Corydon - Gide E-Book

André Gide

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Serie: Andre Gide Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 161

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"Corydon" is the title of a set of essays by André Gide on homosexuality. The text was published separately between 1911 and 1920, and the complete book only had its first French edition in 1924. The essays make use of the testimony of naturalists, historians, poets, and philosophers to support Gide's argument that homosexuality existed in culturally and artistically advanced civilizations (such as Periclean Greece, the Italian Renaissance, and Elizabethan England), which was reflected in writers and artists from Homer and Virgil to Titian and Shakespeare in their representations of male-male relationships in a non-platonic or friendship form, as others proclaimed. Corydon, like its author, faced strong reactions from the conservative society of the time, but what the author did was simply to openly discuss the topic of homosexuality in sociological and historical terms. Corydon is a profound book that deserves to be read, regardless of the reader's view on the subject of homosexuality.

Leseprobe

André Gide

CORYDON

Contents

INTRODUCTION

Preface to the First Edition in English

FIRST DIALOGUE

I

II

III

SECOND DIALOGUE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

THIRD DIALOGUE

I

II

III

IV

V

FOURTH DIALOGUE

I

INTRODUCTION

André Gide

1869-1951

André Paul Guillaume Gide, known as André Gide, was a renowned French writer. Nobel Prize winner in Literature in 1947 and founder of the prestigious publishing house Gallimard, André Gide was one of the most prominent figures in French cultural life. His work has many autobiographical aspects and exposes moral, religious, and sexual conflicts.

André Gide, born and died in Paris, orphaned of his father at the age of eleven, was educated by an authoritarian and puritanical mother who, after subjecting him to the rules and prohibitions of a strict morality, forced him to reject the impulses of his personality. His childhood and youth would decisively influence his work, almost all of it autobiographical, and would later lead him to reject all limitations and constraints. Gide wrote memorable works such as "If It Die", "Corydon", "The Immoralist", "Strait Is the Gate", "The Counterfeiters", among countless others.

The work "Corydon" is a collection of essays on homosexuality. The texts were initially published separately from 1911 to 1920.

In the early 1910s, Gide decided to write an essay in defense of homosexuality, something he had planned for a long time. The reason seems to have been the Renard trial: a man is accused of murder and  despite the inconsistency of the evidence, he is severely condemned in all the hearings, both by public opinion and by the judges; the reason being that Renard is homosexual.

Friends and acquaintances tried by all means to convince Gide to abandon the project due to the negative consequences that would arise. In 1911, he decided to publish the first two dialogues; the work was printed in twelve copies which, as he himself says in the preface to the second edition, were destined for the drawer. In 1920, he resumed the work, completed it with two more dialogues, and had it published discreetly, only twenty copies distributed among his friends. It was not until 1924 that the work was finally published. Many of those who had advised him to abandon the work felt hurt; Paul Claudel refused to greet him.

Gide wanted to defend an idea of homosexuality different from what was then in vogue. He does not accept Magnus Hirschfeld's third sex theory and  despite his regard for Proust (during a brief visit, he gave him one of the first copies of "Corydon" to read and give his opinion on, but without divulging the content), he does not share "the appearance of men-women, descendants of the inhabitants of Sodom who escaped celestial fire," described in the famous incipit of the fourth volume of "In Search of Lost Time," "Sodom and Gomorrah."

Gide's idea of homosexuality is one of normality, homosexuality as an integral part of the dynamics of the human species, in fact, more as a moment of excellence, so his reference point is the Greco-Roman world, especially classical Greece, the struggles between Sparta and Athens. He wants to be linked to the world, not only conceptually but also formally.

"Corydon" is the name of a shepherd in Virgil's "Bucolics," and the form of the work is that of Socratic dialogues. In the conversation, the author, eager to understand the reasons of his interlocutor, wraps himself in the garments of reigning morality, wary and distrustful of that type of argument, however, the questions and observations are made in such a way that they push Corydon to explain his ideas clearly, which are Gide's own ideas.

CORYDON

Preface to the First Edition in English

A Swedish interviewer came to Neuchatel, where I was recovering from a heart attack. Ordinarily I do not give interviews but I had just received the Nobel Prize and as this journalist was correspondent for the X---of Stockholm, I could not decently refuse him. Moreover he was charming and I retain a most pleasant memory of the conversation that I had with him. Before leaving, he asked me whether there was not one book that I regretted having written. Was he referring to my Back from the U.S.S.R.? I looked at him and since in asking the question, he endeavored to smile tactfully, I realized that he must be referring to Corydon. I replied, without smiling, that I would certainly have renounced the Nobel Prize rather than retract any single one of my writings. No title, however, had yet been mentioned; but when the interviewer asked me, immediately afterwards, which of my books I considered the most important, without a moment’s hesitation I named Corydon. I begged him all the same not to overstress this pronouncement, which ran the risk of appearing paradoxical (I do not like paradoxes) and of assuming an air of defiance, extremely uncivil to the friends I might have in Sweden. The Nobel Prize had been awarded me in spite of this book, which in itself should have been enough for me. It would have been discourteous and arrogant for me to have overemphasized a point which others perhaps endeavored to forget.

Corydon remains in my opinion the most important of my books; but it is also the one with which I find most fault. The least successful is the very one which should have been the most successful. No doubt I was ill-advised to treat ironically questions of such gravity, which are usually regarded only as subjects for censure or ridicule. If I returned to these questions, then it would certainly be thought that I was obsessed by them. People prefer to pass them over in silence, as though they played but a negligible role in society and as though the number of people in society tormented by these questions was negligible too. And yet when I began to write my book, I believed this number to be far smaller than I have subsequently come to realize and than is actually the case; smaller perhaps in France, however, than in many other countries that I came to learn about later; for in no other country (except Spain) have the cult of woman, the religion of love and a certain tradition of dalliance so subjugated convention or so slavishly prescribed the conduct of life. Clearly, I am not referring here to the cult of woman in the form which commands the deepest respect, nor to love in its noblest sense but to that love which degrades and which sacrifices to the wanton bed and bawd all that is best in man. Those who shrug their shoulders at these questions are the very ones who proclaim that love is the most important thing in life and who find it quite natural that men should subordinate their careers to it. For them this is, of course, a matter of sexual desire and satisfaction and in their view, desire is the supreme authority. But according to them this desire loses all value when it fails to conform with their own. They are very confident in their attitude, having public opinion behind them.

I believe however that in this book I have said almost all that I had to say on this extremely important subject that had not been said before; and I am convinced also that the day will come when its importance will be recognized. In France it has been kept hidden under a bushel and I am rather relying on the fact that in America it will emerge from this obscurity, to which I myself deliberately relegated it, as a precaution against unnecessary scandal. It has been said that love of scandal drove me to write it. On the contrary, I have done everything possible to mitigate the scandal which this book might provoke, even so far as its form is concerned: for if I had to rewrite it today, I would do so in a far more affirmative tone and no longer with any irony; partly because my voice has assumed more assurance and partly because I have come to realize that I was far more in the right than at first I dared to believe. I knew that the book could wait. Its hour, in France at least, I has not yet arrived. In America perhaps it has? The publication and circulation of the Kinsey Report allows me to suppose and hope so.

I do not attempt to delude myself as to the inadequacies and imperfections of this book. But such as it is (and I cannot rewrite it), I shall be satisfied if it helps a little to tear down or lift the thick veil of lies, conventions and hypocrisy which still stifles an important and not contemptible part of humanity.

FIRST DIALOGUE

A sensational trial in the year 19  —  brought up once again the complicated and troublesome question of homosexuality. For a short while it was the sole topic of conversation. I grew tired of listening to the theories and observations of ignorant, bigoted fools and I wanted to clarify my own ideas. Realizing that the right to condemn or condone lay with reason and not with sentiment, I decided to go and interview Corydon. I had heard that he did not protest against certain unnatural tendencies, of which he was accused. I wanted to learn the right of the case and find what he had to say in justification.

It was ten years since I had last seen Corydon. At that time he was a high-spirited boy, generous, friendly, gentle and proud, whose bearing even then commanded a certain respect. He had been a brilliant medical student and his early work had won high approval in professional circles. After leaving the Lycee where we had been fellow students, we continued a long time to be fairly close friends. Then we were separated by several years of travel and when I returned to live in Paris, the reputation which his habits were beginning to earn him kept me from seeing him.

On entering his apartment I had none of the unpleasant impressions I feared I must expect. At the same time Corydon’s own appearance was most correct, with even a trace of studied austerity. I searched his room in vain for those unmistakable signs of effeminacy, which experts claim they invariably discern in everything connected with homosexuals. However I did notice, over the mahogany desk, a large photographic copy of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Man” —  in which Adam is depicted lying naked on the primeval slime, his hand stretched in obedience to God’s finger and his eyes raised in dazzled recognition of His presence. Corydon’s professed interest in works of art would have sheltered him, had I expressed any surprise at the special subject he had chosen. On his work table stood the portrait of an old man with a long white beard, which I immediately recognized as the American, Walt Whitman, because it had appeared at the beginning of his translated works, which had just been produced by M. Bazalgette. M. Bazalgette had also published a biography of the poet, which I had recently come across and which I now used as a gambit for opening the discussion.

I

After reading Bazalgette’s book, I can see no good reason why this portrait should be on display.”

My remark was impertinent. Corydon pretended not to understand but I insisted.

“One still has to admire Whitman’s work,” he replied, “however one chooses to interpret his morals...”

“You must admit however that your admiration for Whitman has somewhat diminished, since Bazalgette showed that his morals were not such as you had previously been pleased to ascribe to him.”

“Your friend Bazalgette has shown absolutely nothing. All his reasoning depends on a syllogism, which can equally well be reversed:

“As his major premise, he states that homosexuality is an unnatural tendency.

“But “Whitman was in perfect health. He was, properly speaking, the most perfect example presented in literature of the natural man...”

“Therefore Whitman was not a homosexual. That seems to me an inescapable conclusion.”

“But there are sections of his work, where Bazalgette vainly attempts to translate the word ‘love’ by ‘amitie’ or ‘affection’ and ‘sweet’ by ‘pur’ since Whitman is addressing a ‘comrade’... Yet the fact nevertheless remains that all the passionate, sensual, tender and fervent passages of his poems belong to the same order; that order which you call unnatural.”

“I do not call it an ‘order’ at all.... But let’s hear your own syllogism.”

“Here it is:

“Whitman can be taken as an example of the normal man.

“But Whitman was a homosexual.”

“Therefore homosexuality is normal. Splendid! Now it only remains to prove that Whitman was a homosexual. But since it’s a question of begging the question, I still prefer Bazalgette’s syllogism. It conflicts with common sense.”

“The essential thing is not to avoid conflicting with common sense but to avoid warring with the truth. I am preparing an article on Whitman; an answer to Bazalgette’s arguments.”{1} “You devote a lot of attention to these questions of morals?” “Yes, quite a lot, I admit. I am even preparing a fairly important study on the subject.”

“Aren’t the works of Moll, Krafft-Ebing and Raffalovitch enough for you?”

“They are not satisfactory. I would like to approach it differently.”

“I have always thought it best to refer to these things as little as possible and that often they exist only because some clumsy person discloses them. Furthermore, it is in bad taste to speak of them, because there will always be some good-for-nothing, who wants to practice precisely those things of which he pretends to disapprove.”

“I do not pretend to disapprove.”

“There is a rumor that you pose as being tolerant.”

“You simply do not understand me. I see I must tell you the title of my work.”

“Please do.”

“I am writing a Defense of Homosexuality.”

“Why not a Eulogy, while you are about it?”

“Because such a title would force my ideas. I am afraid that some people will find even the word ‘Defense’ too provocative.” “And will you dare publish it?”

“No,” he said gravely, “I will not.”

“You are all exactly the same,” I continued after a short pause. “Alone amongst yourselves, you are defiantly confident; but out in the open, or faced with others, your courage evaporates. Deep down you know quite well that the censure heaped on you is perfectly justified. You protest eloquently in low voices but when it comes to speaking up, you shirk it.”

“It is true that the cause lacks martyrs.”

“Don’t use such big words.”

“I use the words needed. We have had Wilde, Krupp, Macdonald, Eulenburg...”

“As if that were not enough for you!”

“Oh, victims! Victims as many as you please. But not a single martyr. They all deny it; they always will deny it.”

“There you are! They all feel ashamed and retract as soon as they are faced with public opinion, the press or the courtroom.” “Or alas! commit suicide. Yes, you are right. To try and establish one’s innocence by disavowing one’s life, is to yield to public opinion. How strange! One has the courage of one’s opinions but not of one’s habits. One can accept suffering but not dishonor.”

“By withholding publication of your book, aren’t you the same as the others?”

He hesitated a moment and then said, “Perhaps I shall not withhold it.”

“Can you conceive what your attitude would be if, in court, you were cornered by a Queensberry or a Harden?”

“Yes, unfortunately! Like those before me, I should be put out of countenance and deny everything. Our lives are never so isolated that the mud flung at us will not, at the same time, spatter others who are dear to us. The scandal would break my mother’s heart; I would never forgive myself. My young sister lives with her and is not yet married. Perhaps it would be hard to find someone who would accept me as his brother-in-law.”

“Ah! I catch your meaning. You are admitting that these habits bring disgrace even to those who do no more than tolerate them.” “It is not an admission; it is a statement. And that is exactly why I think the cause needs martyrs.”

“What do you mean by martyr?”

“Someone who would lead the attack; who would accept, without bluster or boasting, all the odium and insults; or better still, someone whose courage, integrity and uprightness were so incontestable that the most confirmed denouncers would hesitate.”

“You will never find such a man.”

“Let us hope he will appear.”

“Listen! Between ourselves, do you think there would be the slightest use in it? What change of opinion can you expect? You, I admit, are fairly restrained. But, believe me, it would be better if you were even more so. These appalling habits would then quite naturally cease and would not reappear again.”

I noticed him shrug his shoulders but that did not deter me from continuing.

“Don’t you think there is enough wickedness already exhibited in the world? I have been told that homosexuals find here and there shameful facilities; that they derive satisfaction from these hidden facilities and from the compliance of other homosexuals. Don’t try to solicit the approval or even the indulgence of honest people on their behalf.”

“It is precisely the esteem of honest people that I cannot afford to overlook.”

“What can you do about it? Change your habits.”

“I cannot change them. That was the dilemma of Krupp, Macdonald and many others and the revolver was their only solution.”

“Luckily you are less tragic.”

“I could not swear to that. Anyway, I would like to write my book.”

“You must admit there is a certain element of conceit in your attitude.”

“None at all.”

“You cultivate your eccentricities and then, to avoid any feeling of guilt, you congratulate yourself that you are different from the rest.”

Once again, he shrugged his shoulders and paced the room without saying a word. Then, having apparently overcome the impatience which my last words aroused, he continued.

II

Not long ago,” he said, sitting down beside me, “we were good friends and knew how to understand one another. Is it really necessary for you now to retort ironically to everything I say? I am not asking for your approval but, since I am speaking in good faith, could you not listen in good faith —  then I could at least feel that you were listening to me in the same spirit that I was talking to you?”

“Forgive me,” I said, disarmed by his tone of voice. “It is true that I have lost touch with you. Yes, we were fairly close friends before your behavior was affected by your inclinations.”

“Then you stopped seeing me;  or to be honest, you broke with me.”

“Let’s not look for explanations. Let’s talk as we used to,” I said, holding out my hand. “I have time to listen. When we knew each other, you were still a student. Did you already understand yourself then? Tell me. I want to know the truth.”

He turned to me with a new expression of confidence and began:

“During my time as a house surgeon at the hospital, I was plunged into a state of the greatest confusion when I came to realize my... anomaly. It is absurd to maintain, as some people still do, that homosexuality is only the result of dissipation or that it is simply an addiction of the blase. I could not see myself as either degenerate or sick. Hard-working and completely chaste, I lived with the firm intention, when I finished my time in hospital, of marrying a girl, since dead, whom I then loved above all else in the world.