“Homosexuality was tolerated as long as it remained in (or was weaponized by) the patriarchal hierarchy.” – Alan Bray, Homosexuality in Renaissance England
WHEN Homosexuality in Renaissance England was first published in 1988, it came at a significant historical moment when sexuality studies were beginning to gain recognition as a serious academic field. Though some might classify this text as dry and overly academic, Bray’s book is groundbreaking, not only for its meticulous archival research but also for the way it reframes our understanding of early modern sexualities, (homo)social bonds, and the language of intimacy.
Through the 1990s and early 2000s, Bray’s work rippled outward, shaping gay/queer history, Renaissance studies, and the emerging field of Queer Theory. His influence has lasted because his work wasn’t just about recording the past; it challenged how we think about identity, desire, and the power dynamics that shape how history is written in the first place.
At its core, Bray’s goal here is deceptively simple: to explore the lived experiences and cultural constructions of same-sex desire and friendship in early modern England. Like many twentieth century academics who choose to write about this topic, Bray does not to place modern categories (like “homosexual,” “heterosexual” or “bisexual”) onto the Renaissance (which is ironic given the title—but I digress). In the context of social and personal self-identity, at least. Bray examines court records, theological treatises, and personal correspondence to map how individuals understood and enacted same-sex intimacy within the frameworks available to them. He shows that close male friendships, domestic arrangements, and erotic language could intersect in ways that challenge modern assumptions about sexuality in pre-modern contexts.
Long before “queer” was widely used in academic writing or as a socially grounded, individualized identity, Bray encouraged his readers to also be cautious about putting present-day designations onto the past. (I don’t like using the term “labels” because it has come to have such a negative connotation, even when its use is meant benignly.) This approach prefigures a central thinking of later Queer Theory: that identity categories are historically contingent and culturally produced, not ubiquitous. As I’ve stated in the past, I find this ideology too rigid, too absolutist, though understandable in a historical context. [Above Image: An 1872 painting by English artist Marcus Stone depicts Edward II frolicking with Piers Gaveston, 1st Earl of Cornwall on the left, while nobles and courtiers observe.]
A useful way to understand Bray’s work is to consider it alongside Jonathan Goldberg’s Queering the Renaissance (Duke University Press, 1993). While Bray is meticulous about historical particularity, Goldberg’s collection of essays uses the idea of “queering” more provocatively and theoretically. Goldberg isn’t only interested in what people did or how they described it; he wants to unsettle the very structures of Renaissance texts and traditions. His work departs from strictly historical analysis and moves into a more theoretical interrogation of norms, desire, and literary form.
In Queering the Renaissance, Goldberg and his contributors treat “queering” as both a way of thinking about identity and a political act. To “queer” the Renaissance is to challenge fixed ideas about gender, sexuality, genre, and historical periods in early modern literature and culture. This connects with Bray’s careful attention to historical context, but Goldberg takes it a step further into theory. Where Bray asks, “How did people understand and live same-sex desire in early modern England?” Goldberg asks, “How do early modern texts create and push back against social norms?” In this way, Bray provides the historical foundation that makes Goldberg’s more theoretical undertaking using Queer possible.
A further legacy of Bray’s book is its impact on subsequent gay/queer historical study. After 1988, many academics felt emboldened to explore same-sex intimacy in historical contexts far beyond England. Bray’s model of combining archival depth with critical sensitivity to language and culture became a touchstone for historians who wanted to recover marginalized lives without placing them into modern identity categories. This remains a central concern in queer history today: how to tell stories about desire and community without erasing their historical specificity. [Image On Left: Caravaggio’s “The Musicians” (1597).]
Again, in light of all this, my primary concern with Queer Theory and with texts like Bray’s and Goldberg’s is that homosexuality is too often looked at and treated only as “same-sex desire,” without fully accounting for the emotional dimensions of this non-heteronormative human experience. For many people, sexual identity is not merely situational or sexually expressive but deeply inherent, bound up with emotional attachment and a feeling of connection to one’s own sex that shapes how desire is lived and understood.
Speaking for myself, I’m not a homosexual—or exclusively same-sex attracted—because I’ve let society’s demands to fit into a binary system of sexual categorization influence me. I am who I feel myself to be at my core, my authentic self. Queer people, including me, are not all fluid emotionally or sexually, and no one has the right to tell me who I am, how I feel, or why I connect with an identity that feels true to me.
Understanding how people have perceived, explored, and lived their individual truths throughout history is complex and often elusive. Our comprehension is limited by the tools available to us, such as literature, art, and various forms of documentation—whether scholarly, legal, or political. Even when examining personal correspondence, we can interpret these letters as expressions of romantic love or as indicators of deep friendship, depending on our perspective—or bias. Therefore, we must always approach the exploration, discussion, and “queering” of history with thoughtful consideration of the past and the present.
Homosexuality in Renaissance England is an important work that encourages discourse about the way we think about early modern sexuality. Its impact extends beyond its immediate subject, influencing the rise of Queer Theory and literary works, such as Queering the Renaissance. Reading Bray alongside Goldberg and other queer theorists shows a lively conversation between past and present, between historical detail and theoretical ideas, that continues to shape how we study sexuality, literature, and culture today.
