[There's] no doubt in my mind that [the sadism in "Rushes"] is not just a ritual played out among characters. It's also a literary rite directed at the reader. The language of the text demands that the reader suffer sexually: hurt, submit, and therefore love this book.

That's too much to ask. Still, provided one is willing to make the effort, there's a lot to appreciate here, if not to love. For one thing, Mr. Rechy is working a difficult vein of fiction, the tragedy of manners. For another, he supplies an abundance of arcane information about the homosexual pecking order. Then there's the book's construction. It's painstaking, it's controlled by chains of correspondence that link, for example, the garish paintings on the walls of the bar to the medieval Stations of the Cross, leading to the degradation of the last chapter.

But finally it seems to me...