious, idealistic mindset and romantic ending, but Austen tries hard not to inspire pity for Charlotte. On the contrary, the author admires Charlotte’s pragmatic way of thinking.
Was Charlotte a hidden lesbian or a victim of fate, doomed to always look smaller in comparison to the beautiful Bennet sisters? Maybe she was both. Queer coded characters do not exist within the framework, often being given a less constrictive narrative than more traditional figures. Ironically, they find freedom in ambiguity.
Other female characters can be considered queer to varying degrees. WickedGlinda has strong feelings for Elphaba, but rarely shows interest in the opposite sex. And what about Austen’s other beloved heroine, Emma, whose possessiveness over poor Harriet spawned thousands of AO3 fanfics? emma she’s known for her gender swapping, so is the idea of a queer Emma Woodhouse that far-fetched? Even Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre can be seen through a queer lens, particularly in her formative experiences before Rochester.
a world of men
Achilles and Patroclus
And the men? Queer-coded male characters in literature are more common than one might think. Classical mythology is full of homoerotic subtext that often becomes plain text, from Achilles and Patroclus to Zeus and Ganymede, Apollo and his many, many, meterany male lovers. Eternal novels like The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn are known for their unsubtle and unrestrained queer references, to the point where they’re almost considered LGBTQ+ literature, while characters like Poor peopleenjolras either The Great GatsbyThe film’s Nick Carraway exists as a prime example of queer coded figures in well-known literary works.
Enjolras, probably the most charismatic character in Victor Hugo’s depressing historical novel the Miserables, shows several strange signs. The face of change and revolution from the reader’s perspective, Enjolras’s perfection is closely tied to her distinctive femininity, described by Hugo as “long, light eyelashes,” “ruddy cheeks,” and “pure lips.” She also shares a contentious but strained relationship with the skeptical Grantaire, reconciling with him during his last moments and dying hand in hand.
The protagonist of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s seminal novel, Nick Carraway, is another excellent example of a queer code figure. it’s nick The Great GatsbyThe beating heart of , a character who continues to delight audiences with his sharp perceptions and way of speaking. However, his intense devotion to Jay Gatsby and observations about other characters, mainly Tom, have led many authors to interpret gatsby through a strange lens. Nick’s appreciation of Gatsby comes from a place of idealization not far from where Gatsby comes from when it comes to Daisy. Whether Carraway wants to be Gatsby or be with him is up for debate, but the intensity of her feelings is strong enough to not only justify but encourage debate.
Holden Caulfield’s catcher in the rye it has several intriguing and potentially weird layers. He interacts with men throughout the story, openly showing admiration for his roommate’s physique while being surprised by his teacher’s physical gesture, which he interprets as sexual advances. Holden’s views on sexuality are immature and stem from inexperience; she lacks a clear understanding of what she wants or likes because she is afraid of change and complexity. Holden yearns for simplicity, something teens are rarely offered in coming-of-age stories.
Queer reading in the new age
In his article “The Queering of Nick Carraway,” author Michael Bourne said, “I suspect that Nick Carraway’s queer readings say more about the way we read now than about Nick or The Great Gatsby.” In a way, he’s right. We live in a time where we are more aware than ever of the presence and influence of the LGBTQ+ community. we exist; we are here, we want to be seen and heard, especially after hiding behind closed doors in shame and fear for so long. Is it so unbelievable that we spend years searching for any sign of representation in the literature we love and consume, settling for what we find, however flimsy? And is it wrong to think that we are reading new meanings into timeless classics now that we are open to a more inclusive way of thinking?
Writing can be a difficult task. We as writers know our purpose and intent when we put our thoughts into words, but we have no control over them once we make them public. Those of us lucky enough to have our ideas read by others understand the double-edged sword of writing; when we publish something, it is no longer just ours. Writers give their words purpose, but readers give them meaning. The public leaves their mark on the works, interpreting them from an intimate perspective, shaped by their own experiences and perceptions. And if those ideas lead them to identify queer elements in a certain character, there must be something to justify it, because they understand it better than anyone.
We can’t say for sure if these characters are queer, but we can wonder and analyze, discuss, and contribute to their already rich legacy. And what’s wrong with that? Debate can only be beneficial in the long run, especially when talking about characters who mean so much to so many people. These characters have endured changing times, evolving ideas, wars, conflicts, book bans, and everything in between; sure, they can handle a couple of fagots who accept them as their own. If an LGBTQ+ kid struggling with his sexuality sees himself in Jo March, who are we to say his interpretation is wrong?
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Categories: GAMING
Source: newstars.edu.vn