I am still reeling from your last letter. I can almost smell the invective. I read and reread the first few paragraphs. I think what I treasure most are your threats. All this talk about my liver — can you not see that it is old-fashioned? As you well know, they have made a fourth from my own tissue; it is therefore indestructible — or so they tell me.

I think this was the turning point for civilization, if I may digress. But I want you to know that what you have said is serious, very serious, and your threats are real. I do acknowledge that. I want you to think about the time when there was some sense — an order that was more than random — when we had to take threats to our health seriously. Do you remember when there were consequences? When actions had results? There was a time when medical insurance cost more if you put your life in danger, and people thought about taking risks in terms of the cost of their health insurance. Do you remember? Without laser healing, regenerative organ replacement and cyberbodies, these things had to be taken into account. The turning point came when people began to believe there were no consequences. Remember the middle of the last century, when doctors had a smoke while they warned you of the dangers of lung cancer? It seems we have returned to that era. One day people stopped caring about what they did, and ethics became inconsequential. Ethics are related to survival, but when survival is taken care of in ways that we don’t entirely understand, ethics become a questionable luxury. Fortunately we have the police. Unfortunately, the police can do nothing about hurt, betrayal, insensitivity or lies. No there are no personal penalties either — little that’s left is personal.

There is one thing about Dash’s essay that I particularly liked. Dash talks about Olivier’s Hamlet giving up, giving himself over to death and flying like a bird — with his sword drawn — and finally falling on Claudius and killing him. He reads Hamlet not as a destroyer, but as a mystic. One who surrenders himself to the death instinct. Isn’t that what we’ve all done? We have given up, and why shouldn’t we? It is the only response. We know things will be taken care of, that things will be done for us, and that someone (we are not entirely sure who) is in charge. There is something unhuman, or dis-human, but completely typical and human about this response. On the one hand, Aristotle imagined that being human involved action, decision. But then the philosophies of the Far East — and, it seems, Hamlet — were telling us the opposite: that to be human is to relinquish all claims to the ability to change our fate. The concept of fate itself is old-fashioned. Fate still implies fighting against something: “Do not go gentle . . .” Of course, I gave up long ago. (Thank God.)

Now, to address your concerns, because yes, they must be addressed. So I will calmly sit and mouth the words my father. I was astounded when you made reference to him, but I have every right to respond in kind, now that you have thrown down the gauntlet. And I know what you expect — you expect me to stop. You expect that the spectre of all that will be enough to shut me up. I’m not sure that it is.

I will talk about him, and I will say that I blame it all on the ushers — one in particular. His name was Francisco. Frank, for short. I am not saying my father didn’t experience desire for the ushers, but I don’t believe his lust was ever consummated. It was a different era. Do you understand what it was like to be the manager of a movie theatre back then? He was a member of a Showmen’s League, of course. He was a showman and a performer. But back then running a movie theatre was more than just hiring projectionists. When he started, there were vaudeville acts between the films. Nowadays we know only the megatheatres we create for ourselves in our heads, the cyberexperience of going to the theatre.

It’s my fault if I go back there, as you kept repeating, over and over. I can’t believe you use that phrase, as if I could actually go back in time! How can I convince you? It’s gone! I am not her. My body is desiccated; I’ve come to terms with it, and so can you. But those ushers were fucking beautiful. And people who are beautiful and know it just don’t understand those who aren’t and don’t.

There are two different kinds of people in this world; there is simply a dividing line and never, never, shall the twain meet. Yes, Mayer called me his “little hunchback.” But look what I have become! He was right, of course. I’m more than a hunchback: I am the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But it wasn’t about what I looked like, it was never that. And it has nothing to do with anorexia. I wasn’t anorexic — a disease that causes you not to see your real body at all. Anorexia is about control — about controlling life and death. That is not relevant to my case. I just hated the way I looked. And Louis B. could call me whatever he wanted, and men could ejaculate all over me — many did. But it didn’t matter, because I never believed, I never once believed, for one second, that I was beautiful. I was never connected to my body. But I knew that beauty was the most important thing. And I knew there were people like that, people who were connected to their bodies in a fundamental way. They didn’t have to learn how to love their bodies, or how to be attractive. They just were.

When I think of the ushers around my father, I think of how they tortured him. My father, like me, always hated his body, didn’t understand it, would have been better off without it. But Francisco and the other ushers were different. They were all dark boys, for some reason. They were probably Hispanics — it was southern California. My father would take me to the theatre and introduce me to them, and they would swarm around him like flowers showing their faces to the sun — and they’d touch him! I saw them touch him. I’m not fucking saying that if my father molested them, it wasn’t his fault. But he didn’t! I’m sure he didn’t. Sure he wanted them, he wanted it so badly — and it wasn’t just because he was a homosexual. Who would not fucking want them?

You know very well about those who used be called “straight” men — the men who have sex with women — how proud they once were about not being attracted to other men. But how can anyone not be attracted to men? Oh Christ, how I hate those women who go on and on about how they don’t have “those kinds of desires” — we all know what that means. It’s all about the penis being ugly. June Allyson was like that. Sure, I loved her onscreen. Who wouldn’t love her, if for no reason other than that voice, and what happened to it. She was a very nice person — but nice only goes so far, you know? There was a “butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth” thing going on with her.

I think there are two kinds of women. The cocksuckers and the . . . not. The not are women who just couldn’t be bothered to do that unpleasant thing to their husbands — as they are, invariably, married. Well, what’s the problem? I would even argue that there is still an identity politics — but it has nothing to do with object choice. It has to do with whether or not you are a cocksucker. I know you’ve sucked the odd cock. And I know you’re not fond of it. But it’s not like you’d go on about it, scrunch up your eyes — that’s what June Allyson would do, scrunch up her eyes, become girlish and revulsed: “Ew! How could anyone do that?” I don’t know how to tell you, June — thanks a lot for the sentiment, but there’s nothing quite like managing to get a thick one down your throat. And if you can’t grovel — I mean, really get down and grovel — in front of a dick, then you haven’t lived, and you don’t know nuthin’, baby.

Now, that doesn’t mean I devalue clits. But if we’re talking about genital ugliness here, who wins the prize? In the last analysis, the wrinkles of a scrotum and the folds of labia are in a dead heat. You’re bound to be repulsed by one or the other — but to be repulsed by both? There’s something seriously wrong with you.

I think it has to do with humility and the human condition, because it’s all about ugliness. This is what I don’t understand, and what makes me feel really old. Ugliness used to be the big secret for anybody who liked to whore around. Nowadays no one is allowed to be ugly, so we’ve forgotten how to get off on it. But people left to their own devices are drawn to ugliness. Not because they’re settling, or because they can’t get that special cute one, but just because ugly is fucking sexy, and grovelling in front of it is sexy. And that’s what it’s all about. It’s where sex and death come together, if you want to get philosophical. But at this moment, frankly, I don’t.

But back to the ushers that used to swarm around my father. They weren’t ugly, but they knew that what they had between their legs was ugly. And they knew that he wanted it. As I’ve said, why wouldn’t he? He was human. But they also knew he hated himself for it. My mother was one of the June Allysons, one of the face scrunchers. “Put that away, that’s ugly.” I’m sure she said that to my father. I know it must have happened in the dark for them to beget three kids — they probably drilled a hole in a sheet like the Mormons and the Jews and the you-know-who-we-aren’t-allowed-to-mention. Yes, I’m going to say that — I’m going to say that. I mean, who is actually listening? Everybody and nobody, as I understand it — whatever that means. I know how careful everyone is, but I don’t feel like being that fucking paranoid.

Just think about this tortured man. He knows the kind of ugliness he wants, and he goes to work, and those ushers swarm around him. . . . If you want to know the truth, he fired Francisco. Why? Because Francisco came on to him, and he was afraid he might give in to the temptation. That’s what happened. And then two weeks later Francisco was reporting him to the police. I know all this because my mother told us. I mean, she didn’t tell us in so many words. But she told us in enough words that we would grow up being seriously conflicted about our father.

But Jesus, I couldn’t hate him. I knew I was supposed to; I knew she wanted me to hate him, but I didn’t. If I thought my father had ever forced anybody to do anything sexual with him, I would never defend him, not for one second — I would want to rip his guts out. He was just one of those tortured guys. And there were so many of them who never did anything except on the sly, in the dark, with someone else who wanted it, someone who wanted it more than he did, and who suffered in silence. But when those weedy flowers with the pretty faces would start pressing against him, he would get crazy and do anything to get away.

And that’s all I’m going to say.

I’m also not going to talk about the radio show. Okay? If you want me to go there, just throw down that gauntlet again. But I will say this: my father and I were a lot alike.

However, I’m not my father. I’d be dead by now if I was.

It’s you who is misinterpreting my scholarship. You are twisting everything around. And suddenly Dash King becomes my father, and I’m my father, and pretty well everyone is my father! Untrue. Because when it came down to it, you know I was pretty insulted when they tried to say that my “affection for homosexuals” had something to do with him. It didn’t. I was a homosexual, as far as I was concerned. I mean, that’s pretty fucking clear.

And don’t listen to Liza, please don’t listen to what she said. You know I don’t like trashing my own children, I really don’t, but she whitewashed things. She liked to paint a pretty picture. Not sure why, not sure who that serves in the end. “Mama was a good person.” Yeah, well, good intentions . . . maybe. “Mama took care of us.” Well, no. I mean, I was there until they grew up, I didn’t abandon them. And I supported them financially because that was the easy part — until it got hard. But a good mother doesn’t get taken care of by her children. She takes care of them. I can’t tell you how that must have fucked them up.

Look, I’m interested in Dash King, not because he is what used to be called a homosexual — like my father. I’m a scholar now, remember? I’m interested in the decline of the West. And part of that decline is not, as so many assume, due to the ascendance of homosexuality, but instead to the disappearance of it. Orgies are not about desire. When people get all horned up, they normally don’t have orgies, they don’t obliterate themselves with sex. Orgies are all about repression and self-hatred. Orgies and decadence are the symptoms of a civilization that is struggling with repression. Sex and sexuality do not have a natural inclination to get out of hand (as Freud suggested) — no pun intended. The tendency of sex is not towards too much sex, it’s just toward, perhaps, more sex. Too much sex is something that happens when people are afraid they might not ever have sex again.

Dash was writing during a period when people were witnessing the end of sex. Sex was virtually over, in the sense that virtual sex had taken over what used to be called sex. It wasn’t just that people began to live in the virtual world — though they did. It’s that the virtual world became so available to them that there was no longer any way for them to measure or understand their real lives. It started in my era; I was one of the causes. (But I didn’t write the movies, so please don’t blame me.) It was because of Hollywood that millions of people — especially women — grew up imagining that love had something to do with sunsets, violins, perfect profiles and happily ever afters. Not having lived through this, you cannot imagine what it was like. And this deluded rush after an ever-dwindling perfect was the media’s fault.

But the movies had nothing on pornography. It was one thing to destroy love. But to destroy sex — that really gets people where they live. I mean that in the sense that one of the few links we have to reality has now disappeared. Sex used to be, if nothing else, real. You have written about the state of current sexuality — and the state of the university life. But as one who actually lived through it all — amazingly — I have a unique perspective.

I’m only mentioning this to re-emphasize the context for Dash’s sad obsessions. He was writing passionately, and he was disintegrating, at the end of the era when sex was still real. That he never obtained the precious title of Doctor might be tragic — if the title had not become so meaningless. That I am a Doctor and you are a Doctor has, of course, more to do with the fact that we have somehow been able to satisfy the various corporations that now go under the name of universities. In Dash’s time, academia had not quite reached that stage of decadence. It’s important to note that these were once at least semi-real institutes of learning. There was a very earnest pursuit of research, and some accent was actually placed on teaching. However, it’s true that even in Dash’s time this was all changing. The obsession with technology would eventually lead to our present situation — the cold, soulless efficiency of virtual classrooms in which human teachers have become obsolete. It’s so easy to forget that the beginning of the millennium was still, to some degree, in the shadow of the sixties; that there was still a notion of academic freedom — even though universities were gradually receiving less and less funding from the government and beginning to work in the service of business. Today it behooves us to justify the pragmatism of everything we do; back then this was only just starting to occur. I have you to thank, as usual, for the fact that I can research pretty well anything I desire. But your well-inflected but dangerous implication — I was surprised that you dared — that I was a very famous person hiding in secret (in the secrecy of an unrecognizable body, in fact!) was enough to subsidize a fat salary for me until I die. (If I ever die.) Nothing interests a university more these days than the possibility that one of its professors might become a cybercelebrity. But aren’t we all cybercelebrities?

Back then it was much the same, in terms of academia. Dash got his position as a rather elderly graduate student because he had some experience in the “gay theatre.” His name had been in the newspapers (remember how important the newspapers once were?) for founding a gay theatre in Toronto. At the turn of the century, we find Dash desperate for work. He has been turned out of the theatre he founded. The cause? A lessening interest in identity politics, and a general abandonment of experimental and political work by both artists and funding bodies. The sad part is that Dash could never come to terms with what had happened to him.

Now, of course, we understand that old people are just that — old. As soon as their bodies begin to be replaced by the necessary machinery, it is time for them to be seen as rarely as possible and certainly never heard. At that time there was still a romantic notion that age might be meaningless. I remember eagerly watching romance movies during the sixties. Older women fell for younger men or vice versa, and the precious de rigueur lines of the era included the ubiquitous “age means nothing to me.” The irony today is that the old still have sex with the young, or try to. But when the young perceive that a potential partner may be somewhat cyborgian, they reject them. When people look into each other’s eyes these days, they are trying to detect laser eye surgery, and will summarily abandon their potential partner if there is even the hint of a cataract. I’m sure you’ve heard that some young people actually carry metal-detection devices to root out the more ancient suitors.

But when Dash was fired from his little gay Toronto theatre, he was in his early fifties. And though life had clearly passed him by — that is, his creative and romantic life was effectively over — he was valiantly and pathetically trying to jump-start a second career to remain young. I know this because he wrote several articles that are still easily findable, articles that deal with aging. In these articles he babbles bathetically about what a good time can be had by older homosexuals. He claims they are still desirable, they are misrepresented in the media, they are misunderstood as “garden variety fags.” This last was his invented terminology for older conservative gay men — fags who garden. You really should look up these old identity-based articles, they’re quite a hoot.

Dash King’s plays are also an entertainment in themselves. He wrote quickly, so quickly that it was impossible for him ever to write a great play (or what might be considered great by the artistic standards of the time). Some of his plays were written in the space of one week, and he often defended himself by comparing himself to the likes of Donizetti, Noël Coward and Lope de Vega. We won’t even discuss Donizetti and Lope de Vega; they were prolific, but that is something quite different than shallow and careless. As for Noël Coward, not even Noël Coward ever lived up to being Noël Coward, and if Private Lives was written in a week, it certainly shows. Some of Dash King’s plays can still be found, and there is something touching about them. But more as an antithesis to the “Death of the Author” paradigm: they are interesting only because of what one knows about the author. I think Mr. King would have been quite perturbed to know that he has not been remembered, not even as a gay activist. In fact, one of his whining articles goes on about his concern that he will be remembered as a gay activist rather than as an artist. Well, the fact is, the only chance he has of being remembered at all is if our discussion of his lost papers becomes the foundation for an article that is widely read. This is, in itself, also unlikely. Anyway, the plays are mostly unreadable rants about homosexuality, peppered with nostalgia for the good old days of gay liberation when gay men were girls and had “high heels in their hearts” — one of my favourite kitschy King lines. As I say, the plays hold little interest except as a footnote to his tragic life.

His imploded scholarship, however — especially the scribbled notes on several printed versions of the Hamlet essay — is interesting, particularly in the context of his heroic attempt to resurrect identity politics at a time when they were so very clearly over. I neglected to mention the Hamlet article marginalia because I am saving the best for last. King’s essay appeared in an online journal when online scholarship was in its infancy. The journal was concerned with the notion that Shakespeare was not “the man from Stratford,” as the journal likes to put it, but instead Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford.

There were many reasons why a late-twentieth-century faction who called themselves “Oxfordians” had decided that the Earl of Oxford was the real Shakespeare. But for King it was all a matter of identity politics — everything was. Other heterosexually identified Oxfordians found the proof they needed for identifying de Vere as Shakespeare in the Earl’s background, life and learning. He was an aristocrat, and was certainly a very learned — if not a dissipated, and perhaps criminal — sort of man. When one begins to research the old Oxfordian websites, one may be surprised by the notion that their entertaining fictions might indeed be fact. There are certainly a remarkable series of coincidences connecting the two men. For instance, the Earl’s life resembles, to a shocking degree, the plots of Shakespeare’s plays. The Earl of Oxford had three daughters, was married to a woman who cuckolded him (or was thought to), spent much time in Europe, was the adopted nephew of the real-life person on whom Polonius was inarguably based . . . The list of coincidental similarities goes on and on. All of this might matter — if Shakespeare mattered. It might matter if work that is so antique and indecipherable was still read or performed; if it still interested people in any way other than in an archaeological sense.

For King, who considered himself a playwright, Shakespeare was a romantic figure. The mystery surrounding his identity became an obsession. King’s interest was related to the fact that de Vere was probably a sodomite, in an Early Modern sense: that is, he probably had sex with boys. He had brought from his Italian travels a castrato with whom he was rumoured to have been intimate. King’s argument in his essay is for an effeminate Hamlet: that Hamlet is a difficult character to portray because he is effeminate — and therefore, according to a Foucauldian definition of sexuality, gay. King is suggesting that Stratfordians (i.e., Nelson, below) argue that de Vere could not have been Shakespeare because he was an effeminate sodomite. King wants to celebrate Hamlet, and de Vere’s sexuality, and claim them, essentially, as homosexuals. In the key passage, he begins in classical identity politics style, criticizing Nelson (de Vere’s poisonous, Stratfordian biographer) for being homophobic:

Particularly interesting is Nelson’s focus on what he obviously perceives as one of Oxford’s most significant character flaws: his alleged propensity for buggery. One of the chapters in Nelson’s biography is labelled “Sodomite,” and in his introduction Nelson finds fault with one of the earliest and most prominent Oxfordians, Bernard M. Ward. Nelson suggests that in Ward’s Oxfordian (and therefore slanted) biography of Oxford, “solid information is thus suppressed in the interest of good form, and also, in Ward’s case, to protect Oxford’s reputation.”3 What “solid information”? For example, Nelson suggests Oxford’s enemies accused him of being a sodomite but “where anyone who casts half an eye over the libel manuscripts in the PRO [Public Record Office] will encounter the words ‘sodomy’ and ‘buggery,’ Ward retreats into circumlocution.”4 Nelson’s biography takes two questionable assumptions for granted — first, that a great artist must necessarily be a “good” person, and second, that homosexuality is a flaw that is unlikely to be found in a man whom many consider to be the greatest poet of all time.

The attached notes to this passage show that even at this time of supposed academic freedom, King had to deal with censorship around what were then issues of sexuality. This hurt and angered him deeply. You see, as eager as the “Oxfordians” were to prove that de Vere was Shakespeare, they were also eager to protect de Vere’s reputation. King is astute enough to focus his article not just on Shakespeare’s sexuality, but on whether or not the greatest writer of all time was — or had to be — a “good” person. But the two go hand in hand: an evil Shakespeare would be one who was profligate, homosexual — and a good one would be, presumably, happily married and monogamous, or perhaps even celibate. So, attached to the above passage, on three separate sheets of paper, are three alternative versions of the last sentences of the above paragraph from King’s essay. King saved them, in melancholy fashion, to prove a point to his advisor.

All of these papers appear to be addressed to Antonio Legato, an elderly University of Toronto professor emeritus. (There are no comments from Legato in King’s papers, but Dr. Legato is sometimes addressed in the papers.) At any rate, it is in the following three versions of the same paragraph that we come to see the disintegration of King’s scholarship (or his attempt at scholarship) and its implications. It matters little to the academic community that King became disillusioned. Yet I find it fascinating. In these papers we read King’s private agony over the censorship he perceived had been directed against him. And it seems pretty clear from the paragraphs below that, indeed, he had been censored. The first paragraph is labelled “Additions by the editor.” The paragraph begins where the passage above ends, and we can see that after “the greatest poet of all time,” a parenthetical passage has been added, for obvious reasons:

Nelson’s biography takes two questionable assumptions for granted — first, that a great artist must necessarily be a “good” person, and second, that homosexuality is a flaw that is unlikely to be found in a man whom many consider to be the greatest poet of all time. (Now, de Vere was undoubtedly heterosexual — he had the children and family to prove it.)

What is evident is that because a squeamish Oxfordian journal did not want to see the Earl of Oxford (their candidate for Shakespeare) presented as a homosexual, they added a parenthetical sentence informing us that the Earl of Oxford was not gay. The next attached passage is labelled by King as what was finally printed. We see now that the paragraph is longer still, with further additions:

Nelson’s biography takes two questionable assumptions for granted — first, that a great artist must necessarily be a “good” person, and second, that homosexuality is a flaw that is unlikely to be found in a man whom many consider to be the greatest poet of all time. Now, de Vere was undoubtedly heterosexual — he had the children and family to prove it. Also, he was a confirmed “man’s man,” being an enormously successful warrior who served many times on the field of battle, and had the battle scars to prove it.

King’s anguished note, following these passages, I find heart-wrenching:

Antonio:

I called Balthazar Goetz and had the most horrible conversation with him. He seemed like such a nice man via email. I suppose he is nice; he just has no idea what I’m talking about. I said, “Dr. Goetz, what about the changes to my article?” Of course, there was nothing I could do about it. I had allowed the smaller changes because they twisted my arm (are journals supposed to do that?). But when I saw they printed all that stuff about Oxford being a “man’s man,” I was at my wit’s end. At first Dr. Goetz claimed ignorance, saying I had given him permission. Well, yes, I had given him permission to say that Oxford was married and had two children, because that happens to be true. (Even though it doesn’t prove anything about his sexuality.) But I was not warned about all the inserted sentences suggesting Oxford was masculine. And this is supposed to prove that he was straight? Dr. Goetz said, “Didn’t we run that by you?” I told him that he hadn’t. He apologized and said, “But doesn’t it make sense?” What am I supposed to say to that? I tried to get him to understand the basic Butlerian difference between a performed gender identity and sexual orientation. I also tried to make him understand that it is very important for me to open up the possibility that de Vere was a homosexual. The saddest part is that he doesn’t seem to have read his Butler or to even care about the issue. “But de Vere always won at his jousting tournaments. Doesn’t that suggest he was a man’s man?” Can you imagine? He seemed like a very nice person . . . who didn’t give a damn about sexual politics. It wouldn’t be so bad if his attitude wasn’t the general attitude, and if his answer hadn’t made me feel so small. And so alone. I’m sorry to get so personal. But what’s happened here seems like a turning point to me.

Another letter is beneath this one:

Antonio:

One more thing.

I don’t understand why they couldn’t simply leave my writing alone. Why was it so important to make the point that the Earl of Oxford was not gay? The whole argument I am trying to make in this article is that Oxford may be gay, and Hamlet may be effeminate (and therefore meant to be read as gay), but those things shouldn’t make us respect him any less. We should be able to love Hamlet and Edward de Vere — and Shakespeare, for that matter — even if they were all gay. And what about de Vere’s Italian castrato? But I guess he didn’t have testicles after all — so was he ever really a man or even a boy? The final edit was done completely without my permission. I don’t know what to do. I can’t pull the article once it’s published. As I said, I am at my wit’s end. I honestly don’t see how I can ever be a scholar.

This little mishap (at one point Goetz actually called it both “little” and “a mishap”) makes me feel so depressed. I know I am not supposed to take any of this personally. That’s not what it’s all about. Maybe I am too “dramatic” to be an academic. Call me crazy, but my sexuality is important to me, and I think Shakespeare’s sexuality should be important to everyone. Of course, I might be making such a fuss about this because I know, somewhere, in my heart of hearts, that the reason I was summarily booted out of my theatre company was because of identity politics. I had created a little space for myself where I thought I might still be able to write about the issues that are important to me. I am now feeling quite manic about this; and I know I’m not even supposed to have feelings about an essay. I’ll tell you something: heterosexuals just don’t get it. They just don’t get what it means to be gay, and they never will, and I’m beginning to think there’s just no point trying to tell them. And if that’s true, then there’s no point in me writing anymore, there’s no point in me creating anything.

I know this letter is becoming very unacademic. I have spoken to my partner about this. As you know, he is much younger than me; much, much younger. I can’t believe it, but he seems to have rejected identity politics too. “Why do you care whether or not Shakespeare is gay? Who cares about Shakespeare?” he said. I’ve finally realized that there is a huge gulf between us. When I met Jason he was in his late twenties and of course very attractive and there was something of the seventies of gay liberation about him. He understood my politics, he understood the importance of creating a gay culture. Now he too seems to have, in principle at least, rejected the whole gay sensibility, and the importance of writing about gay culture. “I kinda think gay is over,” he said. I can’t believe that a contested line in an essay would cause me so much pain; I don’t know what to do. Right now I want to quit everything, and I mean everything. You’ve been so supportive up until now; I hope this note doesn’t just drive you away. But I had to try to share it with somebody. Ignore this letter if you wish. I know I have gone over some boundaries here; you are, after all, not my therapist; you are my thesis advisor — and there’s a big difference.

— Dash

And that’s it. The letters become more pitiful from there. King continues to vent to Legato. And Legato — who was very open-minded in his heyday, a prototypical university radical of the sixties — can do nothing but try to be King’s analyst. Why did he bother? Partially just because Legato was a nice old man. But it was also true that Dash was a bit of a commodity at the time, an art star that the University of Toronto wanted to keep around at all costs.

I understand if you don’t want me to speak another word about Dash King’s papers. Just because it’s my area of interest doesn’t mean it will be yours. Is it possible, now that I’ve shown you more of Dash’s writing and explained my interest, that the whole thing might make sense? That maybe you’ll stop attacking and threatening? To be honest, all of this has made me think about two things: my father in a shack, and . . . playing a moonbeam. I’ll tell you more about that later if you are willing to listen.

You looked directly into my eyes once and said, “I will never leave you alone.” And then you left for London. I understand why, and of course I do forgive you. I love you so much and I know that truly leaving me would mean . . . I wouldn’t be able to communicate with you anymore.

I am willing to risk that.

By being honest.