Questions for further practice: lesbian, gay, and queer approaches to other literary works

a group activity, for oneself alone (as in masturbation) or for a variety of differ‑ ent partners. Other dimensions of sexuality don’t even involve object choice. For example, Sedgwick notes, the definition of one’s sexuality might be based on such oppositions as “orgasmic/nonorgasmic, noncommercial/commercial, using bodies only/using manufactured objects, in private/in public, spontane‑ ous/scripted” (57). Or the definition of one’s sexuality might be based on one’s preference for particular acts, sensations, or physical types. For queer theory, then, our sexuality is socially constructed (rather than inborn) to the extent that it is based on the way in which sexuality is defined by the culture in which we live. We saw examples of the social construction of sexu‑ ality earlier, when we discussed ancient Athens, where sexual categories were based on a caste system that didn’t differentiate between male and female, and the very different definitions of homosexuality operating in Mexico and South America, early twentieth‑century working‑class America, and white middle‑ class America today. The belief that sexuality is socially constructed is behind efforts to read literature from the past not just in terms of our own definitions of sexuality, but in terms of those definitions operating in the culture from which that literature emerged. Clearly, the word queer has a range of meanings in literary studies today. As an inclusive term, it can refer to any piece of literary criticism that interprets a text from a nonstraight perspective. Therefore, any of the examples of gay and lesbian criticism discussed earlier could be included in a collection of queer essays. How‑ ever, if we restrict ourselves to its narrower theoretical meaning—its deconstruc‑ tive dimension—queer criticism reads texts to reveal the problematic quality of their representations of sexual categories, in other words, to show the various ways in which the categories homosexual and heterosexual break down, overlap, or do not adequately represent the dynamic range of human sexuality. These kinds of readings can be rather complex. Here are a few simplified examples. A queer reading of William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” (1931) might exam‑ ine how traditional definitions of gender identity (masculine versus feminine) and sexuality (homosexual versus heterosexual) fail to explain or contain the character of Emily Greirson. Her gender categorization is not fixed but crosses back and forth between the masculine and the feminine. She’s both the slen‑ der virgin in white dominated by her father and the defiant individualist who violates class norms and moral law to take what she wants from Homer Barron, including his life. She’s both the childlike recluse who teaches the feminine art of china painting and the dominant presence with iron‑gray hair, like that of a vigorous man, who imposes her will on the male power structure, including the post office, the tax collectors, the church, and, in the person of the pharmacist, the medical profession.

More tellingly, the characterization of Emily exceeds the opposition between homosexual and heterosexual. In terms of their biological sex, Homer and Emily are a heterosexual couple: he’s a man; she’s a woman. However, as we’ve just seen, the text constructs Emily’s gender as a vacillation between the feminine and the masculine. Indeed, much of the powerfully defiant behavior traditionally associ‑ ated with men is ascribed to Emily during her relationship with Homer. In terms of gender behavior, then, one might argue that Homer and Emily, symbolically at least, are a nonstraight couple: they are both gendered as men. Thus, “A Rose for Emily,” ostensibly a text about heterosexual passion and transgression, is also (or more so) a queer text that reveals the limits of traditional definitions of gen‑ der and sexuality. Similarly, a queer reading of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” might examine how the poem’s erotic dimension requires us to expand our understanding of the sexual. One of the hallmarks of Whitman’s remarkable poem is its exuberant response to life: the speaker, who identifies himself as Whitman, revels in the beauty of nature, experiences spiritual union with fellow Americans from all walks of life, and celebrates the pure joy of just being alive. As we saw earlier, critic Karl Keller examines how Whitman’s camp style reveals, among other things, a seductive tone of voice and pose that humorously sexualizes the poet’s transcendentalist ideals of bonding with nature and with other human beings. Reading the poem through a queer lens, however, we might focus, in ways that Keller does not, on Whitman’s eroticization of experience as it exceeds the con‑ temporary white middle‑class definition of homosexuality. For one might argue that the sexuality represented in “Song of Myself” is too fluid to be contained within the boundaries of male same‑sex desire. Indeed, the poem’s implicit definition of sexuality includes many of those dimen‑ sions of erotic experience that, as we saw earlier, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick argues have been neglected in sexual definitions structured by the homosexual/hetero‑ sexual opposition. Under Whitman’s gaze, almost all experience has an intensely erotic quality: he offers erotic descriptions not just of young men bathing in a river (a traditional homoerotic image), but of the young woman watching them from a distance, and of the natural setting itself, which is simultaneously pri‑ vate (isolated) and public (out in the open). Similarly, Whitman’s gaze eroti‑ cizes not only the healthy bodies of men and women at their various modes of employment, but the modes of employment as well, and the places in which they perform them: the magnificent mountains, the fertile plains, the busy harbors, and the thriving cities. In addition, the poet eroticizes—among other persons, places, things, and activities—venerable old men and women, the strength and serenity of animals, the sea, and every conceivable zone of his own body. A queer reading of “Song of Myself” might argue, therefore, that Whitman’s poem is not homoerotic but cosmically erotic, or perhaps more accurately, that Whitman’s