I picked up a dusty old book amongst many others, not expecting much and certainly not with the childish greed brought on by the glossiness of new books and their promise of knowledge and poetry (which then , mostly, fades into a redundant echo of other echoes). What I did expect was an exhausted expose of the degeneracy of urbanism, the tireless decadence of city life hand in hand with the ever-so-popular angst brought on by the opium fumes of existentialist discourse. What I did not expect was this almost overbearing burden of humanness which is only possible with children and those poignant post-Freudian/ Mann-like characters lost in the events, memories and guilt of the past. Rechy obviously loves his characters, he is Sylvia. protectively surveying his 'children'; one gets the feeling that while describing each of his characters with a guilt-ridden abandon of a person attempting to understand whilst not getting involved, he is in fact clothing their naked vulnerability with a veil of dignity ...Kathy, Chi-Chi, Miss Destiny, the queens, the male hustlers, the homosexuals, the sad and the lonely, the marginalised and the fetishised ... Rechy takes us in the darkest hours of the night through the lonesome alleys of cruising grounds and bars to rediscover what has already been established with Neitzche .. that we are all 'Human, all too Human.'