Sometimes I hate that I love Lestat
Because the Lestat I love isn’t the one Anne’s interested in writing. The Lestat I love isn’t an infallible, untouchable prince whom everyone falls in love with at first sight. He’s a fuckup who never stops trying.
I love the Lestat who came out of an abusive home and still wanted desperately that there was good in the world, and that he could be a good person. Who wanted to make people happy and who was desperately in love with his depressed as fuck proto-hipster boyfriend. Who lived as a queer man without shame.
I love the Lestat who had panic attacks about death and the unknowable enormity of the universe.
I love the Lestat who was a victim and a survivor, who was moved not to exert his power over others but make sure they didn’t suffer like he had.
I love the Lestat who tried to take care of his loved ones even when he was spectacularly bad at it, who wore his heart sincerely on his sleeve and lived in terror of his loved ones throwing him away because they didn’t need him anymore.
I rooted for the Lestat who realized the enormity of the wrongs he did to Louis by keeping him ignorant and by indulging his need to be needed. I loved the Lestat who was willing to show all of his fears and his fuckups in print, when his whole life had been dedicated to pretending he was untouchable, just to apologize to the man he loved.
I loved a Lestat who was allowed to be wrong, to be punished, to be humbled and rejected and keep going. Whose bravado and bluster was a cover for a sincere heart, not a hard and empty shell. The Lestat I love isn’t a rapist, an autocrat, a power hungry monster. He had countless flaws, but he was meant to fix them, not wait around for the universe to concoct a reason why his bad behavior and disregard for others’ agency is okay.
I don’t know where that Lestat went. But I miss him.
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