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bigboytoadking 's review for:
The Charioteer
by Mary Renault
there is a kind of overarching loneliness to growing up queer and untethered to forebears who share that queerness – no matter how much love i was surrounded with, there was still a sense of having sprung fully-formed from nowhere and thus being unfathomable (in some small and large ways) to those who knew me and know me and brought me into being.
reading the charioteer, engrossed in the firm and tender voice of renault, made me feel (perhaps for the first time, perhaps not) that i came from some beautiful and strange kind of alternative lineage for which i could not find the words.
many times throughout the charioteer, i found myself close to crying. strangely enough, i did not shed a single tear until, in the brief appended biography of renault, there came a collection of photos. renault, her wife, their dogs. walking together on the beach. all gone, but a part of each other, and a part of the world, and now a part of me.
reading the charioteer, engrossed in the firm and tender voice of renault, made me feel (perhaps for the first time, perhaps not) that i came from some beautiful and strange kind of alternative lineage for which i could not find the words.
many times throughout the charioteer, i found myself close to crying. strangely enough, i did not shed a single tear until, in the brief appended biography of renault, there came a collection of photos. renault, her wife, their dogs. walking together on the beach. all gone, but a part of each other, and a part of the world, and now a part of me.