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A review by zefrog
We Too Are Drifting by Gale Wilhelm, Gale Wilhelm
2.0
"Poor little leaves, we too are drifting, someday it will be autumn." (p178)
This is supposed to be an unjustly discarded gem of (middlebrow) modernist literature, particularly within the lesbian cannon. The quote on the cover of my 1946 (The book was first published in 1935) claims that it is "better than The Well of Loneliness" (1928). It is certainly much more explicit than Hall's magnum opus (though that isn't too difficult a feat, considering how restrained Well is) and marginally less bleak in its view of same-sex relationships.
The book is loaded with obscure layers of symbolism, as attested by the recurrence of the colour white, or the inordinate focus on the hands of the characters, for example. The significance given by Wilhelm to those symbol is however far from obvious and rather passed me by.
A symbol easier to decipher perhaps is the statue of a hermaphrodite, that Jan Morale, the androgynous main character, is asked by her straight male friend, who seems attracted to her, to model for. Although an unpleasant character (none of the characters are pleasant in the book to be frank), she is also unapologetic about who she is; an identity she has created for herself, even if that seems to lead her to loneliness and away from happiness.
The style of writing is what I would call Biblical; not for the awesomeness of its scale but for the repetitive and circular nature of its syntax, its odd sentence structures, and its lack of a true sense of place. The effect is that of a spotlight in a vast empty space. Quite claustrophobic. The lack of dialogue punctuation is thankfully not as off-putting as could be expected.
We Too Are Drifting is meant to be about love. One relationship comes to an end as another tentatively begins; others tremble, inchoate, in the background. However, and probably because of the syntactic and stylistic points made above, the book is bereft of sentiments and warmth; its heart ripped out. It is a cold and unengaging story, as emotionally wooden as its main character is accused of being by another.
It isn't without merit. Although aimed at mainstream, the book is as unapologetic as its protagonist, unlike many other early queer books. Same-sex desire is not questioned but is rather accepted and taken as a fait accompli, even if that doesn't remove certain social pressures. For all that I think I still prefer The Well of Loneliness.
This is supposed to be an unjustly discarded gem of (middlebrow) modernist literature, particularly within the lesbian cannon. The quote on the cover of my 1946 (The book was first published in 1935) claims that it is "better than The Well of Loneliness" (1928). It is certainly much more explicit than Hall's magnum opus (though that isn't too difficult a feat, considering how restrained Well is) and marginally less bleak in its view of same-sex relationships.
The book is loaded with obscure layers of symbolism, as attested by the recurrence of the colour white, or the inordinate focus on the hands of the characters, for example. The significance given by Wilhelm to those symbol is however far from obvious and rather passed me by.
A symbol easier to decipher perhaps is the statue of a hermaphrodite, that Jan Morale, the androgynous main character, is asked by her straight male friend, who seems attracted to her, to model for. Although an unpleasant character (none of the characters are pleasant in the book to be frank), she is also unapologetic about who she is; an identity she has created for herself, even if that seems to lead her to loneliness and away from happiness.
The style of writing is what I would call Biblical; not for the awesomeness of its scale but for the repetitive and circular nature of its syntax, its odd sentence structures, and its lack of a true sense of place. The effect is that of a spotlight in a vast empty space. Quite claustrophobic. The lack of dialogue punctuation is thankfully not as off-putting as could be expected.
We Too Are Drifting is meant to be about love. One relationship comes to an end as another tentatively begins; others tremble, inchoate, in the background. However, and probably because of the syntactic and stylistic points made above, the book is bereft of sentiments and warmth; its heart ripped out. It is a cold and unengaging story, as emotionally wooden as its main character is accused of being by another.
It isn't without merit. Although aimed at mainstream, the book is as unapologetic as its protagonist, unlike many other early queer books. Same-sex desire is not questioned but is rather accepted and taken as a fait accompli, even if that doesn't remove certain social pressures. For all that I think I still prefer The Well of Loneliness.