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Although Abraham Lincoln is the one who gets that all the time, that Abraham Lincoln was gay. I don’t think those labels apply to anyone anymore … but that did interest me about Stephen Foster. When you think about it, if I were Gary Cooper in the Thirties, I would’ve slept with everything too. Or even Kenneth Anger, right? That stuff really matters to a certain person, and now it’s not a surprise to anyone. Oh, the Hollywood one? And he names all these different people, like Edward VIII. And I see that when I read-what was that book by that hustler? I think that people younger than me don’t care about those labels, but I’m from a time when those things really seemed to matter, even though in the long term they don’t matter at all. Well, there was Kristen Stewart a month or two ago, saying things like, “I date men and women, but I don’t want to call it a specific thing.” And that feels very … I don’t know, of the moment? He wasn’t! I wonder if it’s an older generation who’s just trained to care about signs and signals and references and secret things.
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I should ask you, do you think it’s an older-generation thing? I spent so much time looking for signs as a kid, because there was so little out there, and then even the people who were out there when I was growing up- oh, David Bowie is. If they’re gay there’s less chance they’ll have sex with me. Which is not to say they’re going to have sex with me. And obviously it’s because these things are legitimately lost or blanked out or suppressed, but on the other hand, with me … it’s like with actors-I can’t think an actor is attractive without thinking they must also be gay. I mean, as soon as I am interested in someone I think they must be gay, but I also think that gay people are obsessed with thinking other people are gay. I haven’t read it either, but I did feel a little kinship because I often feel like that. I haven’t read it, but it’s 700 pages long or something like that, and he basically argues that almost every notable person in American history was gay. It’s funny that this book comes out not long after that Larry Kramer one. And then I read a novel where he was gay, but I don’t know. And then, I was curious after I wrote it-everyone thinks Stephen Foster was gay, which didn’t even occur to me, but I guess his diaries were expurgated or bowdlerized by his sister. From what I understand he was sleeping in a basement with 80 other people and drinking turpentine. I don’t think Stephen Foster was very genteel by that point in his life, when he was living on the Bowery.
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I had this perverse fantasy of a genteel Spielbergish Lincoln movie with your dialogue, like when Stephen Foster says: “What do I care about the country? What do I care about the war? I care only for clothes and cum and seroconversion. On his stage, the minimalist whiteness of Margiela’s headquarters might equally be pus, cum, bandages, a label, a flag, or the runway that leads into the beyond. Most of the Civil War dead were killed by disease rather than combat, and in that dysentery, measles, typhoid fever, diarrhea, and tuberculosis, McCormack finds a symbolic virology akin to AIDS. “King Faggot.” Ghosts stalk the catwalk wearing chic shrouds. The Well-Dressed Wound opens with Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln holding a séance for their dead gay son Willie, a ritual that also summons designer Martin Margiela, a.k.a. Reading these sentences, each “atelier” or “organza,” I think of a mouth sharp with jewels.ĭespite some notable fans, Dennis Cooper among them, McCormack has long made a living working at Toronto’s Type Books, and calls his own novels “unread.” The new one, begun as he got sick, was written in a terrified fury.
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They walk like they can’t walk.” Many words appear over and over again, a series of sinister poses. His sequined prose is concise yet gaudy: “Spirits step from the spirit cabinet. McCormack delights in anachronism, carnies and old couture and dead country singers. She vows to wed a married woman before snacking on her baby.
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“All monsters are queers,” Elsa Schiaparelli declares in 2009’s The Show That Smells, which imagines the fashion designer as a vampiric parfumier, casting no reflection through the halls of her mirror maze. McCormack has a devious sense of humour: “What’s it called when clothes commit suicide? Deconstruction.” In his books, dutiful straight men get unstitched by the stylish and the freakish. The other day, McCormack told me: “Part of me now is like, Oh my God, if only I had a little more cancer, just for a couple of weeks. Survival turned out to be a problem, because none of them fit anymore. Several years ago, when it seemed that he might be dying from cancer, one of Derek McCormack’s friends bought him some clothes-beautiful clothes, like the carnivalesque suits and painted dresses that bewitch the characters in his stories.