queer studies; institutional critique; czech literature; poststructuralism

The formation of individual identity is a profoundly delicate process. As French poststructuralist thought has shown, identity is shaped by a network of discursive and societal forces even before birth. These expectations culminate at the moment of birth, when the individual’s social trajectory is effectively determined and the metaphorical bars of the prison of identity are drawn. Feminist and queer theory have long challenged these forms of predetermination, though it is important to acknowledge the geographical context of these theories, as they have primarily emerged from and addressed the Western world (De Beauvoir 2009; Butler 1988). Central and Eastern European countries—particularly those formerly within the "Eastern Bloc"—have undergone distinct historical, political, and cultural developments (Matejskova 2017; Pitoňák, 2022), which have shaped both thought and practice in markedly different ways. This paper seeks to demonstrate, through the lens of Czech literary history, how the process of identity formation remains fraught with obstacles. We begin with the premise that primary and secondary schools represent the most influential environments—outside of the family—for the development of personal identity. The classroom collective acts as a microcosm of society, replicating external hierarchies and norms within an ostensibly neutral space. While in theory the classroom should provide a meeting ground for diverse forms of life, in practice this ideal proves unsustainable. Within these collectives, queerness remains among the most stigmatized transgressions. The moment of coming out transforms the familiar into the unfamiliar, destabilizing the heteronormative order. This brings us to the crux of the issue: the difficulty in recognizing and legitimizing what has been rendered unknowable or invisible. Queer histories are continually marginalized within dominant historiographies, echoing the social exclusion of queer individuals from collective structures. In both cases, they are cast into the position of the abject (Kristeva 1982)—neither fully inside nor fully outside, but always marked as other. Art has historically offered a space for expressing what cannot be spoken in public discourse. As such, it operates as an alternative domain where meaning can be subverted through the play of signs and codes. Yet literature, unlike other arts, is often constrained by the boundaries of genre, audience expectation, and national narrative (Saslow 1999; Jackson 2024). Once again, the contrast between Western and Eastern Europe must be acknowledged. Czech authors who explored queer themes during the second half of the twentieth century were frequently compelled to either emigrate or conceal their work. An entire generation was effectively exiled—either physically or symbolically—within their own homeland. One of the key tasks facing Czech literary scholarship after the Velvet Revolution has been the recovery and reconciliation of these silenced narratives. To illustrate this, we consider two works of literature: one written by a Czech male author living in exile, and the other by a female writer who remains a legendary figure in the Czech underground. Both address the theme of 159 abjection, yet their reception has been markedly different. Unsurprisingly, the male author’s work—featuring a corrupt gay antagonist and portraying queerness as a societal blight—has achieved far greater recognition and legitimacy. In contrast, the woman's text, while thematically aligned, remains marginalized. The construction of identity, particularly queer identity, within the context of Czech literary history thus reveals a complex interplay between sociopolitical structures, cultural memory, and institutional power. As demonstrated, the classroom acts as a foundational space where hegemonic norms are internalized and deviations from these norms punished. This marginalization extends into the literary sphere, where queer voices are often erased, co-opted, or reframed to fit dominant ideologies. By comparing the receptions of these two literary texts, we see how queerness is not merely silenced but also weaponized—used strategically, depending on who articulates it and in what context. Such disparities underscore the persistent cultural and political divide between Western and Central European queer discourses. Ultimately, this analysis calls for a rethinking of how we engage with queer histories in literature—not as anomalies or fringe occurrences, but as vital and illuminating aspects of national identity. Only by critically addressing these historical omissions and ideological distortions can Czech literary studies move toward a more inclusive and truthful understanding of its own canon. Until then, we must continue to celebrate the abjected in art, even as we resist their marginalization in lived reality.