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Love, Leda
It’s mid morning. Cool. Not many coffee bars open. I, the brave one, god of any telephone kiosk, walk down Dean Street, see the man of the day; raincoat, shoulders round, hair black, falling out; heavenly blue eyes cast down into his own hell. Bold as brass I cross the road stopping dead in front of him. He raises his eyes, so sadly that I love him for it.
Leda is lost. Bouncing from job to job, from coffee bar to house party, he spends his days watching the hours pass and waiting for the night to arrive. Trysts in the rubble of a bombsite follow hours spent in bedsits with near strangers, as Leda is forced to find intimacy in unusual places.
Semi-homeless and estranged from his given family, he relies on the support of his chosen one: a community of older gay men and divorced women who feed and clothe him, gently encouraging him to find a foothold in a society which excludes him at every turn. And then there is Daniel, a buttoned-up man of the Lord, for whom Leda nurses an unrequited obsession – one which sends him spiralling into self-destruction.
This newly discovered, never-before-published novel – which pre-dates the Sexual Offences Act of 1967 – is a portrait of a lost Soho, as well as an important document of queer, working-class life, from a voice long overlooked.
Mark Hyatt was born in South London in 1940, and died by suicide outside Blackburn in 1972. His selected poems, So Much For Life, edited by Sam Ladkin and Luke Roberts, is forthcoming with Nightboat Books (2023). Hyatt received little or no formal education, and learned to read and write as an adult. Love, Leda (c. 1965) is his only known novel.
Leda is lost. Bouncing from job to job, from coffee bar to house party, he spends his days watching the hours pass and waiting for the night to arrive. Trysts in the rubble of a bombsite follow hours spent in bedsits with near strangers, as Leda is forced to find intimacy in unusual places.
Semi-homeless and estranged from his given family, he relies on the support of his chosen one: a community of older gay men and divorced women who feed and clothe him, gently encouraging him to find a foothold in a society which excludes him at every turn. And then there is Daniel, a buttoned-up man of the Lord, for whom Leda nurses an unrequited obsession – one which sends him spiralling into self-destruction.
This newly discovered, never-before-published novel – which pre-dates the Sexual Offences Act of 1967 – is a portrait of a lost Soho, as well as an important document of queer, working-class life, from a voice long overlooked.
Mark Hyatt was born in South London in 1940, and died by suicide outside Blackburn in 1972. His selected poems, So Much For Life, edited by Sam Ladkin and Luke Roberts, is forthcoming with Nightboat Books (2023). Hyatt received little or no formal education, and learned to read and write as an adult. Love, Leda (c. 1965) is his only known novel.
144 pages, Paperback
First published January 21, 2023
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 94 reviews
June 26, 2023
Mark Hyatt was a working-class gay poet who received no formal education and attained literacy only in adulthood, and Love, Leda, written in the years preceding the Sexual Offences Act of 1967, is his only novel. That this book—an unflinching portrait of working-class precarity and queer estrangement, desire, and loneliness—was only published in January this year, 50-odd years after the author's tragic death by suicide, is a testament to the many buried registers of gay life that remain unarchived, unacknowledged, and obscured to this day.
Here, Hyatt tells the story of Leda, a twenty year old lad who, without a fixed address or purpose and led to ruin by his unrequited longing for a straight, married, man of god (a longing that leads to extended musings about the intercurrents between the worship of a Christian god and homosexuality), is forced to seek intimacy in unusual places and rely on the kindness (only sometimes offered without strings attached) of near strangers, older gay men and divorced women who deign to feed, clothe, and shelter him.
Leda's story, narrated here in a poetic and idiosyncratic manner, is stark and revealing of the grey-white expanse of London in the 1960s—a world of tepid coffees cooling in chipped ceramic mugs, of dilapidated pre-war flats converted into shabby bedsits, of casual workers washing up cups for a day's living, and bars of jazz floating out from seedy Soho coffeehouses—and those who, like our protagonist, moved aimlessly about it. The narrator's detachment is presumably drawn, at least in part, from the author's own experiences in a world where sex is fraught with danger, love is harsh and disappointing, and friendships come at a price, and his rejection of drudgery belies drudgery of its own kind. As with Hyatt's own life, Love, Leda ends on a note of prolonged dissatisfaction that holds light to a kind of gut-wrenching reality we are only too eager to forget.
This is certainly an unusual book, both in its honesty about a furtive homosexual scene that would have been shocking to contemporaneous audiences (per the foreword by Huw Lemmey, for its mention of "not just gay men, but actual gay fucking, with hair and sweat and Vaseline included") and atypical style in which it is rendered. But in all its uniqueness, it is not just a notable work of queer but also working-class literature from the time, singularly intent on talking about the minutiae of (doubtlessly alienating) labour and everyday transactions, monetary and otherwise. Not a perfect novel by any means, but a frank one, and great all the same: it is lucky, incredibly lucky for us that it remains a lost work no more.
Here, Hyatt tells the story of Leda, a twenty year old lad who, without a fixed address or purpose and led to ruin by his unrequited longing for a straight, married, man of god (a longing that leads to extended musings about the intercurrents between the worship of a Christian god and homosexuality), is forced to seek intimacy in unusual places and rely on the kindness (only sometimes offered without strings attached) of near strangers, older gay men and divorced women who deign to feed, clothe, and shelter him.
Leda's story, narrated here in a poetic and idiosyncratic manner, is stark and revealing of the grey-white expanse of London in the 1960s—a world of tepid coffees cooling in chipped ceramic mugs, of dilapidated pre-war flats converted into shabby bedsits, of casual workers washing up cups for a day's living, and bars of jazz floating out from seedy Soho coffeehouses—and those who, like our protagonist, moved aimlessly about it. The narrator's detachment is presumably drawn, at least in part, from the author's own experiences in a world where sex is fraught with danger, love is harsh and disappointing, and friendships come at a price, and his rejection of drudgery belies drudgery of its own kind. As with Hyatt's own life, Love, Leda ends on a note of prolonged dissatisfaction that holds light to a kind of gut-wrenching reality we are only too eager to forget.
This is certainly an unusual book, both in its honesty about a furtive homosexual scene that would have been shocking to contemporaneous audiences (per the foreword by Huw Lemmey, for its mention of "not just gay men, but actual gay fucking, with hair and sweat and Vaseline included") and atypical style in which it is rendered. But in all its uniqueness, it is not just a notable work of queer but also working-class literature from the time, singularly intent on talking about the minutiae of (doubtlessly alienating) labour and everyday transactions, monetary and otherwise. Not a perfect novel by any means, but a frank one, and great all the same: it is lucky, incredibly lucky for us that it remains a lost work no more.
October 15, 2025
3.5, rounded up.
Surely if one's self can love Christ for what He was and what He did, then one's self should be able to love modern man. But people call it something different these days. The dead man becomes religion; the living becomes homosexuality. Either I am in the middle, neither one thing or the other, or I am a madman looking at life upside down. p. 111
In one sense, the fact that this book was ever written, let alone published, is astonishing. Hyatt did not even learn to read or write till adulthood, composed this roman a clef circa 1965, describing his aimless and homeless existence with far greater candor than one finds elsewhere in those closeted days, and then committed suicide in 1972 at age 32.
His manuscript then languished in the possession of a friend until just this year, when it was published for the first time. Thus, as a chronicle of what life was like in bohemian '60's Soho London, and its glimpse into the life of an unapologetic and unashamed bisexual, lends it far greater significance than it might otherwise merit on purely literary grounds.
For much of the novel consists of rather mundane accounts of the protagonist's daily life, spent crashing with various acquaintances and scrounging out a living doing casual jobs; having meaningless sex with a plethora of both male and female hookups in sometimes graphic detail. He also recounts his obsessive unrequited 'love' for a married straight (and religious) man, whose only interest in the titular pseudonymous Leda is to convert him to Christianity.
Interspersed with these are some rather jejune attempts to philosophize his worldview, in somewhat overly lyrical passages that don't bear too much scrutiny (Hyatt fancied himself a poet, and indeed published a meager amount of his output before passing.) Had it been longer than its 163 pages, this would have become tedious, and towards the end I was indeed losing both patience and interest - but for the short amount of time it took to read, I am glad I took the journey.
Surely if one's self can love Christ for what He was and what He did, then one's self should be able to love modern man. But people call it something different these days. The dead man becomes religion; the living becomes homosexuality. Either I am in the middle, neither one thing or the other, or I am a madman looking at life upside down. p. 111
In one sense, the fact that this book was ever written, let alone published, is astonishing. Hyatt did not even learn to read or write till adulthood, composed this roman a clef circa 1965, describing his aimless and homeless existence with far greater candor than one finds elsewhere in those closeted days, and then committed suicide in 1972 at age 32.
His manuscript then languished in the possession of a friend until just this year, when it was published for the first time. Thus, as a chronicle of what life was like in bohemian '60's Soho London, and its glimpse into the life of an unapologetic and unashamed bisexual, lends it far greater significance than it might otherwise merit on purely literary grounds.
For much of the novel consists of rather mundane accounts of the protagonist's daily life, spent crashing with various acquaintances and scrounging out a living doing casual jobs; having meaningless sex with a plethora of both male and female hookups in sometimes graphic detail. He also recounts his obsessive unrequited 'love' for a married straight (and religious) man, whose only interest in the titular pseudonymous Leda is to convert him to Christianity.
Interspersed with these are some rather jejune attempts to philosophize his worldview, in somewhat overly lyrical passages that don't bear too much scrutiny (Hyatt fancied himself a poet, and indeed published a meager amount of his output before passing.) Had it been longer than its 163 pages, this would have become tedious, and towards the end I was indeed losing both patience and interest - but for the short amount of time it took to read, I am glad I took the journey.
January 11, 2025
I think this is my favorite book I've read in a book club. I am afraid to share what I love so much about it. But I see myself in this book in a way I never have so completely. Not all of Leda is me, but so much is that it felt fragile and scary to read at times. Sometimes it was a loving familiarity, or even a pleading with him to do something different. My copy is riddled with sticky tabs sometimes two to a page and often every other page so that it looks like the centrepiece of a research project. I have filled the margins with pencil scratchings. I have no idea if I could ever describe my feelings for it.
October 15, 2025
An important discovery that marks the introduction of a unique voice into queer literary history.
Hyatt (1940 - 1972) has been remembered—when remembered at all—as a minor figure of the 1960s London bohemian literary scene, author of some obscure poems that still managed to retain a small cult following in the decades after his tragically premature death by suicide at the age of 32. Recent research brought to light this unpublished short novel, & this marks its first time in print.
Likely written sometime before 1965, its offers insight into queer life just before the passage of the Sexual Offences Bill 1967 which decriminalized homosexuality in the UK. Opening with a cruising & hookup scene, we then follow the titular character through his daily life, which includes clandestine hustler bars & trysts of all types (including with a female friend); but there's also insight into other types of relationships here as well, with the violence of a homophobic family contrasted with the sensitive, platonic "chosen family" care from a kindly, soft-spoken queen of a certain age. What the narrative sometimes lacks in depth (for there is, admittedly, very little actual plot to speak of) it more than compensates for in its vividness & youthful verve.
But what makes Love, Leda rather singular & ultimately so special is its queer working class perspective. Almost all pre-1970s "serious" queer literary output was the work of artists of means and/or connections, & the texts themselves often reflect these concerns & milieus. And the perspective Hyatt brings here is no put-on: half Romani & forced to work from an early age, he never received a formal education, and, quite stunningly, remained illiterate into adulthood—making his literary output, limited as it is, all the more remarkable.
On a purely aesthetic level there are undeniable shortcomings; for all we know this could very well be a first draft. But there's a jangly staccato intensity & irresistible camp wit to Hyatt's voice, & I quickly I became completely taken by its relentless ping-ponging between registers: the bawdy & the poetic, disaffection & neurotic hyper-awareness, screwball comedy & unnerving threats of violence. Perhaps further revisions would have yielded a "better" novel, but perhaps it would have been at the expense of the glittering immediacy it still manages to retain after all these years.
What a treasure, I'm so glad this has finally made its way into the world!
'Your gay life will be the death of you.'
'It was also my birth.'
Hyatt (1940 - 1972) has been remembered—when remembered at all—as a minor figure of the 1960s London bohemian literary scene, author of some obscure poems that still managed to retain a small cult following in the decades after his tragically premature death by suicide at the age of 32. Recent research brought to light this unpublished short novel, & this marks its first time in print.
Likely written sometime before 1965, its offers insight into queer life just before the passage of the Sexual Offences Bill 1967 which decriminalized homosexuality in the UK. Opening with a cruising & hookup scene, we then follow the titular character through his daily life, which includes clandestine hustler bars & trysts of all types (including with a female friend); but there's also insight into other types of relationships here as well, with the violence of a homophobic family contrasted with the sensitive, platonic "chosen family" care from a kindly, soft-spoken queen of a certain age. What the narrative sometimes lacks in depth (for there is, admittedly, very little actual plot to speak of) it more than compensates for in its vividness & youthful verve.
But what makes Love, Leda rather singular & ultimately so special is its queer working class perspective. Almost all pre-1970s "serious" queer literary output was the work of artists of means and/or connections, & the texts themselves often reflect these concerns & milieus. And the perspective Hyatt brings here is no put-on: half Romani & forced to work from an early age, he never received a formal education, and, quite stunningly, remained illiterate into adulthood—making his literary output, limited as it is, all the more remarkable.
On a purely aesthetic level there are undeniable shortcomings; for all we know this could very well be a first draft. But there's a jangly staccato intensity & irresistible camp wit to Hyatt's voice, & I quickly I became completely taken by its relentless ping-ponging between registers: the bawdy & the poetic, disaffection & neurotic hyper-awareness, screwball comedy & unnerving threats of violence. Perhaps further revisions would have yielded a "better" novel, but perhaps it would have been at the expense of the glittering immediacy it still manages to retain after all these years.
What a treasure, I'm so glad this has finally made its way into the world!
'Your gay life will be the death of you.'
'It was also my birth.'
October 14, 2024
Mark Hyatt didn’t live to see his own work published, a fact which would be the makings of a tragic story if not for the publication of Love, Leda, his only surviving novel, in 2024 by Nightboat Books.
The novel is a quick read––sharp in its interrogation, but warm in its humor and intimacy, and it perfectly captures the uncertain convalescence of young adulthood and the challenge of navigating a world that is not built for you. Haunted by his disapproving family and the unrequited love of a married man, Leda is young and adrift; he weaves through odd jobs, bedrooms, and bars looking for looking for answers, money, and a good lay in the working-class landscape of London, which is itself a changing and uncertain place.
Penned at an indeterminate point before the Sexual Offences Act of 1967, which legalized homosexual acts in Britain and Wales, Leda lives in a world that is trying to change. In the Postwar period, Britain was trying to shrug off its social rigidity, not yet in full embrace of homosexuality but beginning to open itself to the idea. Hyatt lived in poverty on the fringes of the queer underground during this era. In this way, Leda is like the time itself; searching, still weighted by the impression of shame and tradition.
Something to love about this book is its treatment of sex, which it refuses to deify or declare as a transgressive act. Leda’s encounters are incredibly intimate, but they are commonplace, described with the same exactitude and practicality that he uses to describe mopping floors or cutting sheet metal. Homosexual sex is not overly-sentimental nor self-righteous, but rather another avenue through which Leda attempts to understand how he relates to other people.
The frankness of Hyatt’s voice is incredibly refreshing. There is a particular attention to money and sustenance that often outweighs Leda’s feelings on his sexual practices. Washing dishes, cutting sheet metal. These particulars ground the world in a particular economic reality, and thus capture the miracle of intimacy itself––it happens among these ordinary things, between drunkenness and illness and joy and good conversation and an ache in the back from work. Despite harsh censorship laws regarding this sexual content, Hyatt’s ordinary treatment of sex between men is actually quite remarkable; had the book been published, it very well could have accelerated the wider tolerance that was gaining traction at the time.
The heart of the book, however, is Leda’s ongoing negotiations about faith. Leda wants to understand the role of God in the lives of the people around him: why they believe, why he can’t bring himself to believe, and if there is any other higher purpose to life. Throughout the novel, Leda chases Daniel, a married priest who has chosen to live a comfortable, if dishonest life, a life Leda cannot be a part of. Leda also suffers abuse at the hands of his religious family. Christianity is the kingdom which he has been thrown out of, but remains in contention with. The book sees him explore what else there is. Leda declares: “I look for a greater lift to man’s spirit than god, but fear I stand on a single stone alone,” and separately, “I am a moron for being myself – masochistic. Am I a masochist?”
The conversation around belief is part of the larger question at the center of Leda’s character: why does he feel fundamentally different from other people? Why is he lonely? The mystery of what made him this way and what, if anything, there is to do about it, is approached alternatingly with wise-cracks and, in more private moments, serious contemplation. Despite the good intentions of the other characters, he can’t help but feel that he is alone. It is what makes Leda feel so alive: he wants to know what is left when you forgo tradition? A question that must be answered by every single queer person who gives up comfort for the sake of authenticity.
If it were not for the publication of Love, Leda this year, the story of this novel would be a profoundly sad one. The book offers slim consolations to Leda’s despair, and combined with Hyatt’s own decision to take his life in 1972, it can easily be a grim tale. Yet, the book offers hope. Leda takes final comfort in Oscar Wilde’s, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” one of several poems interspersed throughout the text, like Leda’s own version of scripture.
Mark Hyatt lived in poverty on the fringes of the queer underground in 1960s Britain, incarcerated in prisons and asylums, only to gain literacy later in life. His is a tale of redemption by literature. At the time of his death, Hyatt left behind over 2,000 pages of manuscript material, which through the years has been preserved by friends and lovers, and today we have the gift of reading it––denying Hyatt that final loneliness that plagued him. Just as hope is found for Leda, hope exists in the publication of this book, which has survived the nullifying effect of time and will be exposed to so many readers in the coming years. Both in its content and publication, Love, Leda is a testament to the redeeming power of literature, community, and solidarity amidst the uncertainty and loneliness of queer life.
The novel is a quick read––sharp in its interrogation, but warm in its humor and intimacy, and it perfectly captures the uncertain convalescence of young adulthood and the challenge of navigating a world that is not built for you. Haunted by his disapproving family and the unrequited love of a married man, Leda is young and adrift; he weaves through odd jobs, bedrooms, and bars looking for looking for answers, money, and a good lay in the working-class landscape of London, which is itself a changing and uncertain place.
Penned at an indeterminate point before the Sexual Offences Act of 1967, which legalized homosexual acts in Britain and Wales, Leda lives in a world that is trying to change. In the Postwar period, Britain was trying to shrug off its social rigidity, not yet in full embrace of homosexuality but beginning to open itself to the idea. Hyatt lived in poverty on the fringes of the queer underground during this era. In this way, Leda is like the time itself; searching, still weighted by the impression of shame and tradition.
Something to love about this book is its treatment of sex, which it refuses to deify or declare as a transgressive act. Leda’s encounters are incredibly intimate, but they are commonplace, described with the same exactitude and practicality that he uses to describe mopping floors or cutting sheet metal. Homosexual sex is not overly-sentimental nor self-righteous, but rather another avenue through which Leda attempts to understand how he relates to other people.
The frankness of Hyatt’s voice is incredibly refreshing. There is a particular attention to money and sustenance that often outweighs Leda’s feelings on his sexual practices. Washing dishes, cutting sheet metal. These particulars ground the world in a particular economic reality, and thus capture the miracle of intimacy itself––it happens among these ordinary things, between drunkenness and illness and joy and good conversation and an ache in the back from work. Despite harsh censorship laws regarding this sexual content, Hyatt’s ordinary treatment of sex between men is actually quite remarkable; had the book been published, it very well could have accelerated the wider tolerance that was gaining traction at the time.
The heart of the book, however, is Leda’s ongoing negotiations about faith. Leda wants to understand the role of God in the lives of the people around him: why they believe, why he can’t bring himself to believe, and if there is any other higher purpose to life. Throughout the novel, Leda chases Daniel, a married priest who has chosen to live a comfortable, if dishonest life, a life Leda cannot be a part of. Leda also suffers abuse at the hands of his religious family. Christianity is the kingdom which he has been thrown out of, but remains in contention with. The book sees him explore what else there is. Leda declares: “I look for a greater lift to man’s spirit than god, but fear I stand on a single stone alone,” and separately, “I am a moron for being myself – masochistic. Am I a masochist?”
The conversation around belief is part of the larger question at the center of Leda’s character: why does he feel fundamentally different from other people? Why is he lonely? The mystery of what made him this way and what, if anything, there is to do about it, is approached alternatingly with wise-cracks and, in more private moments, serious contemplation. Despite the good intentions of the other characters, he can’t help but feel that he is alone. It is what makes Leda feel so alive: he wants to know what is left when you forgo tradition? A question that must be answered by every single queer person who gives up comfort for the sake of authenticity.
If it were not for the publication of Love, Leda this year, the story of this novel would be a profoundly sad one. The book offers slim consolations to Leda’s despair, and combined with Hyatt’s own decision to take his life in 1972, it can easily be a grim tale. Yet, the book offers hope. Leda takes final comfort in Oscar Wilde’s, “The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” one of several poems interspersed throughout the text, like Leda’s own version of scripture.
Mark Hyatt lived in poverty on the fringes of the queer underground in 1960s Britain, incarcerated in prisons and asylums, only to gain literacy later in life. His is a tale of redemption by literature. At the time of his death, Hyatt left behind over 2,000 pages of manuscript material, which through the years has been preserved by friends and lovers, and today we have the gift of reading it––denying Hyatt that final loneliness that plagued him. Just as hope is found for Leda, hope exists in the publication of this book, which has survived the nullifying effect of time and will be exposed to so many readers in the coming years. Both in its content and publication, Love, Leda is a testament to the redeeming power of literature, community, and solidarity amidst the uncertainty and loneliness of queer life.
March 16, 2023
After reading the forward I said aloud, “Wow that’s the best forward I’ve ever read, this has got a lot to live up to!” And it did! So good, a really special read - the narrative is aggressively poetic and and the descriptions of London from the 60s ring so familiar. The style and setting reminded me a lot of The Lonely Londoners - just a snapshot of a bit of life that is so different yet so much the same.
March 4, 2024
i can appreciate the importance of a novel like this and what it could have done if it’d been released in its time, but this was actually a real chore to get through. really didn’t gel with this unnecessarily complex & abstract writing style at all.
April 18, 2025
I loveeee a book about everything and nothing at the same time. Hyatt’s personal life was just as interesting to read about as the novel was. A really special book to be able to read 60 years since it was written, and not published until only a few years ago.
Truly a capsule of working class queer life in London in the 1960s!
———
“I aspire to nothing because I exist, and the study of religion is like the study of the dreams I never had. I feel like a thousand gods, but not even a thousand gods could weep the way I do.”
“(He cried in a city of dreams, where love is everlasting but hope is forgotten).”
“Surely if one’s self can love Christ for what He was and what He did, then one’s self should be able to love modern man? But people call it something different these days. The dead man becomes religion; the living man becomes homosexuality.”
Truly a capsule of working class queer life in London in the 1960s!
———
“I aspire to nothing because I exist, and the study of religion is like the study of the dreams I never had. I feel like a thousand gods, but not even a thousand gods could weep the way I do.”
“(He cried in a city of dreams, where love is everlasting but hope is forgotten).”
“Surely if one’s self can love Christ for what He was and what He did, then one’s self should be able to love modern man? But people call it something different these days. The dead man becomes religion; the living man becomes homosexuality.”
November 20, 2024
how many other words like these have we lost to time and dust and suicide how much goes unread how much stays forgotten in cabinets and drawers and heads i'm gonna freak outtttttttt
if this novel had seen the light of day when hyatt originally wrote it i truly believe it would be a pillar of queer literature today
"The burial of thought brings myself to myself and I am at peace. The purpose of my life shows on my face. An idiot of love. I illustrate nothing by living. I turn my head for dreams and lost sunsets and my own fears."
"It is hard for me to comprehend that so many people can believe in one man's promise (The Kingdom of Heaven). I ask, what has man promised himself? To milk the eyes until all is lost, kiss and kiss again, breaking open the flesh until pain is no more?"
if this novel had seen the light of day when hyatt originally wrote it i truly believe it would be a pillar of queer literature today
"The burial of thought brings myself to myself and I am at peace. The purpose of my life shows on my face. An idiot of love. I illustrate nothing by living. I turn my head for dreams and lost sunsets and my own fears."
"It is hard for me to comprehend that so many people can believe in one man's promise (The Kingdom of Heaven). I ask, what has man promised himself? To milk the eyes until all is lost, kiss and kiss again, breaking open the flesh until pain is no more?"
January 29, 2024
A lost gem in queer literature which is tragically but forgivably rough around the edges.
Love, Leda is an intensely introspective dive into the hidden worlds of Soho and gay dive bars or coffee shops in London during the 1960s. It’s own uniqueness is of interest itself, but also refreshing as it unfolds queer identity within a wider narrative of being lost in your twenties in a city.
If you loved Catcher in the Rye, The Bell Jar or Everything I Know About Love, you’ll love this book too. It does beautiful justice to the bewilderment you feel trying to find direction in life while making so many mistakes while you’re young.
Some of the passages grappling with depression and Leda’s chaotic lifestyle are worth framing in a museum, whereas some passages of narrative are well worth forgetting. It’s an endearing jumble of a book mixed in with sexual encounters previously avoided in contemporary literature, and characters that may never have been found in a heteronormative canon.
It’s charming, depressing, witty and undeniably impressive. If, like me, you want an adventure, go to Gays the Word bookshop in Bloomsbury and pick up a copy for yourself.
Love, Leda is an intensely introspective dive into the hidden worlds of Soho and gay dive bars or coffee shops in London during the 1960s. It’s own uniqueness is of interest itself, but also refreshing as it unfolds queer identity within a wider narrative of being lost in your twenties in a city.
If you loved Catcher in the Rye, The Bell Jar or Everything I Know About Love, you’ll love this book too. It does beautiful justice to the bewilderment you feel trying to find direction in life while making so many mistakes while you’re young.
Some of the passages grappling with depression and Leda’s chaotic lifestyle are worth framing in a museum, whereas some passages of narrative are well worth forgetting. It’s an endearing jumble of a book mixed in with sexual encounters previously avoided in contemporary literature, and characters that may never have been found in a heteronormative canon.
It’s charming, depressing, witty and undeniably impressive. If, like me, you want an adventure, go to Gays the Word bookshop in Bloomsbury and pick up a copy for yourself.
November 17, 2024
What a special, special book. I'm so glad this made it to publication. An incredible journey through '60s London - everything Leda ate, every bus he took, the smell and texture of every greasy spoon and coffee bar and jazz club, every cup of coffee and every handful of cash, every bombsite he stumbled upon and train he rode and every interaction he had was rendered into such a perfect, visceral window into the past. Written in crisp and often erratic prose, the editing really helped do exactly what the afterword suggested, maintaining both the disorientated, leisurely haziness and the reactionary immediacy and split-second decision-making of Leda's day-to-day life. The book was cut with intense vibrancy, sensuality and frankness that truly made it a vivid and stark picture of life as a working class gay man in mid-century London. I could not get enough of this special literary survival, and it moved me so much. Wonderful.
August 10, 2024
"Must I be forever struggling in a sequence of mediocre events, only to find myself frustrated every time?"
I read this as part of my "30 books in 30 days" challenge (2024), and it was such a drag! I can't remember how I came across this book—maybe a friend recommended it—but it took me a while to find, and even longer to finally read. Although I understand and appreciate the historical context and significance of this book (and the fact that it was written and published is, in itself, astonishing), I found the overall experience disappointing. Despite its bluntness and occasional humor, I disliked the main character, and the general atmosphere was just too depressing. I enjoyed it far less than I expected.
I read this as part of my "30 books in 30 days" challenge (2024), and it was such a drag! I can't remember how I came across this book—maybe a friend recommended it—but it took me a while to find, and even longer to finally read. Although I understand and appreciate the historical context and significance of this book (and the fact that it was written and published is, in itself, astonishing), I found the overall experience disappointing. Despite its bluntness and occasional humor, I disliked the main character, and the general atmosphere was just too depressing. I enjoyed it far less than I expected.
December 24, 2025
This was interesting from a historical perspective, as it depicts the life of a working-class gay man in London back when homosexuality was still illegal. However, I thought it was a bad novel and the protagonist was unbearable.
February 20, 2023
How wonderful for this to be “found” and published so long after it was written. The introduction and explanatory text at the end were also well done and insightful.
February 25, 2023
London never changes does it. This book has so many spectacular moments it really is a treasure <3
February 1, 2025
cognitive dissonance and nihilism tends to be a harsh mix
April 9, 2025
did not love unfortunately. as a historical document i think it was fairly interesting but i just wasn't really moved. some lovely passages but ultimately kinda boring?
January 6, 2026
Background on the author is important, only published recently because author passed.
Very meandering sort of book, also catcher in the rye ish but protagonist is a gay man in England in the 60s.
Very meandering sort of book, also catcher in the rye ish but protagonist is a gay man in England in the 60s.
January 3, 2024
love how observational this is. all the mundane details paint such an illustrated picture of 1960s queer london. but i also adore the rural scenes and those outside of london, especially at the beach. reminded me of brighton rock in it’s description of british seaside towns and how lonely they can actually weirdly make you feel.
some of my favourite quotes:
“To me, people spend their whole lives walking around in circles, and when they stop, they talk of the things they would have done had they not done the thing they have done all their lives.”
“I am far too feminine to be living in a man’s world.”
“My own experience tells me that more love goes into the thought of homosexuality than the practice.”
some of my favourite quotes:
“To me, people spend their whole lives walking around in circles, and when they stop, they talk of the things they would have done had they not done the thing they have done all their lives.”
“I am far too feminine to be living in a man’s world.”
“My own experience tells me that more love goes into the thought of homosexuality than the practice.”
February 28, 2023
First of all, I think the significance of this book as a piece of unarchived queer fiction can't be underplayed. It is beyond important for this kind of work to be carried out so that we can unravel more queer textualities and lives.
Secondly, this book is utterly fantastic. Full of idiosyncratic writing and starkly fleeting encounters, Leda's loneliness is gut-wrenching and the book's climax almost brought me to years.
Absolute perfection — I have never read anything quite like it.
Secondly, this book is utterly fantastic. Full of idiosyncratic writing and starkly fleeting encounters, Leda's loneliness is gut-wrenching and the book's climax almost brought me to years.
Absolute perfection — I have never read anything quite like it.
July 31, 2023
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.
Read more of my reviews on my book blog LonesomeReader or check out the videos on my BookTube channel
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.
Read more of my reviews on my book blog LonesomeReader or check out the videos on my BookTube channel
January 7, 2025
wow incredibly awesome book to read my last few days in NYC.
Upon reflection the best parts of this trip feel most in-line with what I generally find interesting about travel. Endless, endless transportation and observation. Snow on coffee tables outside, different types of winter jackets, talking to an economist at Cafe Reggio, being lost in thought about the architecture of mid-town buildings, very late showings of old 'lost' films, standing on the wet floor of the subway, expensive lunch, alone at the park, engineered dogs, snow crystals on tires, silently watching parents listen to their children speak, bringing three books to the cafe, this eventually being one of them.
At this point life is starting to reenter the city. The city seems almost twice as full as when I entered it mid-December although I obvi have no idea what this 'city' ( I love calling it that) was initially like. I have to stand on the train instead of sit. My yoga class is 3 rows deep instead of 2. So much bigness!!
I miss the isolation Iowa symbolizes in my own startling weird way. When you're depressed everything seems annoying and lame. OR maybe that's just my default. I never found someone so annoying but as easily annoyed as myself lolz. I think you should usually have to pick one but somehow I picked both.
I entered New York unexcited to enter the past, which made the moments the past felt unavoidable, sticky and hard to escape. Now I feel better able to let those things come in and thus, to let them go. I've maybe become more in touch with the erotic undercurrent of life that brings breath to almost all moments. In this way, Iowa, while slower, tinier, less stimulating seems exciting for its own unique evocation. Maybe a place to write a lot on the computer and fill out applications. To throw myself into hobbies ( I want to engage in Aikido, yoga, and expand my painting practice and a hundred other silly things).
I'm very lucky in my own way. Like Leda, I feel the philosophies of life sort of undulate in unpredictable emergences. I like how little the book 'does' which I feel also, as a person who maybe does very little but feels a lot.
This past week I finally saw Anatomy of a Fall, which helped incredibly with piecing all of these thoughts together. At several different points, the mother character is faced with incredulity by investigating police about her role in what seems a doomed relationship and her husband's sudden (and alleged) suicide. One particular interrogation felt especially intense and pertinent to her guilt to the police. Why had she obfuscated about a fight her and her husband had shortly before his death?When the police finally play the recording (her husband had secretly made of the fight) in court, it appears rather damningly like she had attacked him in an abusive episode. Either in response, or at an earlier point when confronted about her silence (I can't remember which) she says (and I'm paraphrasing here) ' you can't remember a person by their worst moments.". What an epiphany. For Leda in Love, Leda, these worst moments are easy to abandon, as are the good ones. Lost in thought and ungrounded, I hope I have the strength to let the hard hurts loose and the powerful energy to not do as Leda does, and cling to the beautiful outside. I don't want to kill it with my own melancholia, even in the Leda-as-Wilde- sense of doing it bravely with "a sword".
Upon reflection the best parts of this trip feel most in-line with what I generally find interesting about travel. Endless, endless transportation and observation. Snow on coffee tables outside, different types of winter jackets, talking to an economist at Cafe Reggio, being lost in thought about the architecture of mid-town buildings, very late showings of old 'lost' films, standing on the wet floor of the subway, expensive lunch, alone at the park, engineered dogs, snow crystals on tires, silently watching parents listen to their children speak, bringing three books to the cafe, this eventually being one of them.
At this point life is starting to reenter the city. The city seems almost twice as full as when I entered it mid-December although I obvi have no idea what this 'city' ( I love calling it that) was initially like. I have to stand on the train instead of sit. My yoga class is 3 rows deep instead of 2. So much bigness!!
I miss the isolation Iowa symbolizes in my own startling weird way. When you're depressed everything seems annoying and lame. OR maybe that's just my default. I never found someone so annoying but as easily annoyed as myself lolz. I think you should usually have to pick one but somehow I picked both.
I entered New York unexcited to enter the past, which made the moments the past felt unavoidable, sticky and hard to escape. Now I feel better able to let those things come in and thus, to let them go. I've maybe become more in touch with the erotic undercurrent of life that brings breath to almost all moments. In this way, Iowa, while slower, tinier, less stimulating seems exciting for its own unique evocation. Maybe a place to write a lot on the computer and fill out applications. To throw myself into hobbies ( I want to engage in Aikido, yoga, and expand my painting practice and a hundred other silly things).
I'm very lucky in my own way. Like Leda, I feel the philosophies of life sort of undulate in unpredictable emergences. I like how little the book 'does' which I feel also, as a person who maybe does very little but feels a lot.
This past week I finally saw Anatomy of a Fall, which helped incredibly with piecing all of these thoughts together. At several different points, the mother character is faced with incredulity by investigating police about her role in what seems a doomed relationship and her husband's sudden (and alleged) suicide. One particular interrogation felt especially intense and pertinent to her guilt to the police. Why had she obfuscated about a fight her and her husband had shortly before his death?When the police finally play the recording (her husband had secretly made of the fight) in court, it appears rather damningly like she had attacked him in an abusive episode. Either in response, or at an earlier point when confronted about her silence (I can't remember which) she says (and I'm paraphrasing here) ' you can't remember a person by their worst moments.". What an epiphany. For Leda in Love, Leda, these worst moments are easy to abandon, as are the good ones. Lost in thought and ungrounded, I hope I have the strength to let the hard hurts loose and the powerful energy to not do as Leda does, and cling to the beautiful outside. I don't want to kill it with my own melancholia, even in the Leda-as-Wilde- sense of doing it bravely with "a sword".
March 14, 2023
The tag lines publishers use to sell books often say "startling prose". I can't think of a better way to describe the reading experience that is Love, Leda. The words punch you in the face as you read and then stroke and calm you again. I bought this as a "shall I, shan't I" add-on to an excellent guided walk. Only two out of twenty of us had read the book. It sat on the book pile for a few weeks. It's a lost novel. Hyatt was a working-class gay poet, who only learnt to read and write properly when he moved into a bohemian nest of writers and actors in his twenties.
The book is a walk around the London streets of my earliest childhood. Colours, the insides of buses, Lyons Corner House (with nan), rapidly cooling, pre-prepared teas and coffees lined up in white, ceramic cups and saucers for convenient service, chatty locals and bomb sites. Mark lived in Streatham as a kid and wrote this in 1965. I was born and taken home from South London Women's Hospital (now the Maudsley) to our soon-to-be-demolished flat in Streatham, at the very top of the stairs in the sort of palatial home that no-one could afford in the post war years so divided into crookedy, privately-rented living spaces. I can see my white socks, just below grubby knees, with their rhythmic pattern of holes ascending like the bubbles in lemonade. It's nice to know our lives intersect in some way and the shocking nostalgia these pages elicit has some psychogeographic basis in fact.
Mark was living an altogether different life. His fleeting sexual encounters with both men and women are rendered life-size with vaseline and details of the grey-white British body of the 1960s no-one under fifty remembers. Torremolinos was a thing by 1976. He tells one lover "you've got a tide mark". (Hello nan. I've got a bit better at washing these days.) Equally he takes a friend's children to the seaside...bet it was Brighton...and feeds them nothing but sugar all day and sinks into the melancholy that was to destroy him.
No spoilers, but the writing is unusual and memorable. It hits the mark much more often than it misses and some of those misses would be fixed by a time machine back to mid-sixties London, but in some ways, the book is a time machine back to mid-sixties London.
The book is a walk around the London streets of my earliest childhood. Colours, the insides of buses, Lyons Corner House (with nan), rapidly cooling, pre-prepared teas and coffees lined up in white, ceramic cups and saucers for convenient service, chatty locals and bomb sites. Mark lived in Streatham as a kid and wrote this in 1965. I was born and taken home from South London Women's Hospital (now the Maudsley) to our soon-to-be-demolished flat in Streatham, at the very top of the stairs in the sort of palatial home that no-one could afford in the post war years so divided into crookedy, privately-rented living spaces. I can see my white socks, just below grubby knees, with their rhythmic pattern of holes ascending like the bubbles in lemonade. It's nice to know our lives intersect in some way and the shocking nostalgia these pages elicit has some psychogeographic basis in fact.
Mark was living an altogether different life. His fleeting sexual encounters with both men and women are rendered life-size with vaseline and details of the grey-white British body of the 1960s no-one under fifty remembers. Torremolinos was a thing by 1976. He tells one lover "you've got a tide mark". (Hello nan. I've got a bit better at washing these days.) Equally he takes a friend's children to the seaside...bet it was Brighton...and feeds them nothing but sugar all day and sinks into the melancholy that was to destroy him.
No spoilers, but the writing is unusual and memorable. It hits the mark much more often than it misses and some of those misses would be fixed by a time machine back to mid-sixties London, but in some ways, the book is a time machine back to mid-sixties London.
April 12, 2024
I liked this well enough, but it also felt like a slightly thinner, queerer version of some of Under the Net, without the sturdier philosophical ideas that underpin Murdoch's London picaresque.
Some of its elements work well: the class consciousness brought to the mid-20th trope of the drifting city vagrant, so that you really feel the desperation, the feeling of being trapped without recourse to a more materially supported life, and how the narrator's sexuality impacts this issue and can't be separated from it; and I liked a lot of the imagery and the occasional flourishes of language. Some great moments of slumming it in 60s Soho as well - jazz bars and Lyons tea houses.
But the structure is a little too drifting, flatly episodic - characters come and go, and it takes Hyatt a while to introduce Daniel, and there isn't the right kind of internal life at times, so Leda just sort of wanders into things and coincidences, and it saps the narrative energy. I wasn't sure the philosophical passages really got to the heart of the questions about the nature of love and the spiritual/religious part of mankind that the novel seemed to be asking; and it feels haphazard at times, a random assemblage of events with little cause and effect. I do understand this is the reality of this person's life, but before it escalates into a suicide attempt, the writing becomes quite spare - I do this, I do that - and repetitive, and could have done with some tightening. It made the penultimate scene feel like it came out of nowhere, rather than like an inevitable culmination of the action and the ideas that had come before.
Some of its elements work well: the class consciousness brought to the mid-20th trope of the drifting city vagrant, so that you really feel the desperation, the feeling of being trapped without recourse to a more materially supported life, and how the narrator's sexuality impacts this issue and can't be separated from it; and I liked a lot of the imagery and the occasional flourishes of language. Some great moments of slumming it in 60s Soho as well - jazz bars and Lyons tea houses.
But the structure is a little too drifting, flatly episodic - characters come and go, and it takes Hyatt a while to introduce Daniel, and there isn't the right kind of internal life at times, so Leda just sort of wanders into things and coincidences, and it saps the narrative energy. I wasn't sure the philosophical passages really got to the heart of the questions about the nature of love and the spiritual/religious part of mankind that the novel seemed to be asking; and it feels haphazard at times, a random assemblage of events with little cause and effect. I do understand this is the reality of this person's life, but before it escalates into a suicide attempt, the writing becomes quite spare - I do this, I do that - and repetitive, and could have done with some tightening. It made the penultimate scene feel like it came out of nowhere, rather than like an inevitable culmination of the action and the ideas that had come before.
February 17, 2025
Written in 60's, lost, and published 2023. A gem of a novel, uncensured depiction of queerness in Soho and London. Refreshingly frank, modern-feeling. Small aching streams of consciousness, and a licentious, religious search for meaning. Peppered with beautiful dismal little vignettes of London.
You are very aware throughout, like in lots of Orwell, of the price of everything. I like that almost every scene revolves around finding a place for tea, or coffee.
Beautiful prose. Different feeling, in a good way, perhaps influenced by Mark Hyatt learning writing later in life, and his poetry.
~~~
“Love sucks everything out of one. You yield to abandon everything for it. If that's not a death wish, what is?”
~~~
“For youth is the beggar of knowledge, oblivious of men's and women's feelings, unaware of love. Yet it cries for love, like the bird in the sky that cries for its own space.”
~~~
"Your gay life will be the death of you"
"It was also my birth"
~~~
(Needless to say, I am still in love with him, but he doesn't like the idea of homosexuality and has forbidden me to show my love. So I have to bury it inside me when I am in his presence; in this way my love becomes the hermit of my solitude)
~~~
Outside I expect the world to greet me, but everyone is involved with their own little scene and I become another pioneer with hope of discovering a bus. But there is a fever of people and a long queue, all in quietism. So I'll walk to rub out the time. There's no merit in the morning, unless one is drunk, or romantic, dreaming of the black prince of a loving night. At such hours there is need for escape, not for love.
You are very aware throughout, like in lots of Orwell, of the price of everything. I like that almost every scene revolves around finding a place for tea, or coffee.
Beautiful prose. Different feeling, in a good way, perhaps influenced by Mark Hyatt learning writing later in life, and his poetry.
~~~
“Love sucks everything out of one. You yield to abandon everything for it. If that's not a death wish, what is?”
~~~
“For youth is the beggar of knowledge, oblivious of men's and women's feelings, unaware of love. Yet it cries for love, like the bird in the sky that cries for its own space.”
~~~
"Your gay life will be the death of you"
"It was also my birth"
~~~
(Needless to say, I am still in love with him, but he doesn't like the idea of homosexuality and has forbidden me to show my love. So I have to bury it inside me when I am in his presence; in this way my love becomes the hermit of my solitude)
~~~
Outside I expect the world to greet me, but everyone is involved with their own little scene and I become another pioneer with hope of discovering a bus. But there is a fever of people and a long queue, all in quietism. So I'll walk to rub out the time. There's no merit in the morning, unless one is drunk, or romantic, dreaming of the black prince of a loving night. At such hours there is need for escape, not for love.
September 4, 2023
'I am sick with myself. If I were God, I'd make men like myself.'
Whilst the extent to which Mark Hyatt's 20 year old protagonist, wrapped in self-loathing for both his lifestyle, sexuality and feelings of unrequited love is autobiographical is difficult to know for certain, Love, Leda reads in many ways like great auto-fiction.
Set most likely in late 50s or early 60s London, Love Leda inhabits a vivid whirlwind of emotion, place and personality that, given a strong biographical overlap, surely works from a core of personal experience of some kind or another. Given Mark Hyatt's struggles with his mental health whilst alive and his eventual suicide in 1972, one can speculate that the internal workings of such a jaded figure can't be too far from his own.
He views the world like no other. Large men are described as 'heavy with living' and elderly bohemians as 'having too many lines on their face to still be alive.' Its protagonist Leda is regularly amusing and razor sharp, but not necessarily always likeable - he is at times rude and arrogant, living with no fixed address and floating between benefactors. He is often caught up in feeling which he cannot control and sex is viewed often as a way to inflict pain on himself as much as it is a release or a way of sharing intimacy.
Yet this is always undercut by a self-awareness that is deep in its expression. Mark Hyatt's phrasing is completely idiosyncratic and given he learned literacy later in life, it makes it all the more impressive. A real powerhouse of a book.
Whilst the extent to which Mark Hyatt's 20 year old protagonist, wrapped in self-loathing for both his lifestyle, sexuality and feelings of unrequited love is autobiographical is difficult to know for certain, Love, Leda reads in many ways like great auto-fiction.
Set most likely in late 50s or early 60s London, Love Leda inhabits a vivid whirlwind of emotion, place and personality that, given a strong biographical overlap, surely works from a core of personal experience of some kind or another. Given Mark Hyatt's struggles with his mental health whilst alive and his eventual suicide in 1972, one can speculate that the internal workings of such a jaded figure can't be too far from his own.
He views the world like no other. Large men are described as 'heavy with living' and elderly bohemians as 'having too many lines on their face to still be alive.' Its protagonist Leda is regularly amusing and razor sharp, but not necessarily always likeable - he is at times rude and arrogant, living with no fixed address and floating between benefactors. He is often caught up in feeling which he cannot control and sex is viewed often as a way to inflict pain on himself as much as it is a release or a way of sharing intimacy.
Yet this is always undercut by a self-awareness that is deep in its expression. Mark Hyatt's phrasing is completely idiosyncratic and given he learned literacy later in life, it makes it all the more impressive. A real powerhouse of a book.
June 5, 2025
What a sheer gem of a book that almost never was. The backstory of how this novel was written, lost, found and published are just as interesting as reading the book. Recommend to anyone interested in queer lit, from a societal pov, though check the CW beforehand.
It was an acute study of depression. Considering Hyatt gained literacy very late on in life if was very cleverly written, and observational. I lost him a bit during the trip to the seaside toward the end, as the plot seemed to move along at a pace up until this point. But I enjoyed the book immensely. It made me very sad. But that's okay.
And this was absolutely not the point of the book but as a side-line emotion it also made me yearn for a time when you could pick up work on a day-to-day basis, no paperwork, Health/Safety questionnaires, annual appraisals, references...you could go to a coffee shop and do the dishes for some money and just exist. The irony of how free this is compared with how trapped the queer community were in the 60s is not lost on me.
CW : Depression, emotional detachment, familial abuse (emotional and physical), ostracised individuals, homophobia, suicide
It was an acute study of depression. Considering Hyatt gained literacy very late on in life if was very cleverly written, and observational. I lost him a bit during the trip to the seaside toward the end, as the plot seemed to move along at a pace up until this point. But I enjoyed the book immensely. It made me very sad. But that's okay.
And this was absolutely not the point of the book but as a side-line emotion it also made me yearn for a time when you could pick up work on a day-to-day basis, no paperwork, Health/Safety questionnaires, annual appraisals, references...you could go to a coffee shop and do the dishes for some money and just exist. The irony of how free this is compared with how trapped the queer community were in the 60s is not lost on me.
CW : Depression, emotional detachment, familial abuse (emotional and physical), ostracised individuals, homophobia, suicide
August 1, 2023
3.5.
Written in the mid 60s but only published recently, ‘Love, Leda’ is a poetic portrait of working-class queerness and of a sordid Soho now vanished. Leda, our protagonist and narrator, is a bed-hopping bohemian, languishing over an unrequited love and failing to fit in anywhere; his freedom and financial situation dependent upon the generosity of strangers and his more stable friends. The prose itself is erratic and neurotic, like Leda himself; it can sometimes read a bit like “I went here…I went there…I did this…I did that…I thought about God for a bit”, but there are some magnificent lines and it’s an interesting slice of pre-1967 Sexual Offences Act life on the fringes. The book itself is quite short and just about manages to not overstay its welcome; indeed, I found the majority of it propulsively readable.
Written in the mid 60s but only published recently, ‘Love, Leda’ is a poetic portrait of working-class queerness and of a sordid Soho now vanished. Leda, our protagonist and narrator, is a bed-hopping bohemian, languishing over an unrequited love and failing to fit in anywhere; his freedom and financial situation dependent upon the generosity of strangers and his more stable friends. The prose itself is erratic and neurotic, like Leda himself; it can sometimes read a bit like “I went here…I went there…I did this…I did that…I thought about God for a bit”, but there are some magnificent lines and it’s an interesting slice of pre-1967 Sexual Offences Act life on the fringes. The book itself is quite short and just about manages to not overstay its welcome; indeed, I found the majority of it propulsively readable.
September 12, 2024
A strikingly unique short story follows Leda, a man navigating the complexities of unrequited love for a married man in 1960s Soho. Homeless and drifting between odd jobs, Leda searches for love and companionship in the unconventional corners of the city.
This book, both unusual and direct, stands out for its honest portrayal of queer and working-class life from the 1960's. It captures everything from mundane conversations to the alienation of labor and the everyday transactions of money and sex.
The story mirrors the author’s own life—an impoverished poet with no formal qualifications beyond this narrative, published 50 years after his death. It offers an unflinching view of the working class and the queer community in the wake of the Homosexual Offences Act of 1967.
Raw and gray in its texture, this work is a compelling addition to our academic shelves.
This book, both unusual and direct, stands out for its honest portrayal of queer and working-class life from the 1960's. It captures everything from mundane conversations to the alienation of labor and the everyday transactions of money and sex.
The story mirrors the author’s own life—an impoverished poet with no formal qualifications beyond this narrative, published 50 years after his death. It offers an unflinching view of the working class and the queer community in the wake of the Homosexual Offences Act of 1967.
Raw and gray in its texture, this work is a compelling addition to our academic shelves.
August 18, 2024
Although only a short, quick read, Love, Leda still packs a punch. It offers a sympathetic portrayal of a young man struggling to define himself and a fascinating snapshot of LGBT life in 1960s London. It is a frank tale that doesn't pull any punches in its depiction of the ups and downs of Leda's existence, and it comes across as honest and open, bleak at times but with glimpses of hope between the dark clouds. I would recommend this book to fans of LGBT fiction that presents a realistic view of everyday life in the recent past without shying away from the darker aspects the characters face. I am giving it 4.5 stars.
I received this book as a free eBook ARC via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.
I received this book as a free eBook ARC via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.
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