Earlier this year, I was leafing through a book shop and happened upon a new memoir by the writer Lucy Sante, I Heard Her Call My Name. It ticked many of my boxes. Sante lived through Seventies and Eighties New York, my favourite place and time for non-fiction literature. She was friends with sketchy experimental rock musicians, artists and filmmakers, my favourite cast list.
I Heard Her Call My Name is the story of her late transition, which begins at 65. She is twice married, an academic. First falteringly, then emboldened by a touching exposition of the biological and philosophical questions she asks herself and looks for help online, never hiding from the tricky stuff. It is a deeply felt work. I couldn’t get it out of my head.
