I don’t remember exactly how I came across it, but a while ago I stumbled upon an online list that an organization called the Publishing Triangle had made of the “100 Best Lesbian and Gay Novels of all time." Since I was a literature major, and reading is still pretty much like breathing for me, it was an interesting list. There were the overtly gay-themed novels you might expect — E. M. Forster’s Maurice, for example, and Radclyffe Hall’s The Well of Loneliness — as well as books that I recognized as subtextually gay, even if it’s not quite made explicit: D. H. Lawrence’s Women in Love (which, somewhat counter-intuitively, is really about men in love with each other), and Henry James’s The Bostonians. One selection, at No. 43, came as a pretty big surprise, though: Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women.

I thought about this. Little Women? Really? I mean, yes, Jo March was a tomboy; yes, she had a propensity for dressing up in men’s clothes and swaggering about; yes, the handsome, wealthy, intelligent, kind boy next door was in love with her, and she just wanted to be friends. But it still seemed like a pretty big, and presumptuous, leap to me, to claim it as a lesbian novel. … continue reading