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gnILss byle__preamble">By </span><a class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BaseLk-eNWuiM ByleLk-gEnFiw iUEiRd ggMZaT cXqSTL eErqIx byle__name-lk button" href="/ntributors/daniel-menlsohn">Daniel Menlsohn</a></span></span></p></div><time data-ttid="ContentHearPublishDate" dateTime="2012-12-30T23:00:00-05:00" class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ ContentHearPublishDate-eIBicG iUEiRd kYZrFA kEBrdf">December 30, 2012</time></div></div></div></div><div class="LightboxWrapper-dxsWBV hhylRt"><div class="ContentHearLeadAsset-hGbumP iWPCcH lead-asset ContentHearLeadAssetWrapper-hfXHEc fTrSlG lead-asset--width-smallle" data-ttid="ContentHearLeadAsset"><figure class="ContentHearLeadAssetContent-kOfYSG dRGWbI"><div class="ContentHearLeadAssetContentMedia-bLEIpi jjhWdS lead-asset__ntent__photo"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW jvZaPI rponsive-asset ContentHearRponsiveAsset-bREgIb khLUzS"><div data-tt="aspect-rat-ntaer" class="AspectRatContaer-bJHpJz daxF"><div class="aspect-rat--overlay-ntaer"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO KhjZz ContentHearRponsiveAsset-bREgIb khLUzS rponsive-image rponsive-image--expandable"><source media="(max-width: 767px)" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w" siz="100vw"/><source media="(m-width: 768px)" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w, 1280w, 1600w, 1920w, 2240w" siz="100vw"/><img alt="Crkled typewrer pag" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src="></picture></div></div></span><div class="CaptnWrapper-jSZdqE iTuhkZ ptn ContentHearLeadAssetCaptn-hPWmSN kuCzGS"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ CaptnText-bHjzlu iUEiRd hWyo iXWezO ptn__text">Mary Renlt’s novels about love and the ancient Greeks eliced passnate mail om her rears. In my first letter to her, I poured out my story.</span><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ CaptnCred-ejegDm iUEiRd iicloT jbIJNS ptn__cred">Photograph by Grant Cort</span></div></div></figure><div data-ttid="ContentHearLeadRailAnchor" class="ContentHearLeadRailAnchor-jYVcDc djtEof"></div></div></div></div></hear></div><div data-attribute-verso-pattern="article-body" class="ArticlePageContentBackGround-cNiFNN kbAoLA article-body__ntent"><div class="ActnBarWrapperContent-lasBkU cAHp"><div class="ActnBarWrapperComponent-cjwxLS bEeSLb"><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="ActnBarWrapper-dhxmQh kNjTbQ viewport-monor-anchor"><button id="bookmark" aria-label="Save this story" class="ActnBarButton-dyFOZU hQrwCF bookmark large-screen"><span class="ActnBarSendaryButtonPrimaryIn-isbvyN cAwccV bookmark-button-in"><svg class="in in-bookmark" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Save this story</tle><path class="in-bookmark-fill" d="M20 23.9508L12.5 19.7312L5 23.9508V2.95081H14V3.93211H6V22.1845L12.5 18.5536L19 22.1845V8.83866H20V23.9508Z"></path><path class="in-bookmark-fill" d="M23 3H20V0H19V3H16V4H19V7H20V4H23V3Z"></path></svg></span><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ ActnBarButtonText-bYXYuh iUEiRd bkefvo gkccfO">Save this story</span></button></div><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="ActnBarWrapper-dhxmQh kAEsuD viewport-monor-anchor"><button id="bookmark" aria-label="Save this story" class="ActnBarButton-dyFOZU cjjxgx bookmark mobile"><span class="ActnBarSendaryButtonPrimaryIn-isbvyN cAwccV bookmark-button-in"><svg class="in in-bookmark" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Save this story</tle><path class="in-bookmark-fill" d="M20 23.9508L12.5 19.7312L5 23.9508V2.95081H14V3.93211H6V22.1845L12.5 18.5536L19 22.1845V8.83866H20V23.9508Z"></path><path class="in-bookmark-fill" d="M23 3H20V0H19V3H16V4H19V7H20V4H23V3Z"></path></svg></span><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ ActnBarButtonText-bYXYuh iUEiRd bkefvo gkccfO">Save this story</span></button></div></div></div><div class="LightboxWrapper-dxsWBV hhylRt"><div class="ArticlePageChunksContent-etcMtP bwyLBj"><div data-ttid="ArticlePageChunks" class="ArticlePageChunks-fLyCVG Uozmo"><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><h2>“WHOEVER TOLD YOU I’D SEND YOU A ‘FORM LETTER’?”</h2><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">One sprg day 1976, when I was fifteen years old and uldn’t keep my secret any longer, I went to the bedroom I shared wh my olr brother, sat down at the ltle oak sk we did our homework on, and began an anguished letter to a total stranger who lived on the other si of the world. We lived on Long Island, one of twelve intil “splanch”—spl-ranch ho—that led a street a suburb that had, until relatively recently, been a potato farm. It was very flat. The stranger to whom I wrote that day lived South Ai, a fact that I had gleaned om the brief b unr the thor photograph on her book jackets, which showed a middle-aged woman wh a pleasant face and tightly iled gray hair, her ey narrowed and crklg at the rners: perhaps humoroly, perhaps simply agast the sun. I had got her street addrs om the <em>Who’s Who</em> our school library, where I often spent recs, bent over an encyclopedia entry that I particularly liked, about the Parthenon. Over a gray black-and-whe photo of the as appears today you uld flip a lor transparency of how the buildg had looked ancient tim, gdy wh red and blue pat and gildg. I would s there, day after day, ntentedly togglg between the drab prent and the richly hued past.</p><p class="paywall">For the letter I wrote that day, I ed the “good” onnsk paper, anxly feedg each sheet between the rollers of a black st-iron Unrwood typewrer that had been salvaged om my grandfather’s braid-and-trimmgs factory the cy. I ed to type up school reports and term papers and, when nobody was around, short stori and poems and novels that I never showed to anyone—sgle-spaced pag so shamg to me that even when I hid them the secret partment unr a drawer the oak bet across om my bed (where I also hid certa other thgs: a real ancient Egyptian amulet I’d got as a bar-mzvah gift om a shrewd godparent, a half-pleted sketch I’d ma of a boy who sat ont of me English class) I imaged that they gave off some kd of radiatn, a telltale glow that might betray the nature of the feelgs I was wrg about.</p><p class="paywall">Now I was puttg those feelgs onto the translucent sheets, which protted wh a fat crackle every time I advanced the rriage. When I was fished, I put the letter to the lightweight airmail envelope on which I’d typed the addrs: Delos, Glen Beach, Camps Bay, Cape 8001 South Ai. I didn’t make a py of what I wrote that day, but I mt have nfid a fear that my rrponnt would reply to my effns wh a form letter, bee when her answer me, a few weeks later, typed on a pale-blue aerogram—the first of many that would fd me over the next eight years— began, “I wonr whoever told you I’d send you a ‘form letter’ if you wrote to me. Are there really wrers who do that?”</p><p class="paywall">It was a qutn I didn’t know how to answer, sce she was the only wrer I’d ever tried to ntact. Who else would I wre to? In those days, I had two obssns—ancient Greece and other boys—and she was, I felt, rponsible for both.</p><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">The thor to whom I wrote that day, Mary Renlt, had two discrete and enthiastic dienc; although I didn’t know at the time, they neatly mirrored my tw obssns. The first, and larger, nsisted of admirers of her historil fictn. The send nsisted of gay men.</p><p class="paywall">Between 1956 and 1981, Renlt published a number of crilly acclaimed and bt-sellg fictnal evotns of Greek antiquy. Like the works of Marguere Yourcenar (“Memoirs of Hadrian”) and Robert Grav (“I, Cldi”), thors to whom she was pared, Renlt’s novels were often st as first-person narrativ of real or vented figur om myth and history—a technique that efficiently drew morn rears to exotic ancient is. The bt known and most mercially succsful were “The Last of the We” (1956), which tak the form of a memoir by a young member of Socrat’ circle, through whose ey we wns the cle of Athens the last part of the Peloponnian War; “The Kg Mt Die” (1958), a novelizatn of the early life of Ths, the legendary Athenian kg who feated the Motr; and a trilogy of novels about Alexanr the Great—“Fire om Heaven” (1969), “The Persian Boy” (1972), and “Funeral Gam” (1981).</p><p class="paywall">Renlt, who was born London 1905—she emigrated to South Ai after the Send World War—had published a number of crisply telligent ntemporary love stori between the late thirti and the early fifti; to her meticuloly rearched re-creatns of the past the later, Greek-themed books she was able to brg the emotnal sight and moral serns you expect om any good novelist. Many reviewers appreciated the way she reanimated both myth and history by means of gen psychologil touch. (She once said that the Ths book didn’t jell until she had the ia of makg the mythil overachiever dimutive stature: he’s a legendary hero, but also jt a boy wh somethg to prove.) Patrick O’Brian, the thor of “Master and Commanr,” was an admirer; he dited the fourth Aubrey-Matur book to her, wh the scriptn “An owl to Athens”—the ancient Greek versn of “als to Newstle.” Amic classicists were also enthiastic. One ement Oxford don told an eager amatr that to get a sense of what ancient Greece was really like one had only to read Renlt—“Renlt every time.” (“That really bucks me up,” she exclaimed, when this remark was reported to her durg her fal illns.) The batn of historil precisn, lerary texture, and epic sweep won Renlt a large public, particularly the Uned Stat; her books, which have been translated to some twenty languag, have sold lns of pi English alone.</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-1 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">One of those pi was a thick Eagle Books paperback of “Fire om Heaven” that was stuffed to a bookse our downstairs playroom, next to the black leather recler. I read when I was twelve, and I was hooked. Alexanr the Great was my first ser csh.</p><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">It was my father who put the book my hands. A mathematician who worked for an aerospace rporatn, he had been a Lat whiz high school and sometim enjoyed thkg of himself as a lapsed classicist. When he gave me the paperback, I looked at the ver and owned. The illtratn, of a blond young Greek holdg a shield aloft, wasn’t very nvcg; I thought he looked a lot like the boy who lived across the street, who had once taken a bunch of waterskig for his birthday. My dad said, “I thk you should give this a try,” avertg his ey slightly, the way he had. Forty years later, I wonr how much he’d already gused, and jt what he was tryg to acplish.</p><p class="paywall">“Fire om Heaven” trac Alexanr’s childhood and youth, endg wh his accsn to the throne, at the age of twenty. I fished a uple of days. The next weekend, I went to the public library and checked out the sequel, “The Persian Boy,” which had jt been published. It views Alexanr’s nqut of Persia and his nascent dream of formg a vast Eurasian empire om an unexpected angle: the book is narrated by a historil figure lled Bagoas, a betiful nuch who had been the pleasure boy of the feated Persian emperor Dari and who later beme Alexanr’s lover, too. I read “The Persian Boy” a day and a half. Then I reread both books. Then, after takg my dad’s py of “Fire om Heaven” upstairs and placg si the oak bet, I got my mother to take me to the B. Daltons bookstore the Walt Whman Mall, Huntgton, where, for a dollar nety-five, I bought my own Bantam paperback of “The Persian Boy.” Its ver featured, miature, the hntg image that appeared on the hardback edn om the library: a Michelangelo drawg, dty-red chalk, of an epicene Oriental youth three-quarter profile, wearg a headdrs and earrgs. Whenever someone mentns “1973,” or “junr high school,” this small, lite, reddish face is what I see my md’s eye.</p><div class="Contaer-bkChBi byNLHx"></div><p class="paywall">My fascatn wh the books had ltle to do wh their nny evotns of Greek history, the persuasivens of which I uldn’t appreciate until years later. An important narrative thread each novel is a story of awakeng young love—homosexual love. In “Fire om Heaven,” Renlt sympathetilly imag the awkward begngs of the relatnship between Alexanr and Hephaistn, a Macedonian of high birth who, the evince strongly suggts, was his lover. In “The Persian Boy,” Bagoas, sold to slavery at ten, already world-weary at sixteen, fds himself drawn to Alexanr, who has sudnly bee his master as well as the master of the known world. In both novels, arduoly achieved sctns give the narrativ a sexy charge: Renlt mak Alexanr the aloof object of the longgs of the other, more highly sexed characters, Hephaistn and Bagoas, who mt figure out how to sce him.</p><figure class="AssetEmbedWrapper-eVDQiB byBkf asset-embed"><div class="AssetEmbedAssetContaer-eJxoAx dBHGoQ asset-embed__asset-ntaer"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kKwZhx rponsive-asset AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset"><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="RponsiveCartoonWrapper-iTMMjI eXTYsS rponsive-rtoon AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset viewport-monor-anchor"><a class="external-lk rponsive-rtoon__image-lk" data-event-click="{"element":"ExternalLk","outgogURL":"" href=" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO dUOtEa RponsiveCartoonImage-hzNqyc ikeCcH rponsive-rtoon__image rponsive-image"><noscript><img alt="“Take a wild gus butter boy.”" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src=" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w, 1280w, 1600w" siz="100vw"/></noscript></picture></a><div class="CaptnWrapper-jSZdqE gdZTpI ptn RponsiveCartoonCaptn-dokfdF hJgaLQ rponsive-rtoon__ptn"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ CaptnText-bHjzlu iUEiRd hWyo bsWloa ptn__text">“Take a wild gus, butter boy.”</span></div><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTA-eiqqMB iDCQRs"><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTAWrapper-CYIqa iTbFtf"><div class="RponsiveCartoonLkButtonWrapper-hqDAJK eSEhbj"><button aria-label="Copy lk to rtoon" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Copy lk to rtoon</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-pylk" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" 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aria-label="Shop" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Shop</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-rt" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Shop</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178638)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M4 3H2V4H4.23828L6.99617 15.2631C7.11483 15.6982 7.50998 16 7.96094 16H18.0365C18.4875 16 18.8826 15.6982 19.0013 15.2631L20.9648 7.26312C21.1383 6.62698 20.6594 6 20 6H10V7H20L18.0365 15H7.96094L5.03652 3H4.58055H4ZM10.0365 19C10.0365 19.5523 9.58881 20 9.03652 20C8.48424 20 8.03652 19.5523 8.03652 19C8.03652 18.4477 8.48424 18 9.03652 18C9.58881 18 10.0365 18.4477 10.0365 19ZM11.0365 19C11.0365 20.1046 10.1411 21 9.03652 21C7.93195 21 7.03652 20.1046 7.03652 19C7.03652 17.8954 7.93195 17 9.03652 17C10.1411 17 11.0365 17.8954 11.0365 19ZM18.0365 19C18.0365 19.5523 17.5888 20 17.0365 20C16.4842 20 16.0365 19.5523 16.0365 19C16.0365 18.4477 16.4842 18 17.0365 18C17.5888 18 18.0365 18.4477 18.0365 19ZM19.0365 19C19.0365 20.1046 18.1411 21 17.0365 21C15.932 21 15.0365 20.1046 15.0365 19C15.0365 17.8954 15.932 17 17.0365 17C18.1411 17 19.0365 17.8954 19.0365 19Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button></div></div></div></span></div></figure><p class="paywall">Most sctive of all to me was the young characters’ yearng to love and be loved totally. “Say that you love me bt,” Bagoas dreams “The Persian Boy”; “I love you. . . . You mean more to me than anythg,” Hephaistn exclaims “Fire om Heaven”; “Do you love me bt?” Alexanr asks the latter novel’s openg scene. (The exprsns of ep emotnal need n like a rea through Renlt’s ntemporary novels, too.) As happens, “longg”— Greek, <em>pothos</em>—has, sce ancient tim, been a key word the Alexanr narrative. In a history of Alexanr’s mpaigns wrten by the send-century-A.D. historian Arrian, <em>pothos</em> recurs to scribe the choate cravg that drove Alexanr—far more sistently than any mere lt for nqut or renown. Renlt clearly felt the pull of all this longg, too: addn to the three Alexanr novels, she wrote a psychologilly oriented bgraphy, “The Nature of Alexanr.”</p><div><div class="ConsumerMarketgUnThemedWrapper-iUTMTf jssHut nsumer-marketg-un nsumer-marketg-un--article-mid-ntent" role="prentatn" aria-hidn="te"><div class="nsumer-marketg-un__slot nsumer-marketg-un__slot--article-mid-ntent nsumer-marketg-un__slot---ntent"></div><div class="journey-un"></div></div></div><p class="paywall">Readg Renlt’s books, I felt a shock of regnn. The silent watchg of other boys, the endls strategizg about how to get their attentn, the fantasi of fdg a boy to love, and be loved by, “bt”: all this was agonizgly faiar. I knew somethg about <em>pothos</em>, and thought of the huiatg lengths to which uld drive me—the memorizg of certa boys’ class schl or b rout, the vert shufflg of locker assignments. I was astonished, halfway through “Fire om Heaven,” to fd that this kd of thg had always been happeng. Until that moment, I had never seen my secret feelgs reflected anywhere. Pop mic meant nothg to me, sce all the songs were about boys wantg girls or girls wantg boys; neher did the Y.A. novels I’d read, for the same reason. Televisn was a sert. (“Will & Grace” was twenty-five years the future.) Now, a novel about people om another place and time, was as if I had found a picture of myself.</p><p class="paywall">There’s a scene “The Persian Boy” which Bagoas realiz that he’s love wh Alexanr; the slightly high style Renlt veloped as a vehicle to nvey Bagoas’ Oriental provenance, she scrib this moment as (I now realize) a kd of ternal g out—a moment when, for the first time, a young person unrstands the nature of his own feelgs:</p><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>The livg chick the shell has known no other world. Through the wall a whens, but he do not know is light. Yet he taps at the whe wall, not knowg why. Lightng strik his heart; the shell breaks open.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">Readg “Fire om Heaven” and “The Persian Boy” was such a moment for me. Lightng had stck, the shell lay broken open. I had begun to unrstand what I was and what I wanted; and I knew that I wasn’t alone.</p><h2 class="paywall">“IT’S NOT WHO YOU ARE, IT’S WHAT YOU DO WITH IT”</h2><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">Renlt was herself a lbian, the elr dghter of a doctor and a primly nventnal hoewife. It was not a happy home. Both the ntemporary and the Greek novels feature unsettlg pictns of bad marriag and, particularly, of nightmarishly passive-aggrsive wiv and mothers. Renlt’s mother had clearly hoped for a “nice” girl stead of the unly tomboy she got, and preferred Mary’s younger sister. (Des after I first enuntered Renlt’s books, occurred to me that all this uld well be the source of the “love me bt” motif that recurs so often her work.) In later life, the thor ma no bon about havg wished she’d been born a boy. Her first-person narrators are always men.</p><p class="paywall">Ined, ’s possible to see her lifelong fascatn wh dashg male hero—Alexanr the Great above all—an unually tense thorial projectn. In a letter to a iend, Renlt relled admirg the head of a statue of the Macedonian nqueror, which had given her an “almost physil sense of the prence of Alexanr like a blazg sun below the horizon, not yet quenchg the stars but already palg them. . . . His face has hnted me for years.” David Sweetman, his “Mary Renlt: A Bgraphy” (1993), referred to “Fire om Heaven” as “a love letter to the boy hero.” It’s no accint that her very first book, wrten when she was eight, was a wboy novel. From the start, she seems to have been searchg for an ial boy protagonist, a fictnal reflectn of an ner inty. In all her work, boyishns is an unequivolly posive qualy—even, or perhaps pecially, women.</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-2 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">Although Renlt was entranced by the Greeks om an early age—by the time she fished high school, she had voured all of Plato—at St. Hugh’s, a women’s llege at Oxford, she studied English. After takg her gree, she cid agast teachg, one nventnal route for unmarried, ted middle-class women, and stead traed as a nurse; her first three novels, published durg the war years, were wrten durg her off-hours om clics and hospals. In 1934, she met Julie Mullard, a vivac young nurse who beme her life partner for nearly fifty years, until Renlt’s ath. In a 1982 BBC documentary, the two e off as unpretent and spic of self-dramatizg fs.</p><p class="paywall">The uple stayed England durg the war, but after Renlt won the hundred-and-fifty-thoand-dollar MGM prize for “Return to Night,” a 1947 novel about a woman doctor love wh a handsome, troubled, much younger actor, she beme fancially pennt. (“You’re the bt of all . . . I love you. Better than anyone,” the doctor tells her lover the novel’s fal pag.) They emigrated to South Ai almost on a whim, after readg travel advertisements followg a particularly grim postwar wter England. It was Ai that Renlt wrote the last of her ntemporary novels. Soon after, she turned to the Greeks.</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><asi class="PersistentAsiWrapper-VGrR daRVRt persistent-asi" style="posn:absolute;top:to;height:to" data-ttid="PersistentAsiWrapper"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--rail"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--rail" data-no-id="g89fyl"></div></div><div class="ConsumerMarketgUnThemedWrapper-iUTMTf jssHut nsumer-marketg-un nsumer-marketg-un--display-rail" role="prentatn" aria-hidn="te"><div class="nsumer-marketg-un__slot nsumer-marketg-un__slot--display-rail"></div><div class="journey-un"></div></div></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></asi></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="peobfx"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><p class="paywall">As she later told the story, the cisn to start settg her novels ancient Greece began wh a qutn rooted her early readg of Plato. Durg a pleasure cise that she and Mullard took up the east ast of Ai, Renlt relled, she got to thkg about the Greek historian Xenophon—a stolid, ls tellectually adventuro fellow-stunt of Plato’s Socrat’ circle, who later beme famo for the ary explos he reunted his “Anabasis”—and began to wonr what the members of that circle might actually have been like, as people. The product of her spiratn was “The Last of the We.”</p><p class="paywall">Toward the end of her life, Renlt wrote that the novel was “the bt thg I had ever done.” It’s not hard to see why she thought so. A shrewdly unsentimental historil portra of Athens at the begng of s moral and polil cle, is enlivened by a love story between two of Socrat’ stunts and epened by a surprisgly vivid re-creatn of Socrat’ philosophil dialogu as, well, dialogue. There are rich and nuanced meos of historil characters (not least, Socrat himself) and grand set piec, all renred wh exactg fily to the origal sourc. Renlt fans like to ce her stirrg scriptn of the great Athenian fleet’s parture for s vasn of Sicily—a misguid mpaign that end disaster.</p><p class="paywall">And, perhaps better than any other of the Greek novels, “The Last of the We” monstrat how Renlt ed subtle but tellg touch to persua you of the Greekns of her characters and settgs. Classil Greek tends to be load wh participl and relative cls; Renlt reproduced the tics. (“He, hearg that a youth lled Philon, wh whom he was love, had been taken sick, went at once to him; meetg, I have been told, not only the slav but the boy’s own sister, nng the other way.”) She also ed “k” rather than the more ual Lat “c” her transleratns of proper nam—Kleopatra, Sokrat—which giv her pag jt the right, spiky Greek look. As a rult of this mute attentn to stylistic tail, the novels n give the imprsn of havg been translated om some lost Greek origal.</p><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">It’s possible to see Renlt’s shift om the prent to the past as motivated by somethg other than tellectual cursy. Settg a novel fifth-century-B.C. Athens allowed her to wre about homosexualy as natural. In “The Last of the We,” the narrator m on the abnormaly of Xenophon’s apparently exclive heterosexualy: “Sometim ed I asked myself whether he lacked the pacy for lovg men at all; but I liked him too well to offend him by such a qutn.”</p><p class="paywall">The hge that nnects her earlier works, love stori which telligent people—doctors, nurs, wrers, actors—stggle wh var emotnal nundms, and the later, historil fictn, which the fact of love between men, at least, is no nundm at all, is a novel lled “The Charteer.” Published 1953, is set, spe s classil-soundg tle, durg the Send World War, and wrtl wh the issue of “Greek love.” Olr gay men n rell that, the fifti and sixti, to walk to a bar wh a py of this book was a way of signallg that you were gay. Today, the book is referred to as a “gay classic.”</p><p class="paywall">I fished readg “The Charteer” for the first time on December 28, 1974, when I was fourteen. I know the date bee I rerd my diary. The man who placed my hands was a mic teacher, around my parents’ age, whom we knew to be gay: he had a “roommate” wh whom he shared a hoe a nearby suburb. My mother and father were open-md, and they saw nothg wrong lettg their four sons hang out wh this civilized man, who took to ncerts and rtrants, and who let me sg wh the church choir he directed.</p><p class="paywall">What my parents didn’t know was that the mic teacher sometim left pi of <em>Playgirl</em> lyg around when I vised his hoe. I was both cur and embarrassed. Cur bee of urse I wanted to look at pictur of naked men, havg spent hours pretendg to be terted the <em>Playboy</em> centerfolds the kids on my block would steal out of a neighbor’s garage; and embarrassed bee I perceived that wasn’t appropriate for this middle-aged man to be makg porn available to a fourteen-year-old. Cursy prevailed. Two years had passed sce I’d read the Alexanr books—paperback pi of which were now stacked, along wh Renlt’s other books, to a neat ltle ziggurat my bedroom bet—and there were thgs I wonred about, specific thgs, that weren’t scribed the Mary Renlt books. I would wa for my teacher to go to another room, to start dner or put on a rerdg of Thomas Tallis, and would snatch the magaze up and look at the photographs, which both tillated and repelled me. It was excg to see the nu male bodi, however patently silly the wboy boots or policeman hats might be; but was hard to nnect those imag to the ias of love that I had taken away om “Fire om Heaven” and “The Persian Boy.”</p><figure class="AssetEmbedWrapper-eVDQiB byBkf asset-embed"><div class="AssetEmbedAssetContaer-eJxoAx dBHGoQ asset-embed__asset-ntaer"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kKwZhx rponsive-asset AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset"><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="RponsiveCartoonWrapper-iTMMjI eXTYsS rponsive-rtoon AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset viewport-monor-anchor"><a class="external-lk rponsive-rtoon__image-lk" data-event-click="{"element":"ExternalLk","outgogURL":"" href=" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO dUOtEa RponsiveCartoonImage-hzNqyc ikeCcH rponsive-rtoon__image rponsive-image"><noscript><img alt="“Its between me a horse wh a guys butt and Nilas Cage.”" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src=" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w, 1280w, 1600w" siz="100vw"/></noscript></picture></a><div class="CaptnWrapper-jSZdqE gdZTpI ptn RponsiveCartoonCaptn-dokfdF hJgaLQ rponsive-rtoon__ptn"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ CaptnText-bHjzlu iUEiRd hWyo bsWloa ptn__text">“It’s between me, a horse wh a guy’s butt, and Nilas Cage.”</span></div><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTA-eiqqMB iDCQRs"><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTAWrapper-CYIqa iTbFtf"><div class="RponsiveCartoonLkButtonWrapper-hqDAJK eSEhbj"><button aria-label="Copy lk to rtoon" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Copy lk to rtoon</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-pylk" 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11.3602 20.9144 12.4648 19.0422L14.4648 15.6521C15.5694 13.78 14.9139 11.3859 13.0007 10.305C12.8127 10.1988 12.6195 10.1091 12.4229 10.0357C12.2195 9.95975 11.9956 10.0515 11.8867 10.236C11.7221 10.5151 11.8911 10.8724 12.1932 11.0008C12.2973 11.0451 12.4 11.0956 12.5007 11.1525C13.9356 11.9632 14.4272 13.7587 13.5988 15.1628L11.5988 18.5529C10.7704 19.957 8.93555 20.4382 7.50068 19.6274C6.0658 18.8167 5.57417 17.0212 6.4026 15.6171L7.6526 13.4983Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178637"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178637"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button><div class="AlertWrapper-gvFATk MdjE RponsiveCartoonLkAlertPopup-BPAXn kdMXRM shoppg-alert" role="dialog"><div aria-hidn="te" role="prentatn" class="AlertArrow-daOgye AlLda alert-arrow"></div><div class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ AlertMsage-jgAjgo bVCFRm ifgabc cxFROy alert-msage"><p aria-hidn="te">Lk pied</p></div></div></div><button aria-label="Shop" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Shop</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-rt" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Shop</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178638)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M4 3H2V4H4.23828L6.99617 15.2631C7.11483 15.6982 7.50998 16 7.96094 16H18.0365C18.4875 16 18.8826 15.6982 19.0013 15.2631L20.9648 7.26312C21.1383 6.62698 20.6594 6 20 6H10V7H20L18.0365 15H7.96094L5.03652 3H4.58055H4ZM10.0365 19C10.0365 19.5523 9.58881 20 9.03652 20C8.48424 20 8.03652 19.5523 8.03652 19C8.03652 18.4477 8.48424 18 9.03652 18C9.58881 18 10.0365 18.4477 10.0365 19ZM11.0365 19C11.0365 20.1046 10.1411 21 9.03652 21C7.93195 21 7.03652 20.1046 7.03652 19C7.03652 17.8954 7.93195 17 9.03652 17C10.1411 17 11.0365 17.8954 11.0365 19ZM18.0365 19C18.0365 19.5523 17.5888 20 17.0365 20C16.4842 20 16.0365 19.5523 16.0365 19C16.0365 18.4477 16.4842 18 17.0365 18C17.5888 18 18.0365 18.4477 18.0365 19ZM19.0365 19C19.0365 20.1046 18.1411 21 17.0365 21C15.932 21 15.0365 20.1046 15.0365 19C15.0365 17.8954 15.932 17 17.0365 17C18.1411 17 19.0365 17.8954 19.0365 19Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button></div></div></div></span></div></figure><p class="paywall">I remember the day that this teacher hand me the jacketls hardback of “The Charteer,” wh s dark-gray buckram boards. We were downstairs his n, and he’d been playg me a rare LP of ancient Greek mic. I was feelg very grownup and was tryg to imprs him wh my passn for all thgs Greek—a subject that led me, soon enough, to Renlt’s novels. He said, “If you like Mary Renlt, there’s another one I thk you’ll be terted .” He motned me to follow him upstairs to his bedroom. He searched a bookse for a moment until he found what he was lookg for. I took home and started readg . At first, the Send World War settg disappoted me; I had no tert morn history.</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-3 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">The tle of “The Charteer” allus to Renlt’s beloved Plato. In the dialogue lled “Phaeds,” the soul is likened to a charteer who mt rencile two hors, one whe and well behaved (the ratnal and moral impuls), the other scffy and ill-bred (the passns). Renlt’s book rests the Platonic nflict as a human drama. Lrie Oll, a wound young soldier who is reverg at a ral hospal—his given name is Lrence, but Renlt potedly ed ambiguo nam and nicknam whenever she uld—fds himself torn between a secret love for an ialistic Quaker youth, Andrew (who seems drawn to Lrie an nocent, nonsexual way), and a more plex, physil relatnship wh a slightly olr naval officer, Ralph. The plot ph Lrie toward a culmatg choice between the two men. That choice impli another: whether to rema a loner or to enjoy the solidary afford by the lol gay set, whose members Renlt pats mpy lors: they’re named Bunny and Bky and Bim, and wear Cartier bracelets. Lrie, by ntrast, is a kd of holy fool: “His lonels had prerved him a good al of advertent nocence; there was much of life for which he had no formula.”</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="bp4hft"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><p class="paywall">I, too, was an nocent. By a kd of lerary osmosis that is possible only when you’re young, I absorbed whout qutn Renlt’s ializatn of severe, unmonstrative men; I wasn’t yet able to regnize, the thor’s clichés of gay effemacy, certa unexamed prejudic of her own. Nor did occur to me to qutn a central element of the text: the rather dated assumptn that would be better for Andrew never to be ma aware of his sexualy. (It “would stter his whole pal of belief himself,” Lrie thks. “He mt never know.”)</p><p class="paywall">Now, of urse, I n read the book as ought to be read, as a g-of-age story: Lrie abandons the choate but potent ials of adolcence, symbolized by the pure and curly sexls Andrew, favor of an adult relatnship, one that is physil as well as emotnal, wh plited and promised Ralph, who, like Lrie, bears physil as well as emotnal srs. But, bee I was so young when I read the novel for the first time, I saw the arc om the ial to the real, om youth to matury, as a tragic one. To me, Andrew and Ralph were figur a vast allegoril nflict. Unr the whe banner of Andrew there was Renlt, and te love, and the ancient Greeks, wh their lofty rhetoric and marmoreal bety; unr the black banner of Ralph there was <em>Playgirl</em>, and sex, and thoughts about naked men—the msy and nfg prent.</p><p class="paywall">Although there was much of life for which I had no “formula,” eher, I thought I knew enough to ci that, if beg gay meant marchg unr the black banner—aligng myself wh my mic teacher, or the few characters you saw on TV who, you somehow knew, were gay: the limp-wrists and the effete, the spels Dr. Smh on “Lost Space” and the queeny Pl Lyn character on “Bewched”—then would be better to rema alone.</p><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">Unlike Renlt’s Greek novels, which portrayed sire beneath the scrim of a historil settg, “The Charteer,” whose characters ed words like “queer,” allowed for no evasns. “I know what I am,” I wrote my diary the day I fished readg for the first time. By then, I was obssively love wh a yellow-haired swimmer who put up wh my dogged stalkg for three years before he turned around one day early our senr year and, plantg himself ont of his locker, which I had gone to some lengths to sure was next to me, told me que lmly that he didn’t want to talk to me anymore, and didn’t. But I had never thought of my feelgs for him as “gay” or “queer”: simply was how I felt. “I know what I am,” I wrote. “Now I mt thk what to do wh .”</p><p class="paywall">“What you are . . . what to do wh ” is a paraphrase of a le om “The Charteer.” Someone utters durg a climactic scene at a birthday party that’s beg given for a young gay doctor. At the party, the characters start argug about what would now be lled inty polics: about whether the thg that sets you apart ought, some fundamental way, to fe you. As lonely as he is, Lrie fds himself ristg the temptatn of jog this group—of “makg a reer” of his “limatns,” as he puts to himself. It’s rponse to this bate about inty that Ralph articulat the liberatg formula: “It’s not what one is, ’s what one do wh .”</p><p class="paywall">Renlt grew up an era which was difficult to thk of homosexualy as anythg but a limatn; to her cred, she was pennt-md enough to try to rist that prejudice. Later the book, the doctor rejects the premis that make blackmail possible:</p><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>I don’t adm that I’m a social menace. . . . I’m not prepared to accept a standard which puts the whole of my emotnal life on the plane of immoraly. I’ve never volved a normal person or a mor or anyone who wasn’t a posn to exercise ee choice. . . . Crimals are blackmailed. I’m not a crimal. I’m prepared to go to some gree of trouble, if necsary, to make that pot.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">Renlt later wrote that this passage of dialogue “gave the startg-pot to my first historil novel”—“The Last of the We,” other words, the novel which homosexualy wasn’t nsired a limatn.</p><p class="paywall">When I was fourteen, the characterizatn of homosexualy as a “limatn” seemed reasonable enough. How uld not be a handip, when left you wh eakish feelgs that no one else you knew seemed to share, apart om middle-aged men who left dirty magaz around for you to pick up, feelgs that you knew, more stctually than nscly, you had to hi? What I did wh , after a few anx months of tryg and failg to picture the vast, nearly featurels landspe of the future, one which the only road sign now, brand-new, hly pated, bore the word “queer,” was to try to be good—to try to be like Lrie Oll. “I mt make some good rolutns for the new year,” I had wrten my diary. “I will try to do better next year.”</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-4 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">The next year, I turned fifteen, and still didn’t really know what “better” might mean. Fally, I cid to wre to Mary Renlt and ask her.</p><h2 class="paywall">“GETTING THE SOIL IN YOUR GARDEN RIGHT”</h2><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">In my first letter to Renlt, I poured out my story—ancient Greece, disverg her books, disverg that I was gay through her books. In her reply, which arrived mid-April, jt after my sixteenth birthday, she ftly flected my adolcent effns while puttg to rt my anxieti about form letters:</p><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>Are there really wrers who do that? I knew film stars do. You n’t blame them, really; apart om the fact that about half the people who wre to them mt be morons who thk they really are Cleopatra or whoever, they get such thoands that if they attempted answerg themselv they’d never get to the set.</p></div></blockquote><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>Wrers, though, wre to munite; and when someone to whom one has got through tak the trouble to wre and tell one so, would be pretty ungrateful to rpond wh somethg off a duplitor. I thk so, anyway.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">This, as she had tend, pleased me. And yet of my fervent nfsns there was only the brieft acknowledgment, which segued immediately and harmlsly to a charmg pliment and a gentle dismissal:</p><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>I am tly glad the books have meant all this to you; pecially as you wre very good English yourself. . . . Greek history, or somethg, has certaly given you a clean and simple style. I wish you the very bt of luck wh your work, and a happy fulfilled reer.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">I read and reread the letter. I was a gay adolcent; I was acctomed to overterpretg. Jt as I wasn’t what I pretend to be, so everyone and everythg else, I thought, ncealed secret meangs, munited hidn s. (I had to thk a moment before I realized that “a duplitor” was a pyg mache.) But there was nothg else, apart om the scrawled signature and, below , prted stctns about how to fold the aerogram. “Verseël Eers Die Twee Syklappe, Dan Hierdie Een—Seal The Two Si Flaps First, Then This One.”</p><p class="paywall">“Meant all this to you”? Maybe I hadn’t been clear enough. I sat down and started another letter.</p><p class="paywall">This time, I enclosed a few pag of one of the short stori I had secretly wrten. Like nearly everythg I wrote then, was about an tense iendship between two fourteen-year-old boys, one of whom was, evably, ser and dark-haired and creative, while the other was, jt as evably, reee and blond and athletic. This story, which was more amb than the others— had a prologue set a kd of classil limbo—was, like the others, a slavish pastiche of Renlt: her dictn, wh s fat ra of prewar England (“Phaedo, whatever do you want?”), her settgs (“Unr the ancient olive tree, the two young men were talkg”), her characters (“Speakg of Sokrat, have you seen him lately?”), even her punctuatn. (Renlt, acrdg to her bgrapher, had a particular fondns for the semilon. I still remember the thrill I felt when one of my llege profsors wrote, the marg of an unrgraduate say, “You have semilonis!”) I was nvced that this lofty effort would persua her that I would be a worthy rrponnt. Feelg very much the thor, I was embolned to ask her whether she, too, had a kd of pulsn to wre—although I secretly doubted whether hers had the same source as me. For me, wrg was a kd of sympathetic magic, a way of njurg the swimmer boy and keepg him close.</p><figure class="AssetEmbedWrapper-eVDQiB byBkf asset-embed"><div class="AssetEmbedAssetContaer-eJxoAx dBHGoQ asset-embed__asset-ntaer"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kKwZhx rponsive-asset AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset"><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="RponsiveCartoonWrapper-iTMMjI eXTYsS rponsive-rtoon AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset viewport-monor-anchor"><a class="external-lk rponsive-rtoon__image-lk" data-event-click="{"element":"ExternalLk","outgogURL":"" href=" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO dUOtEa RponsiveCartoonImage-hzNqyc ikeCcH rponsive-rtoon__image rponsive-image"><noscript><img alt="“I have to tell you I got a totally different diagnosis om someone named PookyPoo on ”" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src=" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w, 1280w, 1600w" siz="100vw"/></noscript></picture></a><div class="CaptnWrapper-jSZdqE gdZTpI ptn RponsiveCartoonCaptn-dokfdF hJgaLQ rponsive-rtoon__ptn"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ CaptnText-bHjzlu iUEiRd hWyo bsWloa ptn__text">“I have to tell you, I got a totally different diagnosis om someone named PookyPoo on medi–”</span></div><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTA-eiqqMB iDCQRs"><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTAWrapper-CYIqa iTbFtf"><div class="RponsiveCartoonLkButtonWrapper-hqDAJK eSEhbj"><button aria-label="Copy lk to rtoon" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Copy lk to rtoon</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-pylk" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" 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class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Shop</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-rt" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Shop</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178638)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M4 3H2V4H4.23828L6.99617 15.2631C7.11483 15.6982 7.50998 16 7.96094 16H18.0365C18.4875 16 18.8826 15.6982 19.0013 15.2631L20.9648 7.26312C21.1383 6.62698 20.6594 6 20 6H10V7H20L18.0365 15H7.96094L5.03652 3H4.58055H4ZM10.0365 19C10.0365 19.5523 9.58881 20 9.03652 20C8.48424 20 8.03652 19.5523 8.03652 19C8.03652 18.4477 8.48424 18 9.03652 18C9.58881 18 10.0365 18.4477 10.0365 19ZM11.0365 19C11.0365 20.1046 10.1411 21 9.03652 21C7.93195 21 7.03652 20.1046 7.03652 19C7.03652 17.8954 7.93195 17 9.03652 17C10.1411 17 11.0365 17.8954 11.0365 19ZM18.0365 19C18.0365 19.5523 17.5888 20 17.0365 20C16.4842 20 16.0365 19.5523 16.0365 19C16.0365 18.4477 16.4842 18 17.0365 18C17.5888 18 18.0365 18.4477 18.0365 19ZM19.0365 19C19.0365 20.1046 18.1411 21 17.0365 21C15.932 21 15.0365 20.1046 15.0365 19C15.0365 17.8954 15.932 17 17.0365 17C18.1411 17 19.0365 17.8954 19.0365 19Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button></div></div></div></span></div></figure><p class="paywall">She wrote back wh a uple of weeks, at the end of April. I know she mt have read the story bee of her tactful alln to :</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--rail"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--rail" data-no-id="rd5pwi"></div></div><div class="ConsumerMarketgUnThemedWrapper-iUTMTf jssHut nsumer-marketg-un nsumer-marketg-un--display-rail" role="prentatn" aria-hidn="te"><div class="nsumer-marketg-un__slot nsumer-marketg-un__slot--display-rail"></div><div class="journey-un"></div></div></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="j8b4"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>Your nice letter me this morng. Somethg tells me you are gog to have a future as a wrer. Keep at ; very few people get published at 16 or even 20, but don’t worry. . . . There is only one way to learn to wre and that is by readg. Don’t read for duty, try all the good stuff though, sample , then vour what stimulat and enrich you. This will seep to your own work, which may be rivative at first but this do not matter. Your own style will velop later.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">Now that I am a wrer who has received mail om young rears, I appreciate the patience and gentlens of this paragraph. I doubt that, at the time, I registered the implitns of “which may be rivative”; was enough that she thought I had a future as a wrer. This show of nfince dulled the disappotg force of her equally graceful but firm leave-takg:</p><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>Y, you are right, I do have a pulsn to wre and am very trated and unhappy if I am kept om dog . . . . And this is the reason I n’t go on wrg to you. Not that is too much trouble; wrg a book is very much more trouble; but if I wrote more than one thank-you letter to all the people who are kd enough to wre to me, I would never wre another novel aga. Or I would have to take to those “form letters”—rather than which I wouldn’t answer at all.</p></div></blockquote><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>So this really is goodbye—but the very bt of luck to you all the same.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">This time, I felt no great disappotment. Over the next months, as my stalkg of the blond swimmer beme more abject, as more and more meals end wh me burstg to tears and lockg myself my room as my parents clumped helplsly down the hallway after me, the sentence “Somethg tells me you are gog to have a future as a wrer” served as a charm. I knew I had no right to expect anythg else om her.</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-5 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">Then, that December, she sent me a Christmas rd.</p><p class="paywall">I will never know why she changed her md and wrote aga, eight months after she said that she uldn’t go on rrpondg; at the time, I was so exced by her overture that I didn’t dare ask. But I n speculate now. When I read Sweetman’s bgraphy, ten years after Renlt’s ath, I learned that the mid-neteen-seventi had been a particularly tryg perd for her. In the tumn of 1974, she fell and jured her leg, necsatg an irratgly lengthy revery. Soon afterward, Mullard, who was high-stng, suffered a mor breakdown and had to be briefly stutnalized. At jt about the time that Renlt and I exchanged our first letters, she had cid to put her affairs orr and make provisns for her tate. Perhaps she thought that a letter om an Amerin teen-ager every now and then might provi some distractn, spe (or perhaps bee of) the adolcent turmoil ntaed.</p><p class="paywall">Somethg else has occurred to me. Like all wrers, Renlt spent much of her time alone; a good many of her iends, as I also learned later, were gay men, often ballet dancers and actors and theatre people. What she did not have her life, as far as I know, was children—or stunts. I wonr whether she wished for some. (In “The Charteer,” Lrie is scribed as someone who “ually got on wh strong-md old maids”; was that how she saw herself?) Shrewdly drawn scen of apprentichips, of actors or prc or poets learng their craft, figure a number of the novels. In “The Last of the We,” Socrat, faced wh an earnt, if pretent, stunt, rorts to “teasg him out of his pomposi”—as nny a characterizatn of what ’s like to teach hmen as any I know of.</p><p class="paywall">Renlt’s special feelg for the relatnship between a teacher and a stunt imbu the poignant fale of “The Mask of Apollo,” her 1966 novel about an Athenian actor who gets mixed up Plato’s disastro scheme, the three-sixti B.C., to turn a rpt Sicilian tyrant to a philosopher-kg. Years after the fias, the actor meets the teen-aged Alexanr, already charismatic and alive wh cursy about the world, and realiz, wrenchgly, that this youth would have been the ial stunt for Plato, now ad:</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="cuokgk"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>All tragedi al wh fated meetgs; how else uld there be a play? Fate als s stroke; sorrow is purged, or turned to rejoicg; there is ath, or triumph; there has been a meetg, and a change. No one will ever make a tragedy—and that is as well, for one uld not bear —whose grief is that the prcipals never met.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">I wonr whether somethg like this was Mary Renlt’s md that day December when she cid to wre back to me after all. Maybe she liked the thought of havg a stunt—someone to tease out of his pomposi. Maybe, wh all that grief around her jt then, she thought she uld at least avoid the grief that of never makg ntact.</p><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">We rrpond for the next eight years. I always addrsed her as “Miss Renlt” or “Mary Renlt”; I still n’t thk of her as “Mary.” She only ever addrsed me as “Daniel Menlsohn” and, once I was llege, “Mr. Menlsohn.” Durg that time, I fished high school, went to llege, graduated, got my first job. She published her bgraphy of Alexanr and two more novels. We didn’t wre often—a few exchang a year—but knowg that she was out there, terted my progrs, was like a secret talisman.</p><p class="paywall">Durg the first few years, when I was still high school, I tried not to be too faiar or too earnt—the mistake that I had ma my first uple of letters. (Rellg a lbian novel she disliked, Renlt wrote of s “impermissible allowance of self-py” and “earnt humourlsns.”) Instead, I would tell her about what I was readg, some of which, of urse, was chosen wh an eye to pleasg her. “I am lighted you’ve been readg the Phaeds,” she wrote to me early 1978, when I was a senr high school. “It’s good furnure for any md.” Sometim she would make suggtns. “Have you ever tried Malory’s Morte Darthur? It is very betiful. On no acunt read a versn pulped down to morn English, s the flavour.” A year earlier, I and the other eleventh grars had been ma to memorize the openg l of “The Canterbury Tal” the origal Middle English, an exercise that we both feared and rid; readg her letter, I began to wonr, as I hadn’t done before, what might mean for language to have “flavor.”</p><p class="paywall">Ocsnally there would be an em about her or one of her books the news; gave me a thrillg sense of privilege to be able to wre to the thor herself to learn more. When I was a junr high school, the teacher who had given me “The Charteer” showed me an issue of a magaze lled <em>After Dark</em>, which I only later realized was a gay magaze. It featured an amb photo spread about the upg movie adaptatn of “The Persian Boy,” and referred to young dancers and actors who were hopg to be st as Bagoas. Exced, I wrote to Renlt askg for tails. “I certaly wish they had not raised the hop of so many actors this way,” she replied, explag that the movie rights hadn’t even been sold yet, “and I wish too that so many actors didn’t image that the book thor has any say the stg! They uld as ufully approach the office cleaner.” (Sweetman, his bgraphy, relat how a young actor had wrten to her, offerg to have “the operatn” if meant gettg the part. “That,” she wrote back to him, “would be geldg the lily.”)</p><p class="paywall">I ntued to send her the stori I was wrg. As I reached the end of high school, the were gettg darker: the begng of my senr year, the fall of 1977, had been srred by the nontatn wh the blond swimmer. Later that day, I ran out of my hoe and walked around the blandly intil neighborhoods for hours. At one pot, I climbed to the top of an overpass and looked down—not ser, but ser enough. Then I burst out lghg, amed by my own theatrics; was a betiful tumn afternoon, and a year I’d be llege, where I’d be able to study Greek and Lat and fd new, like-md iends; where, I secretly hoped, there might be a Lrie Oll for me. I wrote about this cint to Mary Renlt, aware, as I did so, of wantg her to perceive that I was learng om her—that I wasn’t givg to adolcent foolishns. I was, after all, someone who had a future as a wrer.</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-6 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">She read the later stori, too. By this pot, one (or sometim both) of the two separable iends who were always at the center of my fictn, the b and the blond, the wrer and the athlete, would die of a rare disease, or meet wh a terrible accint. As she had done before, and would do aga, Mary Renlt ignored the impermissible self-py and the earnt humorlsns, and simply enuraged me:</p><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>Jt rry on enjoyg yourself wh wrg. Love what you are dog and do as well as you n, and the tree will grow. Nobody ever did their bt work at 17 except people who died at 18! You are now jt gettg the soil your garn right—except that unlike a garn, even at this stage your work is producg flowers, very likely not yet ready for the flower-show, but givg you a lot of joy.</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">The stori did not, fact, give me much joy. But knowg that she had read them did.</p><h2 class="paywall">“WAS IT SOMEONE YOU KNEW?”</h2><figure class="AssetEmbedWrapper-eVDQiB byBkf asset-embed"><div class="AssetEmbedAssetContaer-eJxoAx dBHGoQ asset-embed__asset-ntaer"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kKwZhx rponsive-asset AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset"><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="RponsiveCartoonWrapper-iTMMjI eXTYsS rponsive-rtoon AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset viewport-monor-anchor"><a class="external-lk rponsive-rtoon__image-lk" data-event-click="{"element":"ExternalLk","outgogURL":"" href=" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO dUOtEa RponsiveCartoonImage-hzNqyc ikeCcH rponsive-rtoon__image rponsive-image"><noscript><img alt="The Amerin Boy" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src=" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w, 1280w, 1600w" siz="100vw"/></noscript></picture></a><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTA-eiqqMB iDCQRs"><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTAWrapper-CYIqa iTbFtf"><div class="RponsiveCartoonLkButtonWrapper-hqDAJK eSEhbj"><button aria-label="Copy lk to rtoon" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Copy lk to rtoon</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-pylk" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Copy lk to rtoon</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178637)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M16.3488 10.5017C16.2107 10.7357 16.2926 11.035 16.5318 11.17C16.7709 11.3052 17.0767 11.225 17.2148 10.991L18.4648 8.87225C19.5694 7.00002 18.9139 4.60601 17.0007 3.52508C15.0875 2.44415 12.6412 3.08562 11.5366 4.95785L9.53657 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18.8167 5.57417 17.0212 6.4026 15.6171L7.6526 13.4983Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178637"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178637"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button><div class="AlertWrapper-gvFATk MdjE RponsiveCartoonLkAlertPopup-BPAXn kdMXRM shoppg-alert" role="dialog"><div aria-hidn="te" role="prentatn" class="AlertArrow-daOgye AlLda alert-arrow"></div><div class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ AlertMsage-jgAjgo bVCFRm ifgabc cxFROy alert-msage"><p aria-hidn="te">Lk pied</p></div></div></div><button aria-label="Shop" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Shop</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-rt" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Shop</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178638)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M4 3H2V4H4.23828L6.99617 15.2631C7.11483 15.6982 7.50998 16 7.96094 16H18.0365C18.4875 16 18.8826 15.6982 19.0013 15.2631L20.9648 7.26312C21.1383 6.62698 20.6594 6 20 6H10V7H20L18.0365 15H7.96094L5.03652 3H4.58055H4ZM10.0365 19C10.0365 19.5523 9.58881 20 9.03652 20C8.48424 20 8.03652 19.5523 8.03652 19C8.03652 18.4477 8.48424 18 9.03652 18C9.58881 18 10.0365 18.4477 10.0365 19ZM11.0365 19C11.0365 20.1046 10.1411 21 9.03652 21C7.93195 21 7.03652 20.1046 7.03652 19C7.03652 17.8954 7.93195 17 9.03652 17C10.1411 17 11.0365 17.8954 11.0365 19ZM18.0365 19C18.0365 19.5523 17.5888 20 17.0365 20C16.4842 20 16.0365 19.5523 16.0365 19C16.0365 18.4477 16.4842 18 17.0365 18C17.5888 18 18.0365 18.4477 18.0365 19ZM19.0365 19C19.0365 20.1046 18.1411 21 17.0365 21C15.932 21 15.0365 20.1046 15.0365 19C15.0365 17.8954 15.932 17 17.0365 17C18.1411 17 19.0365 17.8954 19.0365 19Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button></div></div></div></span></div></figure><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">I wrote to Renlt ls equently once I went off to the Universy of Virgia. (The swimmer had grown up Virgia; I thought there might be someone else like him there.) I started learng Greek durg my first semter, and found a kd of happs grammar, which sisted on a level of precisn not available English: the nouns, often faiar-lookg (<em>anthrōpos</em>, <em>historia</em>, <em>klimax</em>), each one of which has five different forms, pendg on how ’s ed a sentence; the vast spirweb of the verb system. For me, as for many begng classics stunts, learng Greek and Lat unlocked the secrets of my own language. Wh light I learned that “ephebe” nsists of <em>epi</em>, “upon,” and <em>hēbē</em>, “youth”: an ephebe is a male at the acme of his youth. And you learn, too, to sniff out a fake. The word “homosexual,” for stance, is a solecism, a hybrid of Greek (<em>homos</em>, “alike”) and Lat (<em>sexualis</em>, “sexual”). A <em>homo</em>- word wh a purer pedigree, as I learned when I started readg Homer Greek, was <em>homophrosyne</em>, “like-mdns,” which is the word Odysss , the Odyssey, to scribe the ial unn of two spo—the kd of unn that he’s tryg to return home to.</p><p class="paywall">My own qut for <em>homophrosyne</em> was provg unsuccsful. No Lrie Oll had materialized. How did you make ntact? There was, I knew, a gay stunt unn that met regularly one of the many red-brick-and-whe-stuc neoclassil buildgs on mp, undistguished knockoffs of Jeffersonian origals. But I was dismayed to see that the buildg was right the middle of the mp; I was terrified that someone I knew would see me gog . So I would walk past the posters for the meetgs, my ey briefly alightg, as tentative as a fly on a peach, on the word “gay,” as I ma my way each morng to Greek class, durg my first year, or, the next year, to Greek 201 (“Plato’s ‘Apology’ ”), or, the year after, to the urse which, for the first time, I read Sophocl Greek. The text, I remember, was “Philoctet,” a play about a crippled hero who has been abandoned on a sert island for so long that ’s no longer clear whether he n rejo society.</p><p class="paywall">Beneath my fear of beg found out, a larger anxiety lurked. I was startg to worry that, even if I were to “make ntact,” the ial I’d found “The Charteer” didn’t exist. There was a boy one of my English class, a tall, dark-haired prep wh a beaked nose and a Tiwater accent, who, I now realize, was tryg to make ntact wh <em>me</em>. He’d stop me after lectur and ask if he uld borrow my not; once, after mentng that he was one of the choral groups, he lled to ve me to e to his dorm room to listen to his new LP of Purcell’s “Come Ye Sons of Art.” But I never lled him back. After a while, he started askg some other kid for not at the end of lectur.</p><p class="paywall">I studied hard and absorbed my grammars and didn’t nfi any of this to Mary Renlt. She had brought me to the Greeks, and had shown me what I was, and was somehow shamg to let on that I was havg a hard time fdg anyone like the characters her novels. Somewhere “The Persian Boy,” when the young Bagoas is beg schooled at Sa the arts of the urtan, the kdly master who is preparg him for service to the Kg remds him of a ccial le of life at urt: “Never be importunate, never, never.” I was no longer sixteen, and I was termed never to importune her.</p><p class="paywall">She mt have noticed, at any rate, that I was no longer enclosg short stori wh my letters. That’s bee I wasn’t wrg anymore. How silly those stori had been! I was twenty-one; I was gog to be a scholar, not a wrer. I was forted by the ntatory rhythms of grammatil paradigms; by syntax, which was soothgly different to emotn. Durg my senr year, “Funeral Gam” was published. I went to the lol bookstore every day to see if had e yet and, when did, bought and read right away. The novel begs as Alexanr is dyg and proceeds to scribe grimly unsentimental tail the story of the ternece power stggl that rulted om his premature ath. I was stck by the starkns of the narrative. Gone were the exalted adolcent yearngs of “Fire om Heaven,” gone the plh erotic Orientalisms of “The Persian Boy.” It was as if all feelg had been stripped away. I read wh a kd of sour enjoyment; matched my mood. I wrote her to tell her how much I’d liked . “Your letter gave me very great pleasure,” she began her reply:</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--rail"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--rail" data-no-id="vkybd"></div></div><div class="ConsumerMarketgUnThemedWrapper-iUTMTf jssHut nsumer-marketg-un nsumer-marketg-un--display-rail" role="prentatn" aria-hidn="te"><div class="nsumer-marketg-un__slot nsumer-marketg-un__slot--display-rail"></div><div class="journey-un"></div></div></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="46d51"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>Bis s genero appreciatn of what the book is about, this is actually the first letter about om an ordary rear—meang of urse one who had no profsnal or personal reason to read the book. I am so glad that you liked .</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">I knew what she meant, but I was a ltle hurt. I, at any rate, thought that I had a “personal” reason to read .</p><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">My letters to Renlt were even ls equent after I graduated om llege. I was too embarrassed. For one thg, I had cid not to go on to do a graduate gree classics, which she had once urged me to do, on the ground that was always good to have “solid” knowledge of a subject, even if one wanted to be a wrer rather than an amic. I wrote that I was fog graduate school bee I “hoped to gather knowledge of the world”—probably bee I had read somewhere that she had bee a nurse orr to ga real-life experience to wre about.</p><p class="paywall">I moved to New York Cy and found a job as an assistant to a small-time opera imprar whose obscene tiras agast disloyal nductors and greedy sopranos would seep, like his cigar smoke, beneath the smoked-glass door of his ner office the ty “sue” he rented, the Steway Buildg, on Wt Fifty-seventh Street, to the area where I was statned. Stg at my sk while he shrieked to the phone, I was too timid even to qu. But my letters to Renlt I swaggered and lied and pretend to be g my classil learng to ga sight to the real world. In the sprg of 1983, I wrote her a letter that I ostentatly typed on our pany statnery (“<em class="small">DANIEL MENDELSOHN, ASSOCIATE</em>”): “I’ve found that readg Plato while one isn’t actually studyg tensively giv one an entirely new perspective—like beg a Christian on weekdays.” (That last phrase is an almost verbatim catn om “The Charteer.”) I went on grandsely, “After all, wasn’t meant to be read and discsed at cktail parti, but lived, a way; or so I thk.”</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-7 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">The fact is that I wasn’t spendg much time on Plato. Mostly, I was gog out to bars: Boy Bar, down on St. Marks Place, where young men, self-nscly “over” the dis athetic jt then, lounged khaki shorts and Topsirs and played pool at a table unr a giant stuffed fish; the Pyramid, where you’d go afterward, once your standards had started to ero; the Works, on the Upper Wt Si, wh s aloof actor-waers their too refully prsed polo shirts, led up neatly agast the black walls like empty bottl; bars that didn’t last long enough for me to remember their nam, while I tried, as I ntued to put to myself, to “make ntact.”</p><p class="paywall">Sex rarely appears Renlt’s books; ’s eher omted altogether or suggted wh such elegant circumlocutn that I sometim didn’t realize that certa passag were sex scen when I first read them. This was partly bee of the thor’s own ialized exaltatn of platonic love, and partly for reasons that she intified as wrerly on. “If characters have e to life,” she once wrote, “one should know how they will make love; if not don’t matter. Inch-by-ch physil scriptns are the ketchup of the lerary cuise, only required by the sipid dish or by the der whout a palate.” As I reread her books high school, I looked va for signs of what lovemakg might actually be like; what (for stance) “a trick I learned at Sa” (as Bagoas rells of an attempt to liven thgs up bed wh the Persian emperor) might be, or what “the sufficient evince of his sens” (the ht that Lrie and Ralph have fally slept together, “The Charteer”) might allu to. But llege I had fally, if fleetgly, disvered sex, and New York was everywhere, if you wanted . It seemed perfectly reasonable to have sex if you uldn’t fd love. Ocsnally, I’d brg someone home, or go to his place, and often would be pleasurable and sometim would be someone I liked. But always the back of my md was a certa image of what I wanted, and sce nobody I met que matched , I held back. I had e to feel that gettg volved wh real people was, somehow, a betrayal.</p><p class="paywall">Sometim I forted myself wh this thought: hadn’t Lrie Oll also been a loner? The first summer I lived New York, a iend told me about a gay therapist who “did group” on the East Si, and suggted that I jo; was a great place to meet nice guys, he said. I went for about five ssns. Some of the men were relatnships wh each other: one uple nsisted of a tall, extraordarily handsome young man of about my age and his “lover,” a short, que ugly man his forti wh a gigantic nose. I thought surprisg that they would be together. Never havg had a lover, and embarrassed by my lack of experience and, even more, by the secret ial that was keepg me om experience, I rarely said anythg durg the ssns. Fally, one day, the others turned to me all at once and asked me to talk about myself. At some pot, evably, I mentned the Mary Renlt books and what their visn of love meant to me. “Oh, <em>Mary</em>,” the big-nosed lover of the betiful ephebe said, and only after a moment did I realize that he was not referrg to the thor but addrsg me, “jo the <em>real</em> world!” I never went back to “group.” I rerd this cint my journal. The entry ends wh the sentence “I ought to wre Mary Renlt soon.” But I didn’t.</p><figure class="AssetEmbedWrapper-eVDQiB byBkf asset-embed"><div class="AssetEmbedAssetContaer-eJxoAx dBHGoQ asset-embed__asset-ntaer"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kKwZhx rponsive-asset AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset"><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="RponsiveCartoonWrapper-iTMMjI eXTYsS rponsive-rtoon AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset viewport-monor-anchor"><a class="external-lk rponsive-rtoon__image-lk" data-event-click="{"element":"ExternalLk","outgogURL":"" href=" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO dUOtEa RponsiveCartoonImage-hzNqyc ikeCcH rponsive-rtoon__image rponsive-image"><noscript><img alt="The Amerin Boy" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src=" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w, 1280w, 1600w" siz="100vw"/></noscript></picture></a><div 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fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Shop</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178638)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M4 3H2V4H4.23828L6.99617 15.2631C7.11483 15.6982 7.50998 16 7.96094 16H18.0365C18.4875 16 18.8826 15.6982 19.0013 15.2631L20.9648 7.26312C21.1383 6.62698 20.6594 6 20 6H10V7H20L18.0365 15H7.96094L5.03652 3H4.58055H4ZM10.0365 19C10.0365 19.5523 9.58881 20 9.03652 20C8.48424 20 8.03652 19.5523 8.03652 19C8.03652 18.4477 8.48424 18 9.03652 18C9.58881 18 10.0365 18.4477 10.0365 19ZM11.0365 19C11.0365 20.1046 10.1411 21 9.03652 21C7.93195 21 7.03652 20.1046 7.03652 19C7.03652 17.8954 7.93195 17 9.03652 17C10.1411 17 11.0365 17.8954 11.0365 19ZM18.0365 19C18.0365 19.5523 17.5888 20 17.0365 20C16.4842 20 16.0365 19.5523 16.0365 19C16.0365 18.4477 16.4842 18 17.0365 18C17.5888 18 18.0365 18.4477 18.0365 19ZM19.0365 19C19.0365 20.1046 18.1411 21 17.0365 21C15.932 21 15.0365 20.1046 15.0365 19C15.0365 17.8954 15.932 17 17.0365 17C18.1411 17 19.0365 17.8954 19.0365 19Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button></div></div></div></span></div></figure><p class="paywall">In April, 1983, I wrote my last letter to her. In , I lied and ncealed and sprkled the pag wh allns to Plato. I enclosed, as I sometim liked to do, a rtoon om this magaze havg to do wh the ancient world. In , a rpulent kg is gettg the lowdown om his vizier on a visg legatn: “The Athenians are here, Sire, wh an offer to back wh ships, money, arms, and men—and, of urse, their ual lectur about mocracy.” In early May, she replied. She began by thankg me for the <em>New Yorker</em> rtoon. (“I don’t know if would have amed Thydis; he didn’t ame easily, he had seen all; but I bet would have given a good lgh to Philip of Macedon, when that arch mocrat Demosthen ma a pact wh the Great Kg of Persia.”) Then she went on to tease me. “I’m glad you’re enjoyg Plato. Of urse he meant his ias to be lived. . . . But he certaly felt happy at havg them discsed at drkg parti. Look at the Symposium!” I was too mortified to reply. I thought she mt be appalled by me.</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="70zfa"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><p class="paywall">That summer, I cid that I wasn’t cut out for “the real world,” and began to make plans to apply to graduate school classics. Early September of 1983, I walked out of the Steway Buildg jt as a handsome man, blond and square-jawed, pedalled past on a bike; he grned and rang his ltle bell at me. We dated for a while, but, as before, I wasn’t que sure what to <em>do</em>, now that I had a “relatnship.” Later that month, I wrote my journal, worryg that, whereas the characters books seemed to have so much forward momentum, I didn’t. I still wasn’t sure how you got to be the thor of your own life. The journal ends there. The only addnal em is a clippg om the <em>Tim</em>, dated Wednday, December 14, 1983.</p><p class="paywall">I had been thkg about sendg Renlt a Christmas rd but hadn’t got around to dog . Then, that Wednday morng, I walked to the Steway Buildg, went through the lobby past the display of grand pianos, got to the elevator, snned the ont page of the <em>Tim</em>, and sudnly said, loudly, “Oh, <em>no!</em>” I slumped agast the back of the elevator and started cryg. The only other person the elevator was old Mr. Koretz, the Holot survivor who rented the office next to ours.</p><p class="paywall">“What happened?” he asked, stoopg a ltle and brgg his large face close to me, his ey gigantilly magnified by his glass. He was tall, often wore a raat, and his slightly phlegmy Middle European nsonants were fortg. “Did someone die?”</p><p class="paywall">I shoved the <em>Tim</em> his directn and poted. Down below the fold, next to the ntents, unr the headg “Insi,” was the em that had ught my eye: “Mary Renlt Di. The historil novelist Mary Renlt, who based many of her bt-sellg books on the legends of ancient Greece, died Cape Town. Page B5.”</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-8 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">Mr. Koretz gave me a nonmtal look. “It was someone you knew?”</p><p class="paywall">“Y.” I nodd; then I shook my head. “No.” He gave me a look. “It’s hard to expla,” I said.</p><p class="paywall">After work, I hurried home to wre a ndolence letter to a person whose existence I uldn’t know of until I turned to page B5 and saw there, at last, the discreet proof of a spicn I had long entertaed but never dared ask about (“the wrer’s pann of the last 50 years, Julie Mullard”). “Dear Miss Mullard,” I began; and then, not for the first time, poured out my heart to a stranger South Ai.</p><p class="paywall">A month later, a rd arrived. On the ont, the words “<em class="small">IN MEMORIAM MARY RENAULT</em> 1905–1983” were prted black. To my surprise, the handwrten note si suggted that this pann knew who I was. (“She was never aware of any generatn gap. People were people to her.”) Had Mary Renlt discsed me wh her pann? What else had they talked about? At that moment, I wasn’t so much aaid that my nfinc had been shared as I was startled to realize that Renlt had existed for other people: that she wasn’t only “Mary Renlt,” who wrote novels and sometim wrote to me, but was also “Mary,” which was how Mullard kept referrg to her, a woman who might have sually discsed this and that wh her pann—for stance, the letters she had been receivg over the past om a young Amerin—the way my parents discsed this and that: work, <em>New Yorker</em> rtoons, thgs that had e the mail.</p><p class="paywall">I put Mullard’s rd a large manila envelope that, years earlier, my mother had provid for this rrponnce, labellg , as she liked to do when she anized my thgs, wh my ials, blue Magic Marker. (“Mary Renlt: DA.”) I’m pretty sure that, as I did so, I told myself that this was the last letter I’d ever be receivg om Camps Bay, Cape Town, South Ai.</p><p class="paywall">For the next twenty-five years, this was te. Then, one morng December, 2008, the letters started g aga.</p><h2 class="paywall">“THE AMERICAN BOY”</h2><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">It was bee of a review of a book of me, a llectn that ntaed an say I’d wrten about Oliver Stone’s film “Alexanr.” I had end the piece by mentng how Renlt’s Alexanr novels had spired me to bee a classicist and, eventually, a wrer. The reviewer mentned the Renlt nnectn. Three weeks later, a handwrten letter wh lorful South Ain stamps was forward to me. “Dear Daniel Menlsohn,” began, and went on:</p><blockquote class="BlockquoteEmbedWrapper-sc-SdiGL jPeLne paywall blockquote-embed"><div class="BlockquoteEmbedContent-RbGs gmbtPx blockquote-embed__ntent"><p>GW Bowersock’s NYRB review of your How Betiful . . . reveals that the Daniel Menlsohn of whom I am an avid rear is no other than “the Amerin boy” of whom Mary Renlt ed to speak wh enjoyment many years ago!</p></div></blockquote><p class="paywall">My rrponnt intified herself as Nancy Gordon. The handwrg was firm and clear, although she was que elrly. (“I am 87. Old. Old. Old.”) She told me that her late hband, Gerald, a lawyer and wrer, had been a member of <em class="small">PEN</em> South Ai when Mary was print, and that the two upl—Nancy and Gerald and Mary and Julie—had spent a good al of time together. Nancy was the sole survivor of the ltle group. “Mary, Julie and Gerald are all gone, but I feel somehow lled,” she wrote, “as humble msenger om Mary, to salute you. She would have been so chuffed!” At the end of the letter were her signature and e-mail addrs.</p><p class="paywall">Then, a P.S., she asked, “Do you still feel for Mary?”</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-9 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">It was a plited qutn. Of urse I felt for “Mary.” In every sense, she has acpanied me through my life. The ziggurat of books has been disassembled and renstuted var apartments and graduate-stunt lodggs over the years, but is still there. The Eagle Books “Fire om Heaven” and the Bantam “Persian Boy” are now so agile, the pag so brown and brtle wh age, the vers so mummified Stch tape that long ago lost s adhive, that you n’t really read them. They’re stg on a shelf my bedroom, as wizened and unregnizable as relics.</p><p class="paywall">And yet, as the years passed, I wonred whether I would have been regnizable to her. When Sweetman’s bgraphy of Renlt me out, I read right away; one passage he wr about Renlt’s distaste for “the worst aspects of the [gay] sub-culture . . . the nstant search for sexual gratifitn whout affectn, the impermanence of most relatnships.” Well. I’d never found a Lrie; although I’d been wh some good men, the one-night stands vastly outnumbered the affectnate enunters and long-term relatnships. In graduate school, I had been a lear of the Gay Alliance and been volved a good al of mp activism. I bated, as I did so, whether this nstuted “makg a reer of one’s limatns,” and cid that didn’t.</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--rail"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--rail" data-no-id="bkb2np"></div></div><div class="ConsumerMarketgUnThemedWrapper-iUTMTf jssHut nsumer-marketg-un nsumer-marketg-un--display-rail" role="prentatn" aria-hidn="te"><div class="nsumer-marketg-un__slot nsumer-marketg-un__slot--display-rail"></div><div class="journey-un"></div></div></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="ut9sh"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><p class="paywall">So y: I still felt for Mary. But what had she felt for <em>me</em>? I knew, of urse, that she had read my letters refully—and not only bee of her thoughtful repli to them. In 1978, when I was my first year at Virgia, her penultimate novel, “The Praise Sger,” about the great lyric poet Simonis, was published. On page 44 there’s a scene which Simonis, who was famoly ugly, rells how, as a youth, he had rolved to kill himself: havg climbed to the parapet of a temple, he looks up at the bright sky and realiz he’s beg foolish. In real life, he went on to have a happy and fulfilled reer. She had ed paid attentn.</p><p class="paywall">But had there been anythg else? Until I got Nancy’s letter, I thought I would never know. This is why I said “y” when, after a year of wrg to Nancy—a rrponnce that has grown far larger, by now, than the one I shared wh Renlt—she ved me to e to Cape Town, to see Delos, the bungalow down by Camps Bay, the beach where Renlt and Mullard had lived, where Renlt had received my letters and wrten hers to me, and to meet some of Renlt’s iends, who had also wonred what had bee of “the Amerin boy.”</p><p class="has-dropp has-dropp__lead-standard-headg paywall">We spent four days Cape Town. “We,” bee I took my father: I owed him this. We stayed a hotel overlookg Camps Bay. It was odd, as we drove there om the airport, to see the words Camps Bay on road signs. I’d been wrg the name for years, and had never thought of as a real place.</p><p class="paywall">The climax of our vis was a dner party at which Nancy Gordon gathered a few of Mary Renlt’s old iends. Nancy is small and vivid; she greeted me and my father wearg a floor-length, brightly patterned tton drs, wh horn and woon bangl gog up both arms. In the distance, we uld see Table Mounta’s strange flat top, the mist pourg over like dry ice off of a stage. Before the others arrived, she poted to a chair the rner of her livg room: “Mary ed to like to s that chair. She’d sometim e over to our place for a drk lookg out at the beach and I remember she would sudnly get up and say, ‘I mt go wre to my Amerin boy.’ ”</p><p class="paywall"><em>My Amerin boy.</em> When we had checked to our hotel, we found an envelope om Nancy ntag a few handwrten sheets labelled “Rememberg Her.” One of the memori she’d jotted down was of the fay who lived the bungalow next to Renlt’s, “wh lots of kids, all very blond.” The boys, Nancy wrote, had all been excellent surfers, and Mary had loved watchg them. Now, as we stood there Nancy’s livg room next to the chair, lookg out the large plate-glass wdows at the surf where the neighbor boys had played, I thought: Mary Renlt had turned away om the blond boys to wre to me.</p><figure class="AssetEmbedWrapper-eVDQiB byBkf asset-embed"><div class="AssetEmbedAssetContaer-eJxoAx dBHGoQ asset-embed__asset-ntaer"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kKwZhx rponsive-asset AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset"><div data-attr-viewport-monor="" class="RponsiveCartoonWrapper-iTMMjI eXTYsS rponsive-rtoon AssetEmbedRponsiveAsset-cXBNxi eCxVQK asset-embed__rponsive-asset viewport-monor-anchor"><a class="external-lk rponsive-rtoon__image-lk" data-event-click="{"element":"ExternalLk","outgogURL":"" href=" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO dUOtEa RponsiveCartoonImage-hzNqyc ikeCcH rponsive-rtoon__image rponsive-image"><noscript><img alt="“Anythg wrong sweetie pie Youve been ignorg the tip jar lately.”" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src=" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w, 960w, 1280w, 1600w" siz="100vw"/></noscript></picture></a><div class="CaptnWrapper-jSZdqE gdZTpI ptn RponsiveCartoonCaptn-dokfdF hJgaLQ rponsive-rtoon__ptn"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ CaptnText-bHjzlu iUEiRd hWyo bsWloa ptn__text">“Anythg wrong, sweetie pie? You’ve been ignorg the tip jar lately.”</span></div><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTA-eiqqMB iDCQRs"><div class="RponsiveCartoonCTAWrapper-CYIqa iTbFtf"><div class="RponsiveCartoonLkButtonWrapper-hqDAJK eSEhbj"><button aria-label="Copy lk to rtoon" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Copy lk to rtoon</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-pylk" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Copy lk to rtoon</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178637)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M16.3488 10.5017C16.2107 10.7357 16.2926 11.035 16.5318 11.17C16.7709 11.3052 17.0767 11.225 17.2148 10.991L18.4648 8.87225C19.5694 7.00002 18.9139 4.60601 17.0007 3.52508C15.0875 2.44415 12.6412 3.08562 11.5366 4.95785L9.53657 8.34782C8.432 10.22 9.08751 12.6141 11.0007 13.6949C11.1888 13.8012 11.382 13.8908 11.5785 13.9642C11.7819 14.0403 12.0058 13.9485 12.1147 13.764C12.2794 13.4849 12.1103 13.1276 11.8083 12.9992C11.7041 12.9549 11.6014 12.9044 11.5007 12.8475C10.0658 12.0368 9.57417 10.2413 10.4026 8.83712L12.4026 5.44715C13.2311 4.04298 15.0658 3.56187 16.5007 4.37257C17.9356 5.18327 18.4272 6.97878 17.5988 8.38295L16.3488 10.5017ZM7.6526 13.4983C7.79067 13.2643 7.70873 12.965 7.46959 12.8299C7.23044 12.6948 6.92464 12.775 6.78657 13.009L5.53657 15.1278C4.432 17 5.0875 19.394 7.00068 20.475C8.91385 21.5558 11.3602 20.9144 12.4648 19.0422L14.4648 15.6521C15.5694 13.78 14.9139 11.3859 13.0007 10.305C12.8127 10.1988 12.6195 10.1091 12.4229 10.0357C12.2195 9.95975 11.9956 10.0515 11.8867 10.236C11.7221 10.5151 11.8911 10.8724 12.1932 11.0008C12.2973 11.0451 12.4 11.0956 12.5007 11.1525C13.9356 11.9632 14.4272 13.7587 13.5988 15.1628L11.5988 18.5529C10.7704 19.957 8.93555 20.4382 7.50068 19.6274C6.0658 18.8167 5.57417 17.0212 6.4026 15.6171L7.6526 13.4983Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178637"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178637"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button><div class="AlertWrapper-gvFATk MdjE RponsiveCartoonLkAlertPopup-BPAXn kdMXRM shoppg-alert" role="dialog"><div aria-hidn="te" role="prentatn" class="AlertArrow-daOgye AlLda alert-arrow"></div><div class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ AlertMsage-jgAjgo bVCFRm ifgabc cxFROy alert-msage"><p aria-hidn="te">Lk pied</p></div></div></div><button aria-label="Shop" class="BaseButton-bLlsy ButtonWrapper-xCepQ bqVKKv YsOBB button button--primary-pair RponsiveCartoonInButton-hBCBMq lpsjql" data-event-click="{"element":"Button"}" data-ttid="Button" type="button"><span class="ButtonLabel-cjAuJN bBWXSg button__label">Shop</span><div class="ButtonInWrapper-gFdzAL bPDyTT button__in-ntaer"><svg class="in in-rt" width="24" height="24" viewBox="0 0 24 24" fill="none" xmlns="><tle>Shop</tle><g clip-path="url(#clip0_3732_178638)"><path fill-le="evenodd" clip-le="evenodd" d="M4 3H2V4H4.23828L6.99617 15.2631C7.11483 15.6982 7.50998 16 7.96094 16H18.0365C18.4875 16 18.8826 15.6982 19.0013 15.2631L20.9648 7.26312C21.1383 6.62698 20.6594 6 20 6H10V7H20L18.0365 15H7.96094L5.03652 3H4.58055H4ZM10.0365 19C10.0365 19.5523 9.58881 20 9.03652 20C8.48424 20 8.03652 19.5523 8.03652 19C8.03652 18.4477 8.48424 18 9.03652 18C9.58881 18 10.0365 18.4477 10.0365 19ZM11.0365 19C11.0365 20.1046 10.1411 21 9.03652 21C7.93195 21 7.03652 20.1046 7.03652 19C7.03652 17.8954 7.93195 17 9.03652 17C10.1411 17 11.0365 17.8954 11.0365 19ZM18.0365 19C18.0365 19.5523 17.5888 20 17.0365 20C16.4842 20 16.0365 19.5523 16.0365 19C16.0365 18.4477 16.4842 18 17.0365 18C17.5888 18 18.0365 18.4477 18.0365 19ZM19.0365 19C19.0365 20.1046 18.1411 21 17.0365 21C15.932 21 15.0365 20.1046 15.0365 19C15.0365 17.8954 15.932 17 17.0365 17C18.1411 17 19.0365 17.8954 19.0365 19Z" fill="black"></path></g><fs><clipPath id="clip0_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath><clipPath id="clip1_3732_178638"><rect width="24" height="24" fill="whe"></rect></clipPath></fs></svg></div></button></div></div></div></span></div></figure><p class="paywall">The other iends arrived. To each man or uple, Nancy would exclaim that I was “the Amerin boy” to whom Mary ed to wre, all those years ago. Over dner, they all trad what were, clearly, favore anecdot. There were stori about Mary and her love of sports rs, stori about how Mary had found out that her garner was growg marijuana and spent the night flhg down the toilet, the story of how Mary and Julie sisted that the fig leaf on a bronze statue of Mercury they’d bought be replaced by an anatomilly rrect male member. “As nurs,” Renlt had told the workman, “we <em>certaly</em> know what penis look like.” At one pot, I mentned that she had ma me read Malory’s “Le Morte D’Arthur,” and everyone lghed. “She ma <em>everyone</em> read Malory,” someone cried out. “All of had to!”</p><p class="paywall">I sat and listened, wag to hear somethg that would give me a clue to what she’d have felt about me and my wrg. What would she have ma of my first book, wh s matter-of-fact scriptns of the way that I and so many of the gay men I know have lived—the endls talk of wantg boyiends, of fdg a “real” relatnship, and the late nights spent hookg up onle? At some pot, I asked Owen Murray—a former ballet dancer to whom Renlt, he told me wh a sly gr, had once said, “I wish I’d been born wh your body and face”—whether she knew about what really went on between men. I had vised the hoe he shar wh his partner, which is filled wh small mementos of Renlt: Veian glass paperweights that had sat on her sk and wdowsill, the statue wh s add-on penis. Taped to the reigerator were photographs of Murray, shirtls, still mcular, sg broadly, at gay paras, on gay cis, at gay clubs; I figured that he would know what I meant when I said “what really went on between men.” But was hard for me to fathom his rponse. “Mary wanted her men iends to live up to the Greek ial,” he said. I was a classicist, and I knew that the ial of “Greek love” was self a fantasy of Victorian “verts” who, as Renlt had done, projected their <em>pothos</em> for an acceptg society onto the distant past. The “Greek ial”: what uld this mean real life? When I prsed Murray on this pot, he said, “She liked her iends to be upled.” I shut up and listened to the stori.</p><div data-attr-viewport-monor="le-recirc" class="le-recirc-wrapper le-recirc-observer-target-10 viewport-monor-anchor"></div><p class="paywall">Toward the end of the eveng, the nversatn turned to the many rrponnts Renlt had had. “People ed to wre her <em>all</em> the time,” Owen said. “Married men who were secretly gay, closeted men—there were <em>thoands</em> of letters when she died.” Someone else mentned a proment Amerin polician who had e out to Renlt a letter, as I had done all those years ago; the others nodd knowgly, enjoyg the exprsn on my face when I heard the famo name. I asked where all the letters were and what had bee of them. Owen said that they had been stroyed after Mary’s ath, part to protect the men who had wrten them. I thought of my onnsk pag, blackeng and curlg the flam.</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan full-bleed-ad row-mid-ntent-ad"><div class="StickyMidContentAdWrapper-fSBzwl drzyIa ad-stickymidntent"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--mid-ntent should-hold-space"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--mid-ntent" data-no-id="y5ayei"></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ArticlePageChunksGrid-hfxa bjczjj grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="BodyWrapper-kufPGa bDyAMU body body__ntaer article__body" data-journey-hook="client-ntent" data-ttid="BodyWrapper"><div class="body__ner-ntaer"><p class="paywall">Durg the next uple of days, I vised some of the men who had been at Nancy’s dner. Each showed me some prec relic, and each offered me a keepsake. Owen gave me an addrs book, wh alphabetil tabs, which Renlt had scrawled not on var works progrs. (Unr “I” there’s a page on which she wrote the word “Ias,” and then a few l wh a sketch for a scene that end up “The Mask of Apollo.”) There were some pi of mancripts (“Not on Oedip,” “Not on the Kg Mt Die”), given me by Roy Sargeant, a theatre director who was makg plans to stage a play he’d missned, which the shas of Renlt and Alexanr meet the Unrworld. Nancy gave me the daty porcela cup Renlt drank om as she worked.</p><p class="paywall">I took them all. Then my father and I flew home. At some pot, I turned to him and shared a thought I often have as I s awake on a long-hl flight: I thk, I told him, about the bags of mail the rgo hold below, what fervor they nta, what liv they might alter.</p><p class="paywall">Eventually, my father fell asleep. I remaed awake, replayg my md the events and nversatns of the prev few days. In particular, I was thkg of somethg that Owen had said at Nancy’s hoe. Although I had been enjoyg the anecdot and remiscenc, I was feelg unsatisfied; there was no way of knowg, fally, what Mary Renlt would have thought of the man that the Amerin boy had bee. Then, toward the end of the eveng—durg the nversatn about all the people who wrote letters to Mary Renlt—Owen, who’d been watchg me react to the surfe of new personal tails about her, spoke up. He talked slowly and loudly, as if addrsg the others, but I knew that he was talkg to me. “Mary ed to say to people who wrote wantg to know her that they should jt read her <em>books</em>.” He psed and then gave me the tit se. “But she unrstood why they wrote her personal letters.”</p><p class="paywall">At that moment, stg at a table eight thoand om home, I saw that I’d e to South Ai chasg a chimera. I had already found the Mary Renlt I need, years earlier. I thought aga of the yellowg books on my shelf; I thought, too, of the relatnships that had never que worked out, edged asi by a phantom out of a novel. She had shown me a picture of what I was, when I need to see , and had given me a myth that jtified my fears and limatns. The wrers we absorb when we’re young bd to them, sometim lightly, sometim wh iron. In time, the bonds fall away, but if you look very closely you n sometim make out the pale whe groove of a fad sr, or the telltale chalky red of old st.</p><p class="paywall">That was last year. As I wre this, I’m stg my office. Hangg on the wall oppose my sk is a signed photograph of Mary Renlt. When Nancy Gordon first wrote to me, she mentned that she had , and that she had been wonrg to whom she might give . (“I n’t give to jt anyone.”) So she sent to me, and I amed . It’s clearly om the same stg as the one that appeared on Renlt’s dt jackets, the one which she’s crklg her ey agast the sun. On the bottom she had scrawled, “Wh love om Mary”; but there’s nothg at the top, no ditn. I suppose was for Nancy and Gerald. Then aga, when you’re a wrer, you never know who will end up readg you, or how. I never pretend, when visors ask me about , that was meant for me. But she is up there, watchg me as I wre. ♦</p></div></div></div><div class="GridItem-buujkM fVLMby grid--em grid-layout__asi"><div class="StickyBoxWrapper-jfYB jxBcTH sticky-box"><div class="StickyBoxPrimary-dzWDWL cdhYoN sticky-box__primary"><div class="AdWrapper-dQtivb fZrssQ ad ad--rail"><div class="ad__slot ad__slot--rail" data-no-id="haqnwk"></div></div><div class="ConsumerMarketgUnThemedWrapper-iUTMTf jssHut nsumer-marketg-un nsumer-marketg-un--display-rail" role="prentatn" aria-hidn="te"><div class="nsumer-marketg-un__slot nsumer-marketg-un__slot--display-rail"></div><div class="journey-un"></div></div></div><div class="StickyBoxPlaceholr-grPmrg dxAvXx"></div></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 PaywallInleBarrierWhWrapperGrid-fyrGfS kLQIUk grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="body body__le-barrier article__body"><div class="ntaer ntaer--body"><div class="ntaer--body-ner"><asi class="PaywallInleBarrierWrapper-iBnuqk lfXXa-D" data-ttid="PaywallInleBarrierWrapper"><div class="ConsumerMarketgUnThemedWrapper-iUTMTf jssHut nsumer-marketg-un nsumer-marketg-un--paywall-le-barrier" role="prentatn" aria-live="pole" aria-hidn="te"><div class="nsumer-marketg-un__slot nsumer-marketg-un__slot--paywall-le-barrier"></div><div class="journey-un"></div></div></asi></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 ContentWrapperGrid-fvkmBv brYtrA grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="body body__ntaer"><div class="ntaer ntaer--body"><div class="ntaer--body-ner"></div></div></div></div></div></div></article><div class="ContentFooterWrapper-jVNdRG dTJkpP ArticlePageContentFooterGrid-ccsXYy eMZRHU article-body__footer"><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><footer class="ContentFooterMagazeDisclaimer-gzKAqo iZIuUU" data-ttid="MagazeDisclaimerWrapper">Published the prt edn of the <a href="/magaze/2013/01/07" data-reactroot="">January 7, 2013</a>, issue.</footer></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan"><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan"><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div class="ContributorsWrapper-eNpWFu GWFsc ntributors" data-ttid="Contributors"><div class="ContributorBWrapper-bnVHbt gMon"><div class="ContributorBContent-ubQdr jZTSSi"><div class="ContributorBHear-ledood XOIEx"></div><div class="ContributorBB-fBolsO giFhKz"><a href="/ntributors/daniel-menlsohn">Daniel Menlsohn</a>, the edor-at-large of the New York Review of Books, teach at Bard. His most recent book is “<a href=">Three Rgs</a>.”</div><div class="ContributorBFooter-brqDlv ezUmSv"></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div data-ttid="RowWrapper" class="RowWrapper-UmqTg HEhan"><div class="GridWrapper-cAzTTK kHBDeH grid grid-margs grid-ems-2 grid-layout--adrail narrow wi-adrail"><div class="GridItem-buujkM stRKV grid--em grid-layout__ntent"><div data-ttid="TagCloudWrapper" class="TagCloudWrapper-gGgndx ctyZyK ContentFooterTagCloud-krQmRG ZLGh"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ TagCloudSectnHear-cOforY iUEiRd bPyAoD kQQRmu">More:</span><a href="/tag/alexanr-the-great" class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BaseLk-eNWuiM TagCloudLk-kvjZFu iUEiRd ggMZaT gFob hIhJOI"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ TagCloudName-eAUnLd iUEiRd gwIVBQ bUkXwu">Alexanr the Great</span></a><a href="/tag/ancient-greece" class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BaseLk-eNWuiM TagCloudLk-kvjZFu iUEiRd ggMZaT gFob hIhJOI"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd 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bUkXwu">Gays (Homosexuals)</span></a><a href="/tag/historil-novels" class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BaseLk-eNWuiM TagCloudLk-kvjZFu iUEiRd ggMZaT gFob hIhJOI"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ TagCloudName-eAUnLd iUEiRd gwIVBQ bUkXwu">Historil Novels</span></a><a href="/tag/homosexualy" class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BaseLk-eNWuiM TagCloudLk-kvjZFu iUEiRd ggMZaT gFob hIhJOI"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ TagCloudName-eAUnLd iUEiRd gwIVBQ bUkXwu">Homosexualy</span></a><a href="/tag/letters" class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BaseLk-eNWuiM TagCloudLk-kvjZFu iUEiRd ggMZaT gFob hIhJOI"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ TagCloudName-eAUnLd iUEiRd gwIVBQ bUkXwu">Letters</span></a><a href="/tag/new-york-tim" class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BaseLk-eNWuiM TagCloudLk-kvjZFu iUEiRd ggMZaT gFob hIhJOI"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ TagCloudName-eAUnLd iUEiRd gwIVBQ bUkXwu">New York 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SummaryItemRponsiveAsset-hjGIGg egpoQR summary-em__image rponsive-image"><noscript><source media="(max-width: 767px)" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w" siz="100vw"/><source media="(m-width: 768px)" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w" siz="100vw"/><img alt="Iphigenia Fort Hills" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src="></noscript></picture></div></div></span></a></div><div class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ SummaryItemDek-CRfsi iUEiRd jxOIpm cPtisA summary-em__k">Anatomy of a murr trial.</div><div class="SummaryItemByleWrapper-boCfbi hYsZi summary-em__byle-date-in"><div class="SummaryItemBaseByle-fFbXkY cgDBtc summary-em__byle"><div class="summary-em__byle__ntent"><div data-ttid="BylWrapper" class="BylWrapper-KIudk irTIfE byl"><p class="ByleWrapper-jWHrLH dSEWiO byle byl__byle" data-ttid="ByleWrapper" emProp="thor" emType="><span emProp="name" class="ByleNamWrapper-jbHncj fuDQVo"><span data-ttid="ByleName" class="ByleName-kwmrLn cYaBaU byle__name"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BylePreamble-iJolpQ iUEiRd jslZfG gnILss byle__preamble">By </span>Ja Mallm</span></span></p></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="SummaryItemWrapper-iwvBff hlYhBH summary-em summary-em--ARTICLE summary-em--no-in summary-em--text-align-left summary-em--layout-placement-text-below-sktop-only summary-em--layout-posn-image-right summary-em--layout-proportns-33-66 summary-em--si-by-si-align-center summary-em--si-by-si-image-right-mobile-false summary-em--standard SummaryCollectnGridSummaryItem-WColm fvDIAb" role="button" tabx="0"><div class="SummaryItemAssetContaer-gwhFFH VOyg summary-em__asset-ntaer"><a class="SummaryItemImageLk-dshqxb USLvL summary-em__image-lk summary-em-trackg__image-lk" href=" aria-hidn="te" tabx="-1" data-ponent-type="recirc-river" data-recirc-id="em-image-2" data-recirc-pattern="summary-em" target="_self"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kGxnNB rponsive-asset SummaryItemRponsiveAsset-hjGIGg egpoQR 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target="_self"><div class="SummaryItemHedBase-hiFYpQ iIjKeM summary-em__hed" data-ttid="SummaryItemHed">The Transn</div></a><div class="SummaryItemAssetContaer-gwhFFH VOyg summary-em__asset-ntaer"><a class="SummaryItemImageLk-dshqxb USLvL summary-em__image-lk summary-em-trackg__image-lk" href=" aria-hidn="te" tabx="-1" data-ponent-type="recirc-river" data-recirc-id="em-image-2" data-recirc-pattern="summary-em" target="_self"><span class="SpanWrapper-umhxW kGxnNB rponsive-asset SummaryItemRponsiveAsset-hjGIGg egpoQR summary-em__image"><div data-tt="aspect-rat-ntaer" class="AspectRatContaer-bJHpJz jMoLpX"><div class="aspect-rat--overlay-ntaer"><picture class="RponsiveImagePicture-cWuUZO dUOtEa SummaryItemRponsiveAsset-hjGIGg egpoQR summary-em__image rponsive-image"><noscript><source media="(max-width: 767px)" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w, 640w" siz="100vw"/><source media="(m-width: 768px)" srcSet=" 120w, 240w, 320w" siz="100vw"/><img alt="The Transn" class="RponsiveImageContaer-eybHBd fptoWY rponsive-image__image" src="></noscript></picture></div></div></span></a></div><div class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ SummaryItemDek-CRfsi iUEiRd jxOIpm cPtisA summary-em__k">Lyndon Johnson and the events Dallas.</div><div class="SummaryItemByleWrapper-boCfbi hYsZi summary-em__byle-date-in"><div class="SummaryItemBaseByle-fFbXkY cgDBtc summary-em__byle"><div class="summary-em__byle__ntent"><div data-ttid="BylWrapper" class="BylWrapper-KIudk irTIfE byl"><p class="ByleWrapper-jWHrLH dSEWiO byle byl__byle" data-ttid="ByleWrapper" emProp="thor" emType="><span emProp="name" class="ByleNamWrapper-jbHncj fuDQVo"><span data-ttid="ByleName" class="ByleName-kwmrLn cYaBaU byle__name"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BylePreamble-iJolpQ iUEiRd jslZfG gnILss byle__preamble">By </span>Robert A. 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All the years later, why has the se bee a e?</div><div class="SummaryItemByleWrapper-boCfbi hYsZi summary-em__byle-date-in"><div class="SummaryItemBaseByle-fFbXkY cgDBtc summary-em__byle"><div class="summary-em__byle__ntent"><div data-ttid="BylWrapper" class="BylWrapper-KIudk irTIfE byl"><p class="ByleWrapper-jWHrLH dSEWiO byle byl__byle" data-ttid="ByleWrapper" emProp="thor" emType="><span emProp="name" class="ByleNamWrapper-jbHncj fuDQVo"><span data-ttid="ByleName" class="ByleName-kwmrLn cYaBaU byle__name"><span class="BaseWrap-sc-gjQpdd BaseText-ewhhUZ BylePreamble-iJolpQ iUEiRd jslZfG gnILss byle__preamble">By </span>Nathan Heller</span></span></p></div></div></div></div></div></div><div class="SummaryItemWrapper-iwvBff hlYhBH summary-em summary-em--ARTICLE summary-em--no-in summary-em--text-align-left summary-em--layout-placement-text-below-sktop-only summary-em--layout-posn-image-right summary-em--layout-proportns-33-66 summary-em--si-by-si-align-center 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