Ernesto San Epifanio had said that all literature could be classified as heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual. Novels, in general, were heterosexual, whereas poetry was completely homosexual; I guess short stories were bisexual, although he didn’t say so.
Within the vast ocean of poetry he identified various currents: faggots, queers, sissies, freaks, butches, fairies, nymphs, and philenes. But the two major currents were faggots and queers. Walt Whitman, for instance, was a faggot poet. Pablo Neruda, a queer. Borges was a philene, or in other words he might be a faggot one minute and simply asexual the next…
Anyway, the poetry scene was essentially an (underground) battle, the result of the struggle between faggot poets and queer poets to seize control of the word. Sissies, according to San Epifano, were faggot poets by birth, who out of weakness or for comfort’s sake lived within and accepted—most of the time—the aesthetic and personal parameters of queers. In Spain, France, and Italy, queer poets have always been legion, he said, although a superficial reader might never guess. What happens is that a faggot poet like Leopardi, for example, somehow reconstructs queers like Ungaretti, Montale, and Quasimodo, the deadly trio.
And now some differences between queers and faggots. Even in their sleep, the former beg for a twelve-inch cock to plow and fertilize them, but at the moment of truth, mountains must be moved to get them into bed with the pimps they love. Faggots on the other hand, live as if stake is permanently churning their insides and when they look at themselves in the mirror (something they both love and hate to do with their whole heart), they see the Pimp of Death in their own sunken eyes. For faggots and queers, pimp is the one word that can cross unscathed through the realms of nothingness (or silence or nothingness). But then, too, nothing prevents queers from being good friends if they so desire, from neatly ripping one another off, criticizing or praising one another, publishing or burying one another in the frantic and moribund world of letters.”
“And what about Cesárea Tinajero? Is she a faggot or a queer?” someone asked. I didn’t recognize the voice.
“Oh, Cesárea Tinajero is horror itself,” said San Epifanio."
Roberto Bolaño, The Savage Detectives