Book Review: "Fire Island: A Century in the Life of an American Paradise"

Jack Parlett's new book is a timely and beautifully history of one of the most important queer spaces in America.

If you’re a gay man, you’ve almost certainly heard of Fire Island. Even if you haven’t visited this little spit of land just south of Long Island, it looms large in the collective queer imagination, particularly since it is the setting of the aptly-titled Fire Island, the very fun gay romantic comedy released to Hulu last year. What some may not know, however, is just how fascinating its history is, which is what makes Jack Parlett’s book Fire Island: A Century in the Life of an American Paradise, such an invaluable book. 

In well-wrought prose, Parlett outlines for us the history of two particular habitations on Fire Island that became queer havens: Cherry Grove and the Pines. Though these locales would come to be most firmly associated with gay men, Parlett rightly shows how gay women have also frequently called Fire Island home, some of whom were literary giants, including (arguably most notably) Patricia Highsmith. 

For, as much as it is about the literal history of the island and its queer residents, Parlett’s book is about the way Fire Island has also operated in the imagination and in the literary world. Given that New York City has always functioned as something of an epicenter for queer art and literature, it makes sense that some of its greatest luminaries would retreat to the island at one time or another. Everyone from Walt Whitman to Frank O’Hara makes an appearance in these pages, sometimes for just a few pages or a cameo (even James Dean pops in!)

As the 20th century progressed, Fire Island increasingly became a safe space of sorts for all of the queer people who called New York City home. Though there was still a police presence on the island, of course, but it was far less repressive on the mainland. And there was always a tension with the original locals, who often found themselves more than a little flummoxed by the oddities who slowly encroached on what they viewed as their territory.

In the wake of Stonewall, Fire Island became even more of a utopian space for many queer people, a veritable pleasure island where the libido could run wild. This was the era of disco and Castro clones, when to have a sculpted body (and a mustache) was a mark of desirability. While this particular beauty regime could at times be repressive and restrictive and exclusive (more on that in a moment), it was also an age of liberation, an outpouring of exuberant sexuality in the aftermath of the repressive ‘50s. 

If the 1970s marked something of an apogee for the queer pleasure communities of Fire Island, the 1980s marked the nadir, as AIDS began to scythe its way through an entire generation of queer men. As a result of this, Fire Island has become, as Wayne Koestenbaum notes in The New York Times: a knotted skein of plague and paradise. Like so many other queer people all over the world, those who live there still contend with the shadow of those who were lost during the height of the AIDS pandemic, which robbed people of their friends, lovers, and family. Fire Island might be a utopia, but it is one that has always been riddled with contradiction. 

Like all such utopian spaces, however, Fire Island has also been a place where various types of power interact. Among other things, as Parlett reminds us, Fire Island has often been almost exclusively White, with people of color largely excluded (with some notable exceptions, such as James Baldwin, who would occasionally visit the island, though largely to get away from the press of the city). It has also not been particularly welcoming to trans and nonbinary folk, though there is some hope that this might be changing as the queer community itself continues to grapple with its own internal changes. Parlett draws our attention to the various radical art projects that are now being promulgated on the island, yet another iteration of its ever-changing (and ever-adapting) persona.

Stylistically, Fire Island is, quite simply, a fun read. Parlett has a keen understanding of the power of voice, and he deftly interweaves elements of his own autobiography, forthrightly revealing how his own struggles impacted his desire to visit Fire Island and to discover for himself some of its magic. As a Brit, his connection to Fire Island is, by nature, somewhat different than that of his American counterparts, and part of the book’s appeal is that it allows us to experience, with him, what it is like to encounter this queer space for the first time. As a small town queer who has yet to encounter Fire Island for myself, this was especially enjoyable.  

I likewise enjoyed the extent to which Parlett drew on a diverse set of sources to construct his narrative. Obviously, there are the diaries and pieces of fiction (and film) from those who either lived on the island or drew inspiration from it. More compelling, I think, are those moments when he draws on the memories of those who are still alive, and these moments really capture the elegiac aura that continues to linger over Fire Island and its diverse queer communities. 

As Parlett remarks in his conclusion, the impact of climate change means that Fire Island might not exist in the very near future, a fact which raises all sorts of thorny questions about the nature and function of queer memory and the role that places like this one place in our collective queer experience. What’s more, it also raises the question about queer pleasure, and how poignant such pleasure is when it lingers under the shadow of oblivion. Then again, as Parlett remarks repeatedly throughout his book, isn’t sadness always a part of queerness?

All in all, I truly loved Fire Island. It’s one of those wonderful books that not only allows you to learn new things; it’s also a genuine pleasure to read and to experience. I can think of no higher praise than that.