In an era increasingly defined by cultural flashpoints over identity, censorship, and historical memory, the rediscovery of a once-banned 1920s novel and two harrowing works of historical fiction rooted in Nazi Germany is more than literary news—it’s a mirror held up to the present.
A century after its publication and near-immediate ban, The Well of Loneliness is stepping back into the spotlight. The novel, written by Radclyffe Hall in 1928, was among the first to overtly center a lesbian protagonist. For that alone, it was deemed obscene and swiftly outlawed in Britain under the 1857 Obscene Publications Act. Despite—or perhaps because of—its troubled legacy, the book endures as a landmark in queer literary history, reflecting the enduring tension between visibility and suppression.
Today, as the American Library Association reports unprecedented numbers of book challenges—particularly targeting LGBTQ+ and BIPOC stories—The Well of Loneliness feels strikingly relevant. A new oral history initiative backed by the UK’s Arts and Humanities Research Council, 100 Years of The Well of Loneliness, seeks to document and reevaluate the novel’s legacy. This ambitious project, a collaboration between several UK universities and major archives including the Harry Ransom Center in Texas, aims to trace the book’s impact through interviews, a short film by acclaimed filmmaker Campbell X, and community events. It’s a project not just about literature but about the cultural significance of being silenced—and what it means to recover that voice.
Professor Laura Doan, a scholar involved in the project, argues that the banning of Hall’s novel ironically amplified the very existence it sought to suppress. “Lesbianism mattered so much,” she says, “that the government moved to ban and silence it. That, in itself, was a declaration of its presence.”
And while the novel is deeply flawed by today’s standards—with its problematic portrayals and embedded biases—it was, for many decades, one of the only representations of queer life in literature. Its suppression and subsequent rediscovery remind us that even imperfect stories play a role in constructing cultural identity.
But this isn’t the only piece of historical fiction bridging the past and present in alarming ways.
A Filmmaker’s Fall: From Leftist Icon to Nazi Propagandist
Austrian author Daniel Kehlmann’s new novel, The Director, digs into the story of G.W. Pabst—a celebrated filmmaker during the silent era who became entangled in Nazi propaganda. Kehlmann’s inspiration came not only from historical curiosity but from a chilling sense of déjà vu. Reflecting on the early Trump years in the U.S., Kehlmann noticed a return to cautious speech, the subtle self-censorship born from fear—a phenomenon his father, a Jewish survivor of Vienna’s Third Reich years, had once described.
Pabst’s trajectory is unsettling. Known for championing social themes and giving Greta Garbo her early fame, he returned to Austria at the wrong time and found himself trapped under Nazi rule. Kehlmann investigates how such a figure could end up complicit in a system that used forced labor from nearby concentration camps for film production, all under the watchful eye of Joseph Goebbels.
“It’s hard to overstate how fragile freedom of expression becomes when politics begins to curtail dissent,” Kehlmann remarked in an interview, noting that today’s artists and immigrants may already be censoring themselves. Visa-holders, he says, are warned not to attend protests, not to speak out, and even to scrub their phones before entering the U.S.—a modern echo of totalitarian control.
It’s a disturbing testament to how quickly freedoms can erode and how historical fiction can serve as both a warning and a wake-up call.
The Lilac People: A Forgotten Legacy of Trans Resistance
Another powerful historical fiction work bringing buried truths to light is The Lilac People, by Milo Todd. Published by Counterpoint Press in early 2024, the novel explores trans and queer resistance in Nazi Germany—an area long ignored by mainstream historical narratives. The story shines a light on those who refused to disappear, even as the Nazi regime systematically targeted LGBTQ people for erasure.
But for Todd, writing the book was more than an act of recovery—it was an act of defiance. Watching the political tide turn in the U.S. following the 2024 election, Todd recognized a haunting familiarity in the language and policies targeting trans communities.
In a LitHub essay, Todd speaks candidly about how writing historical fiction has become a form of resistance itself. “We must document what was done to us—and what continues to be done,” Todd asserts. Their work insists on visibility in an age where truth is increasingly under siege.
By anchoring their novel in real histories, Todd challenges readers to reckon with both the past and the present. The Nazis didn’t merely target trans people—they attempted to erase their very existence from record. And if we fail to tell those stories today, we risk letting them succeed.
From the Margins to the Center
What unites The Well of Loneliness, The Director, and The Lilac People is more than their historical focus. These works explore how authoritarian regimes—and sometimes even liberal democracies—try to control narrative by controlling memory, identity, and speech. Whether it’s a banned book, a co-opted artist, or a forgotten community, the pattern is clear: silence the story, and you erase the people behind it.
But as these authors and scholars show, stories have a way of resurfacing. They carry warnings and wisdom, reminding us that today’s battles over libraries, classrooms, and free speech are neither new nor isolated.
When we read historical fiction that tells uncomfortable truths or revive banned books from a century ago, we are not just learning history—we are reclaiming it. And sometimes, that act of reclaiming is the most radical form of resistance there is.
