It’s the deep midwinter that pairs so well with a Russian novel, and so I’m reading Anna Karenina in the vivid translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky.
It makes me wonder.
Where’s the Homer of lesbian love, the Tolstoy of lesbian love? Where’s the Maurice of lesbian love? Where’s the Joyce or the Proust of lesbian love? Where’s The Ambassadors, the Anna Karenina, The Alexandria Quartet of lesbian love? Hell, I’ll even take the “Brideshead Revisited” of lesbian love…
My heroine Jocelyn Russet has been having the same thoughts. I just corrected those words of hers in the publisher’s proof of Sylvie, Book Three of TABOU, soon to come out on eBooks from Publish Green.
Working my way through the translation of Élisabeth de Gramont, I wonder what she’ll have to say about the fate of lesbian fiction.
Have you read anything really good lately?
