Lesbians in Twentieth-Century Portugal: Notes Towards History*

Dee Pryde

“Há uma espécie de asma mental, em que sufoco.”

[There is a kind of mental asthma, in which I suffocate]

Luís Miguel Nava1

“Some people are [lesbian]. Get over it.”

The 2008 slogan used by the London-based

equal rights organisation Stonewall.

(“Lesbian” replaces the original “gay”.)

There are, there always have been, lesbians in Portugal. However, there is no published

research by Portuguese academics on their history and culture.2 Likewise, there is a dire paucity

of translations of lesbian-themed literature, if one excepts Patricia Highsmith’s Carol, published

in the 1990s and avidly read seemingly by every Portuguese lesbian in Lisbon. Popular public

and cultural political figures do not have their lesbian relationships acknowledged in the

obituaries and other writings that appear after they die. There is a very real sense that being a

lesbian dooms a woman to the sidelines of public esteem, that her sexuality diminishes, even

cancels out, the work for which she was applauded in life.

A very obvious example of this, in the early decades of the twentieth century, was Judith

Teixeira, the poet and lesbian who “flaunted it” to the extent that she attracted the attention of

such young fascists as Marcello Caetano. In the turmoil that was the First Republic, the Lisbon

Civil Government, egged on by these future pillars of Salazar’s Estado Novo [New State] and

their fellow-travellers, decreed a mini Kristallnacht avant la lettre of entartete writers. Thus it

was that Teixeira had the distinction, along with two male writers, of having her books

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condemned to public burning. Teixeira’s poetry, while not on the whole overtly lesbian, does,

however, include one poem, “A Minha Amante” [My (Female) Lover], ostensibly, if its epigraph

is to be believed, about morphine, which is an admirable, sensual portrayal of the lesbian sex act

(Teixeira 62-63). In addition to the poetry she managed to publish, Teixeira did have other works

planned. However, the advent of the fascist New State effectively silenced her, and little is

known of her from then on.

Less flamboyant lesbian writers were active at the same time. One, a poet I am not

allowed to name, led a far more low-profile life and wrote far more restrained poetry. Unlike so

many other lesbians of her time, including Teixeira, she never married or had children and

moved in female and lesbian circles. Her indirect descendents hold letters which, I am told, are

so explicit that no one, except her biographer-to-be, is allowed to see them, much less make use

of them in a biography or research. The biography, when it is published, will make coy reference

to “close friends”, on the assumption that readers can read between the lines. It is not altogether

fanciful to expect that these letters will, at some stage, be destroyed for posterity. It is a sorry

state of affairs that in this day and age, when the difference between “friend” and “lover” is clear

and everything else is a euphemism, there will be no Margaret Forster-style disclosure, in her

recent biography of Daphne du Maurier, of the writer’s hidden sexuality, which was ultimately

accepted by du Maurier’s own children. The only living relative of a lesbian active in the world

of twentieth-century Portuguese theatre threatens, through her lawyers, to sue anyone who

publicly identifies the deceased woman’s sexuality, despite the fact that the latter lived in a long-

term relationship with another woman; these threats have effectively cowed and silenced those

who knew the couple well. The only lesbian identified as such in Cecilia Barreira’s study

História das Nossas Avós [History of Our Grandmothers] is, inevitably, Judith Teixeira, whom

few authors feel able to ignore, no matter how perfunctory the treatment dispensed. Teixeira is,

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however, classified by Barreira in terms of “homossexualidade latente” or “hermafroditismo”

and “androginia” (164-65), clinical diagnoses that are never substantiated. An attempt to elicit

from a lesbian academic information on lesbians she is likely to have encountered during the

course of her research met with refusal.

Other writers who should be properly researched include Irene Lisboa. In conversation

with a man involved in making a documentary on Lisboa’s life, in which the writer’s “close

female friend” was extensively interviewed, I learnt that the latter had preserved Lisboa’s room

clearly as a “shrine” (his word). It was obvious to my interlocutor’s mind that Lisboa and her

friend were more than “friends,” for all that the latter did get heterosexually married. The

documentary was never broadcast and, according to my interlocutor, vanished. Such unmaking

of history is even more robustly undertaken in the case of two Azorean writers and activists,

Alice Moderno (1867-1946) and Maria Evelina de Sousa (1879-1946). In her 1987 study of

Moderno, Maria Conceição Vilhena furtively refers to the “strong bonds” linking these two

women. By 2001, all reference to a relationship between them had vanished from Vilhena’s

second book on Moderno, while João Esteves’s respective two entries in the recent voluminous

Dicionário no Feminino fail to rehabilitate their relationship. Olga Moraes Sarmento (1881-

1948) is another case in point, as Dicionário no Feminino goes to equally great lengths to

“ghost” her (Castle 6). Whereas it is quite easy to ascertain that Sarmento lived in Paris for 30

years (Sarmento 238), the same João Esteves, although aware of her memoir, has her spending a

mere “some years” there, with no further elaboration, while the Portuguese Wikipedia page

reduces her decades in Paris to “she lived in Paris during WWI.” Sarmento’s memoir is in fact

quite revealing and points rather clearly to her being a lesbian “ghost” in need of academic

exorcising. Sarmento gives as her reason for leaving Portugal behind “o meu eterno conflito com

as convenções, com os preconceitos portugueses” [my never-ending conflict with Portuguese

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conventions, with Portuguese bigotry] (233) and states, out of the blue, that “não me seduziria

ser … Renée Vivien” [I do not feel at all inclined to be Renée Vivien] (245). Given Sarmento’s

friendships with known lesbians, among whom Lucie Delarue-Mardrus, and especially given her

30-year relationship with Baroness Hélène van Zuylen, née Rothschild, who was involved with

Vivien from 1902 to 1907, it is not unlikely that Sarmento knew Vivien and, through Delarue-

Mardrus, perhaps even Natalie Clifford Barney and her salon. However, her “friendship” with

the Baroness must have been altogether closer: in later years it was Sarmento who saved the

Jewish Baroness’s life from the invading Nazis, fleeing with her first to Lisbon, then to New

York. The question might well be asked: why did it fall to Sarmento to save van Zuylen’s life,

not to the powerful Rothschilds? Additional snippets of evidence raise suspicion and clamour for

further research: the fact that, despite her renewed “constante e ansiosa vontade de evasão” [my

constant and anxious desire to get away] (354) from Portugal, Sarmento settled in Lisbon after

the war because the Baroness did not wish to return to Paris; that she dedicated her memoir to the

Baroness in rather effusive terms (e.g., the mention of her “saudade inconsolável” [she misses

van Zuylen “inconsolably”]); the latter’s notorious lesbianism; Sarmento’s estrangement from

the “servidores mais directos da Religião e da Igreja” [the more direct servants of Religion and

the Church] (363); her mention of the “[m]uitas coisas [que] deixei de escrever nestas páginas”

(364) [much (that) I have omitted in these pages] because of what appears to have been the

censor in her life, one Fr. Francisco; finally, her grave musing at the end of the memoir on her

status as a “pecadora” [sinner] who will rely on God’s mercy alone.

If the Portuguese First Republic was not particularly kind to lesbians, the fascist New

State clamped down on anything that smacked of subversion, not even having to bother to

rename Avenida da Liberdade [Liberty Avenue]. Lesbians, perhaps the most subversive of social

categories in their withdrawal from heteronormativity, had to a very large degree been forced by

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societal and family pressures to get heterosexually married. Marriages of convenience – in which

the husband was very often a gay man – became even more necessary under the fascist

dictatorship. However, survivors of that era testify to the existence of parties held in such

makeshift households, which were very often raided, with hosts and guests being hauled to jail

for the night, to be admonished, and no doubt to provide titillation for the policemen. For the

cognoscenti, there were bars and night clubs where lesbians and their friends could go (Almeida

18-19) 3. In so doing they courted danger – of exposure to their families and other hazards. But

the human spirit is irrepressible, and the parties did not cease. Under the fascist State, censorship

was rife and ready. Manuela Amaral, the author of a number of self-published books, saw several

poems in her Hino Proibido stamped as “Poema Anulado por ser considerado impróprio” [Poem

Annulled as unfit] 4. It must be noted that the poems targeted by the stamp contain not a murmur

of anything that might be construed as lesbian. However, the censor knew where to cancel out.

The military take-over of 25 April 1974, although not allowing electoral democracy 5,

did, however, bring long-overdue freedoms, especially for women. Enthusiasm over the so-

called Revolution of the Carnations obscured the fact that the flowers, besides being of a single

species, were monochromatic. Early attempts to form the equivalent of a Gay Liberation Front

petered out. In the immediate wake of the 1974 coup, a Women’s Liberation Movement

(Movimento de Libertação das Mulheres) was formed. Lesbians flocked to it, as they later would

to Maria de Lourdes Pintasilgo’s bid for the Presidency of the Republic. Like the American

NOW, the MLM was not particularly welcoming of lesbians; the fact remains, however, that

many women discovered their submerged sexuality there. The MLM’s reach and influence were

short, being mostly active in Lisbon and never succeeding in creating a lasting, grassroots

organization. The organization’s public event, the controversial demonstration in Parque

Eduardo VII in Lisbon, did not even get off the ground: when the MLM women arrived, they

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were met by cohorts of men, several with their pants down to expose their genitalia. The women,

numbering about 20, who had planned on burning the symbolic objects of their oppression (toy

versions of kitchen utensils, etc.), had to flee the site. The facts of this fiasco are not widely

acknowledged, if at all. However, a participant’s recollections are recorded in “Entrevista com

‘Ofélia’” [Interview with “Ofélia”] 6. In the mid 1980s, the rump of the MLM was ensconced

behind an anonymous solid iron door in a little frequented side street on the fringes of Lisbon

proper. This rump, which adopted the somewhat mystifying name of IDM-Identificação-

Documentação-Mulheres [Identification-Documentation-Women], comprised about 20 women,

more than 90% of whom were lesbian. Even so, utter denial of lesbian sexuality reigned in the

organization. In conversation with one of these women, I learnt that the group’s extreme

lesbophobic self-censorship stemmed from a higher vocation not to “scare away heterosexual

women,” which precluded even the slightest public display of affection between partners. IDM

had published four issues of a magazine, Lua, in which there was not a whisper of the “l-word.”

Either because the farce was unsustainable or the money ran out, there were no further issues of

Lua. There were also virtually no visitors to IDM: the group did not publicize itself.

At about the same time, there was a discussion programme on Portuguese state

television’s Channel Two which tackled controversial and taboo subjects. One of the daring

subjects planned for an episode of this programme was “homosexuality.” High farce and deep

fear mingled in the invitation extended to and accepted by one of the IDM lesbians: she was to

speak as the heterosexual mother of a lesbian daughter. No matter that it was she, the mother,

who was lesbian and all her daughters were heterosexual. The unflappable mother appeared to

have no qualms about defending the issue concerned, but it is not easy to forget the fear and

apprehension which gripped her lover and friends, lest viewers see through the charade.

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 There was good reason to be afraid. In 1984, a court case was heard concerning an adult

who had had lesbian sex with a minor, an occurrence which is of course utterly to be condemned.

What was outrageous, however, was the judges’ written ruling. The latter was headlined “O

lesbianismo também é crime” [Lesbianism, too, is a crime.] This statement reveals several

layers: a) women and their doings had been invisible and were only now being discovered; b)

women had been held in such low esteem that, until this ruling, a little lesbian dalliance had not

been viewed as threatening; c) since love between women was not criminalised by law, there

was, at best, a linguistic mismatch between what the judges thought they were saying and what

they actually said. These demiurges appear not to have been very well versed in law, since the

body of their ruling holds much in common with the ramblings of nineteenth-century Portuguese

last wills and testaments. With unimpeachable bigotry, lesbianism itself, as opposed to the actual

crime committed, was categorized as follows: the minor was placed “em grande risco moral,

dados os desvios da sexualidade normal em que foi induzida” [in grave moral risk, given the

deviation from normal sexuality to which she was lured]; the ruling goes on to describe

lesbianism as “comportamento sexual socialmente vergonhoso e moralmente reprovável”

[socially shameful and morally condemnable sexual behaviour] 7.

These sentiments were hardly the product of extensive years of education, learning and

legal training. They were, in fact, the atavistic fear and loathing which permeated Portuguese

society as a whole, from whose loins these judges had sprung. In post-coup Portugal, there was a

convention that interviewers asked lesbian (or gay) interviewees what they thought about

“homosexuality.” This was the case of an interview with Ana Zanatti, a popular female TV

presenter who had long been the face of Portugal at important cultural events and who did

nothing in her private life to conceal her sexual orientation and life-style 8. When, in the mid-

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1990s, Portuguese television held debates on homosexuality, the panel invariably included a

Roman Catholic priest and a psychiatrist. The priest was eventually dropped, much later.

All this subterfuge and sacrificing for a higher cause – that of heterosexual women and of

the public face of female sexual mores in Portugal – was shattered by the advent of the first post-

coup lesbian publication, Organa. The lesbian couple involved in this venture were of a far

younger generation and had been extensively exposed to non-Portuguese feminist and lesbian

influence. This publication was unashamedly and realistically samizdat: A4 photocopies folded

into A5 format and stapled. Their efforts were not without difficulty. Seeking to advertise

Organa, they were met by the outright refusal by mainstream newspapers even to consider

printing the word “lesbian” in their advertisements. The women of Organa, who had in the

meantime grown in number, also organized lesbian and feminist consciousness-raising meetings

in that blissful dawn.

Organa published from 1990 to December 1992. Close upon its heels, in March 1993,

there followed Lilás, so named as the nearest Portuguese equivalent to the term used in Betty

Friedan’s infamous “lavender menace” remark. The original title floated for this publication had

been “Lesbiário” [Lesbiary], but this was felt to be too strong for Portuguese stomachs. Even so,

the words “lesbian publication,” prominently displayed on the front cover, caused quite a stir

even in lesbian circles. People simply were not accustomed to the word. Indeed, a significant

number of more timorous lesbians used the quaint expression “feminine homosexuals”. Lilás’s

target audience was most emphatically the lesbian who lived in a ghetto of one – herself –

located in small towns and villages, some of which lacking even street names; or even in the

larger villages which comprised lesbian Lisbon. The publication was unabashedly triumphalist,

validating and Pride-ful, sweeping away self-loathing and disinformation. To this day, Lilás’s

“news in brief” section remains invaluable, covering as it did lesbian and gay-related events from

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all over the world. It also made a concerted effort to record, in the form of interviews, the life-

stories and the histories of lesbians young and old. The magazine was able to place small

advertisements in one of the more enlightened newspapers but relied very heavily on word-of-

mouth. Its circulation cannot be determined with any degree of certainty, as each issue was

extensively lent around lesbian circles.

This bandying about of the “l-word” caused a flutter of interest in the newspapers. An

article published before Lilás appeared on the scene, in which common sense seems to have been

in abeyance, taxonomised lesbians as lovers and collectors of antique furniture. Interviews with

Lilás’s editorial board and other women now began to appear, especially in the form of “how-I-

got-to-be-a-lesbian” accounts. In an interview given to the newspaper O Público 9, the women of

Lilás placed lesbianism firmly where it belonged and belongs: in the political sphere. In other

interviews of the time, however, the phrenological urge on the part of interviewers was

practically impossible to withstand.

This interest spread to the book-publishing world. The title of one offering, A

Homossexualidade Feminina [Feminine Homosexuality] by Teresa Castro d’Aire, lured the

reader into a bookshop only to find that, rather than a dissertation on lesbianism, there was a

mismatch between the title and what was on offer: a slight volume of 137 large-print pages,

containing coming-out-type interviews, at least some of which involving a pseudonym, as was

customary. Not to be outdone by all this lesbian activity, João Alves da Costa published Mil

Lésbicas Submarinas [A Thousand Lesbians Under the Sea, a play on the title of Jules Verne’s

20,000 Leagues under the Sea], a story involving two “lesbians” doing their utmost to bed a

football player. The Vatican-inspired Daniel-Ange, having finally realised that same-sex sexual

activity is anything but unnatural in the natural world, exhorted readers of his Homossexual:

Quem És Tu? Para Onde Vais? [Homosexual – Who Art Thou? Whither Goest Thou?] to turn

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away from same-sex love, proclaiming in bold upper-case letters: “You are not an animal!” (91)

(i.e., “thou shalt not be ‘homosexual’” 10.

Undeterred, other lesbian and LGBT organisations began to appear. I single out Clube

Safo [Club Sappho] and Rede ex-aequo, which are still active. The lesbian Clube Safo was not

Lisbon-based; it published a newsletter, Zona Livre [Free Zone], organized debates and other

meetings in different Portuguese towns, and had its annual, much attended, camping week in the

summer months. Ex-aequo, which published very useful, informative booklets on LGBT matters,

was directed at young people between the ages of 16 and 30. It is by no means its fault that

youngsters under the age of 16 were and are left to fend for themselves, in what can only be

described as a particularly unfriendly environment.

The last year of the 1990s ended on a sour institutional note. On January 6, the Conselho

Superior de Estatistica [Higher Council for Statistics] published its table of “deficiencies” (as

“disabilities” are still known in Portuguese). One such deficiency was the “deficiency of the

heterosexual function” (see Andrade 38). It would have made sense for lesbians and gay men to

line up for their disability pensions to make the state put its money where its mouth was.

However, instead of this rather pleasing fantasy, an uproar ensued, with prominent intellectuals

lending their voices to it. The noise reached France and grew even louder. Even so, it took two

long months for the responsible body to withdraw its table of deficiencies. With hindsight, it was

the heterosexual population who stood to lose the most from this taxonomy: centuries of hetero-

love poetry, not to mention just about all of Hollywood’s output, had been reduced to a mere

“function.” Clearly, the umbilical link between sex and compulsory procreation had not yet been

severed. In this context, one remembers with fondness Natália Correia’s lightning-speed,

corrosive poem (involving the activity of “truca” [a no-nonsense, slangy reference to the sex

act]) written and read out in the heat of a parliamentary debate on abortion (1982).

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 The no longer fledgling twenty-first century has ushered in some improvement, notably

the banning of discrimination on the grounds of sexual orientation. That came in 2004,

interestingly the same year which saw a teenage girl kicked out of her home by her parents, who

found out about her sexual orientation from a TV documentary, which did not name names or

show faces (the parents recognised their daughter’s shoes, however). She was not the first to

suffer such treatment, nor, I fear, will she be the last. In any event, the state itself, in insisting

that marriage must be between a man and a woman, has all the while been breaking its own anti-

discrimination laws. Another mismatch.

The hyper-active, ubiquitous lesbophobia of the New State has, as already intimated, slid

with the greatest of ease into post-coup, now twenty-first century Portugal. If elsewhere lesbians

are “ghosted” (to echo again Terry Castle’s diagnosis), in Portugal their very ghosts are

exorcised to oblivion by means of ruthless and skillful sculpting of the facts. Such an example is

to be found in Fernando Cascais’s article “Diferentes como só nós” [Different as only We Can

Be], in which the author is anxious to prove that “GLBT” organisations in Portugal sprang from

the AIDS epidemic. His first step is to make “the left” monolithic, which enables him completely

to ignore the lesbian and gay GTH – Grupo de Trabalho Homossexual [Homosexual Working

Group], whose work, starting in the late 1980s, was as extensive as it was precious and who met

in the premises of the PSR [Revolutionary Socialist Party]. (The group disbanded in 2003.) Lilás

is also excised with surgical precision from Cascais’s account. An obscure reference to

“separatists” is made, as if separatism were even possible in a country like Portugal where

traditional male occupations remain as male-dominated as ever: any would-be separatist would

be hard put to find a female plumber, a female carpenter, etc., etc. Even a charge of misandry

among Portuguese lesbians – possibly what Cascais meant – would be difficult to substantiate. In

conversations with lesbians who had been raped by males and with those who had endured

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childhood sexual abuse by male relatives, I never detected traces of man-hating: sadly, there was

self-hatred. (I suspect we are here faced with the age-old problem of foreign terms, concepts and

events being imperfectly understood in Portugal.) However, those many activists who remember

the actual events can easily testify to the fact that the group at the centre of Cascais’s “history”

was a small gathering of men, understandably concerned with the AIDS crisis but by no means

representative of anything other than themselves. These gatherings eventually organized

themselves into an association, under whose auspices a number of lesbians produced the

newspaper-type Trivia. Quite soon, the order came for publication to cease: exactly three

numbers of Trivia were produced.

It is not just this particular instance of what might strike one as “homo-patriarchy” that

marked the noughties of this century. Hetero-patriarchy has not been idle. Around 2007-08, what

appeared to be a concerted effort at (hetero-)sexualising everyday Portuguese life made itself

felt. The Yellow Pages sported a gracefully ageing hetero-couple on its cover; Flora margarine

tubs chose a young man and young woman in coupledom interaction; Weetabix, the breakfast

cereal, followed a similar path; the state-owned mortgage provider advertised its services on its

ATMs with a Flora margarine-type couple; the Post Office still prominently offers a children’s

book titled O Grande Livro da Sexualidade [The Great Book of Sexuality] with a cover

displaying two naked children, one with a ‘boy’s’ haircut, the other with a ‘girl’s’ hairstyle,
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holding hands and looking over their shoulders at the malleable young reader . At the other

extreme, FNAC, which owns the only adequately stocked bookshops in Lisbon, has in its Chiado

outlet a small portion of a shelf headed (in English) “Lesbian and Gay”. Expressing this label in

a foreign language hints loudly at squeamishness and effectively distances all things lesbian and

gay from Portuguese reality. But even more striking are the contents on display: pornography

and “erotic” literature, including Anaïs Nin’s Delta of Venus, simply because it is “erotic” and

12
unmindful of the fact that it is heterosexual in content. For a long time, FNAC-Chiado resisted

placing the recently published anthology of Adrienne Rich’s poetry in Portuguese translation,

Uma Paciência Selvagem [A Wild Patience], on this shelf portion. The reason given was that

Rich’s book was “poetry,” the inference being that it could not therefore be “lesbian” 12.

Portugal is not, indeed, the worst possible country for lesbians to live in. That honour

must go to a host of other countries. To my knowledge, no Portuguese lesbian has ever asked for

political asylum in the United Kingdom, for instance. However, many of the more financially

privileged lesbians (and gay men) seek cultural asylum in London every weekend, and others

save up to go for a week’s holiday in Amsterdam for a proper Pride Parade. Furthermore,

through the careful suppression of the lesbian past, a spirit of omertà appears to stalk the

Portuguese academic land. To counter this (not so) new censorship, I now say that a multi-

pronged intervention is needed. I only hope we will not have to rely on the type of rescue

envisaged by Margaret Atwood at the end of her The Handmaid’s Tale.

NOTES

* I wrote this article for A.P., who would have been pleased. I am deeply indebted to Anna M.

Klobucka for, among other things, introducing me to Olga Moraes Sarmento. All translations are

mine.

1. In Relâmpago. Revista de Poesia 1 (1997). A propos of Nava and other “queer” Portuguese

writers, Mário César Lugarinho states that “Portuguese academic criticism refuses to identify or

discuss questions of sexual difference or homoerotic desire, and instead focuses on form and

stylistic effects” (287).

2. Anna M. Klobucka’s paper “Summoning Portugal’s Apparitional Lesbians: A To-Do Memo”,

invaluable in and of itself, is even more so in this context.

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3. São José Almeida’s article, “Homossexuais Perseguidos no Estado Novo” is rich in detail in

this regard. Almeida has also written about the lesbian couple who were Communist militants

and anti-fascist resisters, Julieta Gandra and Fernanda Paiva Tomás (Público, 22 October 2007).

Her fresh-from-the-press Homossexuais no Estado Novo [Homosexuals in the New State] breaks

ignored and untouched ground. She is much to be lauded, and readers will eagerly await her

forthcoming publications.

4. The book may be consulted in the Portuguese Biblioteca Nacional (Shelfmark L. 18345 V.);

the date of its “Depósito Legal” [Legal Deposit] stamp is 10 May 1967. I am indebted to

Catharien Hamerslag for drawing my attention to this.

5. The first democratically elected Prime Minister took office as late as 23 July 1976.

6. Maria Andrade, Lilás 3, 1993, 23/27.

7. Acordão da Relação de Lisboa, 31/10/84, IV-155.

8. Zanatti has recently come out, but as “homosexual,” the word preferred by Portuguese women

of a certain age. See Público, 12 June 2009.

9. Tereza Coelho, “As mulheres que gostam de mulheres”, Público Magazine, 28 November

1993. Coelho, among the most gifted of her generation of journalists, went on to facilitate the

publication in O Público of articles by the pseudonymous Maria Josefina Silva, of the Lilás

collective.

10. This is a translation from the French.

11. The fourth edition of this book (translated from Spanish) was published by Didáctica Editora

in November 2007. I am not aware of a Portuguese translation of Heather Has Two Mommies.

12. This selection of poems (translated by Maria Irene Ramalho and Monica Varese Andrade and

published by Cotovia in 2008) was overwhelmingly ignored by reviewers and was always

extremely difficult to find in bookshops.

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WORKS CITED

Almeida, São José. “Homossexuais Perseguidos no Estado Novo”, Revista Pública (supplement

of Público) 12 July 2009.

---, Homossexuais no Estado Novo. Porto: Sextante Editora, 2010.

Andrade, Maria. “Os passos de uma deficiência” [The Steps of a Deficiency]. Lilás 24 (Abril

1999): 38-40.

Ange, Daniel. Homossexual: Quem És Tu? Para Onde Vais? Lisboa: São Paulo, 1993.

Amaral, Manuela. Hino Proibido. Lisboa: n.p., 1967.

Barreira, Cecília. História das Nossas Avós: Retrato da Burguesia em Lisboa 1890-1930.

Lisboa: Colibri, 1992.

Cascais, Fernando. “Diferentes como só nós. O associativismo GLBT português em três

andamentos.” Revista Crítica de Ciências Sociais 76 (Dezembro 2006): 109-26.

Castle, Terry. The Apparitional Lesbian: Female Homosexuality and Modern Culture. New

York: Columbia University Press, 1993.

Costa, João Alves da. Mil Lésbicas Submarinas. Lisboa: Temas da Actualidade, Lisboa, 1996.

D’Aire, Teresa Castro. A Homossexualidade Feminina. Lisboa: Temas da Actualidade, 1996.

Dicionário no Feminino. Eds. Zília Osório de Castro, João Esteves et al. Lisboa: Livros

Horizonte, 2005.

Forster, Margaret. Daphne du Maurier. London: Arrow Books, 2007.

Klobucka, Anna M. “Summoning Portugal’s Apparitional Lesbians: A To-Do Memo.” Paper

presented at the conference of the Association of British and Irish Lusitanists, Maynooth,

September 2009.

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Lugarinho, Mário César. “Al Berto, In Memoriam. The Luso Queer Principle.” Lusosex. Gender

and Sexuality in the Portuguese-Speaking World, Eds. Susan Canty Quinlan and

Fernando Arenas. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2002. 276-

99.

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