The Outcast

by Anna Elisabet Weirauch

“The Outcast” brings forward to its conclusion the story of Myra Rudloff, begun in “The Scorpion.” To those who read the previous work, the characters will be old friends and need no introduction. For those who have not yet read “The Scorpion,” I am noting briefly the trend of Myra's earlier experiences, so that this book may prove to be more interesting in its development.

179 pages, Kindle Edition

First published November 2, 2008

Reviews

[BJ Lillis · Rating 5 out of 5]

The Outcast, thus titled for its English release in 1933, is the final volume of Anna Elisabet Weirauch’s pathbreaking queer novel The Scorpion, which I’ve reviewed here. It is every bit the equal of its predecessors. The miracle of The Outcast (a highly inappropriate title, I must say), is that it is not really a queer novel at all—as if Weirauch, having composed two fabulous volumes on the theme of Myra’s sexuality, resolved to write a volume about Myra, a woman, who only so happens to be gay, trying to reconcile what she wants and needs, to come to terms with herself and her desires, to learn to love without giving so much of herself that she loses her center, to accept the reality that friends and lovers are as likely to grow apart as together.

Weirauch’s prose shades purple, perhaps, but then, you can keep your elegant little bonbons, and I will relish this many-layered black forest cake of a novel, rich and sweet and, if at times a little queasy going down, well, the richest delights always are. I will take my extra adjectives, thank you very much, and with them feel the “flaming glory of the Autumn woods,” before “the rains of November tore the last rag from the naked stiff skeletons of the trees, dissolved out all the lustrous colors and buried the year in a mouldering, decaying layer against the earth” (110); I will relish with Myra the beauty and cruelty of the world and the beauty and cruelty of human beings; I will luxuriate in the fullness of Myra’s humanity, her conflicting desires, her prejudices, her caprices.

Endings, happy and otherwise, are always a hot topic in gay literature. I suppose this volume’s ending could be interpreted—surely, has been interpreted—as a renunciation of queerness. And yet, I feel confident that this is a misreading. Myra must “learn to be alone,” yes, because “every person should learn how to be alone. So that he should not, in his fear of lonesomeness, cling to someone and suffer on that account or make someone else suffer. … Why, one must be stunted and stunt others if one has to go through life as a clinging vine.” (172). I do not see, in Myra’s renunciation of the beautiful and cruel Fiamma, even the slightest bit of shame or self-denial. On the contrary, Myra has learned to be content within herself—a contentment she could never have found had she not accepted the fullness and rightness of her desires.

[Bethany · Rating 4 out of 5]

I was concerned because I keep seeing these books referred to as a trilogy, but all I could find was this one and The Scorpion. But... if my research from google-translated German websites is correct, these kindle editions of The Scorpion and The Outcast seem to collectively have all three parts of the original (Der Skorpion). The former having the first two parts of Mette's story, and the latter having the conclusion. Hopefully that is correct. Either way, I love these lost gems of lesbian literature. Ahhh, Mette! How I love you! (Though her name was translated as "Myra" in this version.)

[lavendread · Rating 4 out of 5]

The conclusion to Metta’s story from where it’s left off in The Scorpion is I think mostly a happy one. She’s still such a young person who’s life experience and romantic pursuits have been all that she attributes her self worth to, so the decision to thrust herself away from that which she clings to speaks of the longing for self development (and the terror of repeating tragedy). Of course the book flap from the 1950s makes it sound as though she condemns her sexuality but she despairs more her ignorance and the overwhelm it brings her. This, and The Scorpion, are some of the best early queer lit I’ve had the pleasure to read, it’s all extremely thoughtfully composed and surprisingly timeless to interpersonal relationships.