It's always fascinating to read a re-discovered piece of queer writing. Though Mark Hyatt actively brought out poetry in the English bohemian scene of the 1960s, his novel “Love, Leda” has only been published posthumously this year. It's a fascinating snapshot of gay London life from that period in the time leading up to the Sexual Offences Act of 1967. The book's eponymous hero Leda has no fixed abode and bounces between male and female lovers while earning a bit of cash from low paid jobs in metal work and kitchens. He's estranged from his family and for good reason – when he feels obliged to visit with his parents and siblings there's a horrifically violent encounter with his disapproving father. The narrative veers from moments of raw emotional confession “Sometimes I find that I am humiliated by myself, and my thoughts get out of hand, becoming absolutely evil, and immediately I am nothing” to frivolous fantasies “during the long time of waiting for the train I appoint myself as Jesse James in full drag waiting for this very train and about to steal all the cash belonging to the G.P.O.” Moreover, it's fascinating following him as he navigates the back streets of Soho putting flowers in his hair and dabbing perfume behind his ears while dipping into the lives of outcast artists, dissidents and bored housewives. All the while he consumes countless cups of coffee and frequently lapses into poetic reverie.
There's something refreshing about reading a novel that's so organic and unpolished. That's not to say the book isn't sophisticated because it contains some absolutely beautiful lines, vivid descriptions and thoughtful commentary. But I can imagine the narrative would receive a complete overhaul in a contemporary creative writing class because it's quite chaotic. Some of the passages and lines of dialogue feel disorientating with their convoluted logic. Perhaps if Hyatt had the chance to work with an editor these would have more clarity. But, on the whole, I think it's better that the text has been preserved in its raw emotional form. The fascinating forward and afterward explain how Hyatt came from a working class background and received very little formal education. Learning how drawn the author was to suicide, it's hard not to read the story as autobiographical. There are frank passages describing his sense of alienation. He laments at one point that “I am far too feminine to be living in a man's world.” In another section he reflects how “My own experience tells me that more love goes into the thought of homosexuality than the practice.” Though he may have heated and powerful hookups, none lead to a loving connection.
This leaves him adrift and while he certainly possesses a melancholy streak, he also emits catty asides and biting humour along his journey. He even emanates a pissy arrogance when walking down the street and when someone bumps into him he indignantly muses “Why don't people look where I'm going? Walking into me like that.” There's a wonderful extended tragi-comic scene towards the end of the book when he's charged with looking after two little boys on a seaside trip. It's hilarious how indifferently he tends to them while they consume enormous amounts of sugar and cause havoc. But there's also a sadness to this as he's feeling so estranged from life: “I think I live without knowing myself and I laugh at the world to kill my pain. I cry because I can't understand it and I am constantly in dreams that somehow I hope time will not cure.” It's extremely touching reading such insights from a man so frankly discussing his queer experience from decades in the past and it's wonderful being immersed in this bygone urban landscape of Lyons' tea shops.
