Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Andrea Dworkin Omnibus
Why Pornography Matters to Feminists 1981
"Whose Press? Whose Freedom?" first published in The Women's Review of Books,
Vol. 1, No. 4, January 1984.
"What Battery Really Is" 1989
"Voyage in the Dark: Hers and Ours," 1987.
A True and Commonplace Story 1978
The Unremembered: Searching for Women at the Holocaust Memorial Museum First
published in Ms. magazine, Volume V, Number 3, November/December 1994.
"the simple story of a lesbian girlhood" copyright © 1977, 1980
"The Root Cause." Copyright © 1975, 1976
"the new womans broken heart" copyright © 1978, 1979, 1980
"The Lie," first published in New Women's Times, Vol. 5, No. 21, November 9‐22, 1979
2
"The ACLU: Bait and Switch," 1981
"Terror, Torture and Resistance" in Canadian Woman Studies/Les Cahiers de la
Femme, fall 1991, Volume 12, Number 1.
Introductory note to Part Two and "Woman as Victim: Story of O" chapter, pp. 53‐63,
from Woman Hating, 1974
Prostitution and Male Supremacy. 1993, 1994
"The Power of Words," first published in Massachusetts Daily Occupied Collegian, Vol.
1, No. 1, May 8, 1978.
"Pornography: The New Terrorism," first published under the title "Pornography: The
New Terrorism?" in The Body Politic, No. 45, August 1978
"Pornography Happens to Women," copyright © 1993, 1994
"Pornography's Part in Sexual Violence," first published in abridged form under the
title, "The Real Obscenity of Pornography: It Causes Violence," in Newsday, Vol. 41, No.
151, February 3, 1981
"I Want a Twenty‐Four Hour‐Truce During Which There Is No Rape," originally
published under the title "Talking to Men About Rape," in Out!, Vol. 2, No. 6, April
1984; then under the current title in M., No. 13, Fall 1984.
"The Night and Danger," 1979
"Nervous Interview," first published in Chrysalis, No. 10, May 1980.
“Moorcock Interview”, From New Statesman & Society, 21 April 1995
Mercy, 1990, 1991
"Loving Books: Male/Female/Feminist," first published in Hot Wire, Vol. 1, No. 3, July
1985.
Living with Andrea Dworkin, by John Stoltenberg1994
Letters From A War Zone Introduction. Writings 1976‐1989
"Letter From a War Zone," first published in German in Emma, Vol. 6, No. 2, February 1987
Intercourse, 1987
Ice and Fire, 1986
"For Men, Freedom of Speech; For Women, Silence Please," first published in the anthology Take
Back the Night, edited by Laura Lederer (New York: William Morrow and Co., 1980).
"First Love," copyright © 1978, 1980
"Feminism, Art, and My Mother Sylvia." Copyright © 1974, 1976 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights
reserved. First published in Social Policy, May/June 1975.
"Lesbian Pride." Copyright © 1975, 1976 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved. First published
under the title "What Is Lesbian Pride?" in The Second Wave, Vol. 4, No. 2, 1975.
"Biological Superiority: The World's Most Dangerous and Deadly Idea," first published in Heresies
No. 6 on Women and Violence, Vol. 2, No. 2, Summer 1978.
Autobiography, 1994
Abortion, 1983
"A Woman Writer and Pornography," first published in San Francisco Review of Books, Vol. VI, No.
5, March‐April 1981.
"A True and Commonplace Story," 1978
"A Feminist Looks at Saudi Arabia," 1978
3
"A Battered Wife Survives," first published under the title "The Bruise That Doesn't Heal" in
Mother Jones, Vol. III, No. VI, July 1978.
Bibliography
4
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part II
WORDS
How to Suppress Women's Writing by Joanna Russ
(Austin, Texas: University of Texas, 1983)
Intruders on the Rights of Men by Lynne Spender
(Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1983)
These are two energetic and passionate books. Each analyzes and describes some part
of the politics of survival for women writers. Neither conveys the sheer awfulness of
the nightmare itself: the nightmare that extends over the course of a life day in and
day out; the wearing away of body, mind, and heart from poverty, invisibility, neglect,
endemic contempt and humiliation. That is the story of women's writing. When I was
younger, I read writers' biographies fast and loved the bravery of enduring any
hardship. Now I know that the years are slow, hard, and hungry‐‐there is despair and
bitterness‐‐and no volume read in two hours can convey what survival itself was or
took. These books both fail to show what survival as a woman writer of talent really
costs, what the writing itself costs: and so both shortchange the intense brilliance of
much of the women's writing we have.
Russ is a speedy, witty writer, full of fast perceptions and glistening facts. One can slip
and slide all over her prose and it is fun: unless or until you start getting pissed off.
You want to know more and deeper stuff about the writers she invokes, something
about the texture of their lives, more about the books they wrote, some mood and
some substance relating to the writers or the work that is considered and sustained in
quality, something of the concrete world surrounding them. Perhaps it is a matter of
taste, but maybe it is not. One gets tired of hearing women writers referred to but not
known or conveyed. This is a political point.
7
Nevertheless, Russ has some brilliant insights into how women's writing is
suppressed. She explicates the basic hypocrisy of liberal democracy with amazing
accuracy:
In a nominally egalitarian society the ideal situation (socially speaking) is one in
which the members of the "wrong" groups have the freedom to engage in literature
(or equally significant activities) and yet do not do so, thus proving that they can't
.But, alas, give them the least real freedom and they will do it. The trick thus becomes
to make the freedom as nominal a freedom as possible and then‐‐since some of the so‐
and‐so's will do it anyway‐‐develop various strategies for ignoring, condemning, or
belittling the artistic works that result. If properly done, these strategies result in a
social situation in which the "wrong" people are (supposedly) free to commit
literature, art, or whatever, but very few do, and those who do (it seems) do it badly,
so we can all go home to lunch. (pp. 4‐5)
Many of the writers Russ refers to, however, did not live in a nominally egalitarian
society. They lived, for instance, in England in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries. They lived difficult, often desperate lives, constrained, almost in domestic
captivity. They were middle‐class in their society's terms, which does not translate
into anything Amerikans on the face of it understand. They were poor; they were
poorly educated or self‐educated; mostly they died young; they had virtually no social
existence outside the patronage of husbands or fathers. Russ invokes the misogyny
surrounding their work then, but ignores the ways in which their works continue to
be marginal now. This is a real loss. The marginality of works acknowledged as "great
books" is a fascinating political phenomenon. The urgency of getting those books to
the center of culture has to be articulated by those who recognize the prodigal
substance of those books. As Russ so rightly says, Wuthering Heights is misread as a
romance‐‐Heathcliff's sadism is, in fact, exemplary. Wuthering Heights brilliantly
delineates the social construction of that sadism, its hierarchical deployment among
men to hurt and control them and then the impact of that male humiliation on women;
it also provides a paradigm for racism in the raising of the young Heathcliff. The book
should be of vital interest to political scientists and theorists as well as to aspiring
writers and all readers who want abundantly beautiful prose. Similarly with Jane Eyre:
the book should be, but is not, central to discourse on female equality in every field of
thought and action. It would also be useful to understand how George Eliot can be
recognized as the supreme genius of the English novel and still be largely unread. (We
do read Tolstoy, her only peer, in translation.) Russ avoids Eliot, perhaps because the
magnitude of her achievement suggests that "great writer" is a real category, small
and exclusive, with real meaning.
The strategies of suppression that Russ isolates travel nicely through time. It is
doubted that a woman really wrote whatever it is (that is a dated strategy: the
contemporary version is that the writer is not a real woman in the Cosmo sense, hot
and free). It is acknowledged that a woman wrote the book, but it is maintained that
she should not have‐‐it masculinizes her, makes her unfit for a woman's life, and so on.
The content is judged by the gender of the author. The book is falsely categorized: it
falls between genres so it is misread or dismissed; a man connected to the woman
publishes her work under his name; the woman herself is categorized in some way
that slanders her talent or her work. Or, it is simply discounted, according to the
principle: "What I don't understand doesn't exist." Our social invisibility, Russ writes,
"is not a 'failure of human communication.' It is a socially arranged bias persisted in
long after the information about women's experience is available (sometimes even
publicly insisted upon)." (p. 48) Russ develops each of these ideas with sophistication
and wit.
There are two spectacular insights in her book. About Villette she writes: "If Villette is
the feminist classic I take it to be, that is not because of any explicit feminist
8
declarations made by the book but because of the novel's constant, passionate
insistence that things are like this and not like that . . ." (p. 105) She has articulated
here that which distinguishes feminist thinking and perception from the more corrupt
and disingenuous male approaches to life and art.
She also discerns in the whole idea of regionalism as a literary subspecies a strategic
way of trivializing and dismissing women. Willa Cather and Kate Chopin are
regionalists (one might include Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor) but Sherwood
Anderson (!), Thomas Wolfe, and William Faulkner are not. Of course, Faulkner is; and
he is a great novelist too, in my view. Regionalist is used to suggest a small, narrow
writer, a woman; it is not used, even though accurate, to describe Mr Faulkner.
I have three serious arguments with Russ's book. First, she claims that "[a]t the high
level of culture with which this book is concerned, active bigotry is probably fairly
rare. It is also hardly ever necessary, since the social context is so far from neutral." (p.
18)1 think bigotry on the high level is active, purposeful, malicious, and as common
and slimy as the bigotry in other social sewers. The misogynist spleen pollutes
criticism and makes life hell for a woman writer. The misogynist spleen suffuses the
publishing industry‐‐how women writers are talked about and to, treated, paid,
actually published, sexually harassed, persistently denigrated, and sometimes raped. I
take the bigotry of high culture to be active.
Second, Russ scrutinizes rightly the wrongheadedness of those who trivialize or
dismiss books written by the "wrong" people, but she seems to think that all books by
"wrong" people are created equal and I don't. She says with some disbelief that some
women actually thought Dorothy Sayers was a minor novelist until they read Gaudy
Night. I read Gaudy Night, which I liked enormously, and still think Sayers is a minor
novelist. I think great books, as distinguished from all other books, do exist. It is true,
as Russ eloquently insists, that many of them have been left out of the literary canon
because of racial, sexual, or class prejudice. It is also true‐‐which Russ ignores‐‐that
books by the "right" people are often overestimated and their value inflated. I think
this matters, because I do think great books exist and they do matter to me as such. I
think that writing a great book, as opposed to any other kind, is a supreme
accomplishment; I think reading one is a gorgeous and awesome experience.
Finally: I intensely disliked Russ's "Afterword," in which she presents a pastiche of
fragments from the writings of some women of color. Despite the apologia that
precedes the "Afterword," suggesting that it is better to do something badly than not
at all, I experienced Russ's homage to women writers of color as demeaning and
condescending (to me as a reader as well as to them as writers). Fine writers are
worth more. Neglect is not corrected unless the quality of respect given to a writer
and her work is what it should be. I think some of these writers are fine and some are
not very good; a few I don't know; some wonderful writers are omitted. This
hodgepodge suggests, among other things, that distinctions of excellence do not
matter, whereas to me they do, and I am insulted as a writer on behalf of the excellent
writers here who are treated in such a glib and trivializing way. I simply abhor the
lack of seriousness in this approach to these writers.
Lynne Spender's book, Intruders on the Rights of Men, is about publishing: how men
keep women out of literature altogether or allow us in on the most marginal terms. "In
literate societies," she writes, "there is a close association between the printed word
and the exercise of power." (ix) This is something Amerikans have trouble
understanding. One of the awful consequences of free speech/First Amendment
fetishism is that political people, including feminists, have entirely forgotten that
access to media is not a democratically distributed right, but rather something gotten
by birth or money. Wrong sex, wrong race, wrong family, and you haven't got it.
Spender's political clarity on the relationship between being able to make speech
public, and power in the material sense of the word, enables her to shed a lot of light
on the inability of women to change our status vis‐a‐vis speech in books. She tends to
9
define equality in a simple‐minded way: equal numbers of women to men and
participation on the same terms as men. Nevertheless, she challenges the so‐called
neutrality of culture as such; she understands that there is a politics to illiteracy that
matters; she never loses sight of the fact that power allows or disallows speech, and
that male power has marginalized and stigmatized women's speech. She under‐
estimates how much female silence male power affirmatively creates.
Her discussion of the power of the publishers is inadequate. It is conceptually the bare
bones. She does not discern the wide latitude that individual men in publishing have
for sexual abuse and economic exploitation of women on whim. She does not analyze
the structure of power within the industry‐‐the kinds of power men have over women
editors and how that affects which women writers those women editors dare to
publish. She does not discuss money: how it works, who gets it, how much, why. She
does not recognize the impact of the humongous corporations now owning publishing
houses. She does not deal with publishing contracts, those adorable one‐way
agreements in which the author promises to deliver a book and the publisher does not
promise to publish it. But: she does discuss, too briefly, sexual harassment in
publishing‐‐an unexposed but thriving part of the industry, because if women writers,
especially feminists, will not expose it (for fear of starving), who will? The book is very
interesting but much too superficial. It gives one some ideas but not enough analysis
of how power really functions: its dynamics; the way it gets played out; the
consequences of it creatively and economically for women writers. Spender is an
advocate of women's independent publishing, which is the only suggested solution;
but she does not explore the difficulties and dangers‐‐political and economic‐‐of small,
usually sectarian presses.
Both Intruders on the Rights of Men and How to Suppress Women's Writing are
genuinely worth reading, but they will not bring the reader closer to what it means for
a woman to write and publish; nor will either book get the writer herself through
another day.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Whose Press? Whose Freedom?" first published in The Women's Review of Books,
Vol. 1, No. 4, January 1984. Copyright © 1983 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
10
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
AFTERWORD [from the U.S. edition]
On November 1,1987, Joel Steinberg, a criminal defense lawyer, beat his illegally adopted
daughter, Lisa, 6, into a coma. She died on November 5. Hedda Nussbaum, who had lived
with Steinberg since 1976, was also in the apartment. She had a gangrenous leg from his
beatings; her face and body were deformed from his assaults on her. With Lisa lying on
11
the bathroom floor, Steinberg went out for dinner and drinks. Nussbaum remained in the
apartment. When Steinberg came home, he and Nussbaum freebased cocaine. Early the
next morning, Lisa stopped breathing, and Nussbaum called 911. She was arrested with
Steinberg. She was given immunity for testifying against him. Steinberg had started
beating Nussbaum in 1978; in that year alone, according to Newsday, she suffered at
least ten black eyes. In 1981, he ruptured her spleen. During this time, she worked as a
children's book editor at Random House. She was fired in 1982 for missing too much
work. Socially speaking, she was disappeared; she got buried alive in torture.
Susan Brownmiller, author of Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape and a founder of
Women Against Pornography, began a media crusade against Nussbaum. She blamed
Nussbaum not only for Lisa's death but also for being battered herself. Hearing Susan
take this stand had a devastating impact on me. I began to have flashbacks to when I
was battered: to when it was impossible for me to make anyone believe me or help me.
Susan was denying the reality of battery just as my friends, neighbors, and
acquaintances had done, just as doctors had done, just as police had done, when I was
trying to escape from being physically and mentally tortured. Flashbacks are different
from memories. They take over the conscious mind. They are like seizuresinvoluntary,
outside time, vivid, almost threedimensional; you can't stop one once it starts. You relive
an event, a trauma, a piece of your own history, with a precision of detail almost beyond
beliefthe air is the sameyou are there and it is happening. I wrote this piece to try to
stop the flashbacks.
Newsweek accepted this piece for publication. Then Newsweek's lawyer halted its
publication. The lawyer said I had to prove it. I had to have medical records, police
records, a written statement from a doctor who had seen the injuries I describe here. I
had to corroborate my story. Or I had to publish this anonymously to protect the identity
of the batterer; or I couldn't say I had been marriedto protect the identity of the
batterer; and I had to take out any references to specific injuries unless I could document
them, prove them. Outside evidence. Objective proof. I asked Newsweek when the
freedom of speech I kept hearing about was going to apply to me; I asked Newsweek
when the batterer was going to stop having control over my lifeover what I can say,
what I can do.
The Los Angeles Times published this article on March 12, 1989. The same week, I read
about the murder of Lisa Bianco. Ms. Bianco was twentynine. She was killed by a
batterer, her exhusband, who was on an eighthour prison furlough. Prison authorities
were supposed to tell her if he was ever let out because she knew he would kill her. They
didn't. Guess they didn't believe her. "Indeed," The New York Times reported, "prison
officials said that on paper Mr. Matheney did not look as dangerous as Ms. Bianco said
he was." She had been preparing to change her identity, go underground, on his release
from prison, which was a year off. Lisa Bianco escaped. She hid, wore disguises, got
protection orders, had security guards escort her to classes at Indiana University. After
her divorce, the batterer still showed up to beat her savagely (my own experience as
well). Once he kidnapped and raped her. She prosecuted him. He pleabargained so that
the rape and assault charges were dropped to a single count of battery. Largely because
he had also kidnapped their children, he was sentenced to eight years in prison, three of
them suspended. She did things right; she was exceptionally brave; she could have
proven everything to Newsweek's lawyer; she's dead. Escaped or captive, you are his
prey. Most of us who have been hurt by these men need to hide more than we need proof.
We learn fast that the system won't protect usit only endangers us more so we hide
from the man and from the systemthe hospitals, the police, the courtsthe places where
you get the proof. I still hide. It's not easy for a public person, but I do it. I'm a master of
it. I don't have any proof, but I'm still alivefor now.
Now, about being a writer: are there other writers in the United States whose freedom is
constantly threatened by murder or beatings; whose lives are threatened day in, day out;
who risk their lives in publishing a piece like this one? There are: women hurt by men,
especially husbands or fathers. What is Newsweek or PEN or the ACLU doing for writers
like us? Following is the piece that was accepted, then declined, by Newsweek; it was
subsequently published in The Los Angeles Times in a slightly different form.
12
My friend and colleague Susan Brownmiller does not want Hedda Nussbaum to be
"exonerated"‐‐something no battered woman ever is, even if a child has not died.
Gangsters are given new identities, houses, bank accounts, and professions when they
testify against criminals meaner, bigger, and badder than they are. Rapists and
murderers plea‐bargain. Drug dealers get immunity. Batterers rarely spend a night in
jail; the same goes for pimps. But Susan feels that Nussbaum should have been
prosecuted, and a perception is growing that Nussbaum is responsible legally and
morally for the death of Lisa Steinberg.
I don't think Hedda Nussbaum is "innocent." I don't know any innocent adult women;
life is harder than that for everyone. But adult women who have been battered are
especially not innocent. Battery is a forced descent into hell and you don't get by in
hell by moral goodness. You disintegrate. You don't survive as a discrete personality
with a sense of right and wrong. You live in a world of pure pain, in isolation, on the
verge of death, in terror; and when you get numb enough not to care whether you live
or die you are experiencing the only grace God is going to send your way. Drugs help.
I was battered when I was married, and there are some things I wish people would
understand. I thought things had changed, but it is clear from the story of Hedda
Nussbaum that nothing much has changed at all.
Your neighbors hear you screaming. They do nothing. The next day they look right
through you. If you scream for years they will look right through you for years. Your
neighbors, friends, and family see the bruises and injuries and they do nothing They
will not intercede. They send you back. They say it's your fault or that you like it or
they deny that it is happening at all. Your family believes you belong with your
husband.
If you scream and no one helps and no one acknowledges it and people look right
through you, you begin to feel that you don't exist. If you existed and you screamed,
someone would help you. If you existed and you were visibly injured, someone would
help you. If you existed and you asked for help in escaping, someone would help you.
When you go to the doctor or to the hospital because you are badly injured and they
won't listen or help you or they give you tranquilizers or threaten to commit you
because they say you are disoriented, paranoid, fantasizing, you begin to believe that
he can hurt you as much as he wants and no one will help you. When the police refuse
to help you, you begin to believe that he can hurt or kill you and it will not matter
because you do not exist.
You become unable to use language because it stops meaning anything. If you use
regular words and say you have been hurt and by whom and you point to visible
injuries and you are treated as if you made it up or as if it doesn't matter or as if it is
your fault or as if you are stupid and worthless, you become afraid to try to say
anything. You cannot talk to anyone because they will not help you and if you talk to
them, the man who is battering you will hurt you more. Once you lose language, your
isolation is absolute.
Eventually I waited to die. I wanted to die. I hoped the next beating would kill me, or
the one after that. When I would come to after being beaten unconscious, the first
feeling I would have was an overwhelming sorrow that I was alive. I would ask God
please to let me die now. My breasts were burned with lit cigarettes. He beat my legs
with a heavy wood beam so that I couldn't walk. I was present when he did immoral
things to other people; I was present when he hurt other people. I didn't help them.
Judge me, Susan.
A junkie said he would give me a ticket to far away and $1,000 if I would carry a
briefcase through customs. I said I would. I knew it had heroin in it, and I kept hoping I
would be caught and sent to jail because in jail he couldn't beat me. I had been
13
sexually abused in The Women's House of Detention in New York City (arrested for an
anti‐Vietnam War demonstration) so I didn't have the idea that jail was a friendly
place. I just hoped I would get five years and for five years I could sit in a jail cell and
not be hit by him. In the end the junkie didn't give me the briefcase to carry, so I didn't
get the $1,000. He did kindly give me the ticket. I stole the money I needed. Escape is
heroic, isn't it?
I've been living with a kind and gentle man I love for the last fifteen years. For eight of
those years, I would wake up screaming in blind terror in the night, not knowing who I
was, where I was, who he was; cowering and shaking. I'm more at peace now, but I've
refused until recently to have my books published in the country where my former
husband lives, and I've refused invitations to go there‐‐important professional
invitations. Once I went there in secret for four days to try to face it down. I couldn't
stop trembling and sweating in fear; I could barely breathe. There isn't a day when I
don't feel fear that I will see him and he will hurt me.
Death looks different to a woman who has been battered; it seems not nearly so cruel
as life. I'm upset by what I regard as the phony, false mourning for Lisa Steinberg‐‐the
sentimental and hypocritical mourning of a society that would not really mind her
being beaten to death once she was an adult woman. If Lisa hadn't died, she would be
on West Tenth Street being tortured‐‐now. Why was it that we wanted her to live? So
that when the child became a woman and she was raped or beaten or prostituted we
could look right through her? It's bad to hit a girl before she's of age. It's bad to torture
a girl before she's of age. Then she's of age and, well, it isn't so bad. By then, she wants
it, she likes it, she chose it. Why are adult women hated so much and why is it all right
to hurt us? Those who love children but don't think adult women deserve much
precisely because we are not innocent‐‐we are used and compromised and culpable‐‐
try to remember this: the only way to have helped Lisa Steinberg was to have helped
Hedda Nussbaum. But to do it, you would have had to care that an adult woman was
being hurt: care enough to rescue her. And there was a little boy there too, remember
him, all tied up and covered in feces. The only way to have spared him was to rescue
Hedda. Now he has been tortured and he did not die. He will grow up to be some kind
of a man: which kind? I wish there was a way to take the hurt from him. There isn't. Is
there a way to stop him from becoming a batterer? Is there?
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"What Battery Really Is" copyright © 1989 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
14
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part II
WORDS
or imagine it or withstand it. They never know that she is seeing them; only that they
are seeing her.
The arrogance of the men is level, civil, polite, mannered, disdainful but without
physical aggression; these are rich johns, not violent rapists. They buy, they don't
steal. They buy goods, not people, certainly not people like themselves. The disdain is
what they feel for this lower life‐form that exists for their pleasure:
Mr Jones said, "He knew you'd be either eighteen or twenty‐two. You girls only have
two ages. You're eighteen and so of course your friend's twenty‐ two. Of course." 3 The
contempt is like some impermeable finish, glossy, polyurethane, a hard, glossy shell;
no pores; nothing gets in or out. The narrator captures every nuance of this contempt.
" 'Poor little Anna,' making his voice very kind. 'I'm so damned sorry you've been
having a bad time.' Making his voice very kind, but the look in his eyes was like a high,
smooth, unclimbable wall. No communication possible. You have to be three‐quarters
mad even to attempt it." 4
Anna is eighteen when the story opens. She is on the road in a vaudeville show. She is
used to men picking her up. She has not had sex. Walter takes her to dinner. She
discovers it is dinner in a suite of rooms with a bedroom. "He kissed me again, and his
mouth was hard, and I remembered him smelling the glass of wine and I couldn't
think of anything but that, and I hated him. 'Look here, let me go,' I said." 5 I
remembered him smelling the glass of wine and I couldn't think of anything but that:
in this one detail, the narrator is forcing us to remember that the man is a consumer,
not a lover. Refusing him, she goes into the bedroom. She wants love, romance: "Soon
he'll come in again and kiss me, but differently. He'll be different and so I'll be
different. It'll be different. I thought, 'It'll be different, different. It must be different.' "
6 He doesn't come in; she lies on the bed, cold: "The fire was like a painted fire; no
warmth came from it." 7 He waits for her to come out, takes her home, back to an
empty, cold, rented room. She becomes ill, and writes him a note asking for help. He
visits her, helps her, gives her money, pays the landlady to take care of her, finds other
rooms for her for when she is well, and the romance begins. She is not bought for a
night; instead, she has the long‐term emotional and material security of an affair,
being his until he is tired of her. She tells him she is not a virgin, but she is. After
making love the first time, she thinks: " 'When I shut my eyes I'll be able to see this
room all my life.' " 8 She doesn't look in the mirror to see if she has changed. "I
thought that it had been just like the girls said, except that I hadn't known it would
hurt so much." 9 She was infatuated. She wanted to be valued, loved. Instead, she had
to get up in the middle of the night to sneak out of his bedroom and out of his house, a
woman alone in the big night. "Of course, you get used to things, you get used to
anything." 10 She is happy and she is afraid; she knows her happiness will end.
Warned by her friend, Maudie, older and also in vaudeville, she makes the tragic
mistake. " 'Only, don't get soppy about him' [Maudie] said. 'That's fatal. The thing with
men is to get everything you can out of them and not care a damn. You ask any girl in
London‐‐or any girl in the whole world if it comes to that [. . .]' " 11 When Walter is
finished with her, she knows it: "I wanted to pretend it was like the night before, but it
wasn't any use. Being afraid is cold like ice, and it's like when you can't breathe.
'Afraid of what?' I thought." 12 She sees Walter put money in her purse. She begins the
inevitable descent; the first man over and done with; the others waiting; no money of
her own; no home. She wanders through a world of men and rented rooms. Nothing
assuages her grief: "Really all you want is night, and to lie in the dark and pull the
sheet over your head and sleep, and before you know where you are it is night‐‐that's
one good thing. You pull the sheet over your head and think, 'He got sick of me,' and
'Never, not ever, never.' And then you go to sleep. You sleep very quickly when you are
like that and you don't dream either. It's as if you were dead.'' 13 (Today we call this
grief "depression." Women have it.)
But this is no story of a woman's broken heart. This is the story of a woman who is, in
the eyes of the men who behold her, a tart, whether her heart is broken or not. "'I
picked up a girl in London and she. . . . Last night I slept with a girl who. . . .' That was
me. Not 'girl' perhaps. Some other word, perhaps. Never mind." 14
16
No one has written about a woman's desperation quite like this‐‐the great loneliness,
the great coldness, the great fear, in living in a world where, as one man observes, " 'a
girl's clothes cost more than the girl inside them.' " 15 Eliot and Hardy have written
vividly, unforgettably, about women in desperate downfalls, ostracized and punished
by and because of a sexual double standard‐‐I think of Hetty in Adam Bede and Tess in
Tess of the D'Urbervilles; Hawthorne also did this in The Scarlet Letter. But Rhys simply
gives us the woman as woman, the woman alone, her undiluted essence as a woman,
how men see her and what she is for. There is a contemporary sense of alienation‐‐
distance and detachment from any social mosaic, except that the men and the money
are the social mosaic. Society is simpler; exploitation is simpler; survival depends on
being the thing men want to use, even as there is no hope at all for survival on those
terms, just going on and on, the same but poorer and older. Anna observes the
desperate masquerade of women to get from day to day:
The clothes of most of the women who passed were like caricatures of the clothes in
the shop‐windows, but when they stopped to look you saw that their eyes were fixed
on the future. "If I could buy this, then of course I'd be quite different." Keep hope alive
and you can do anything [ . . .] But what happens if you don't hope any more, if your
back's broken? What happens then? 16
She paints a deep despair in women, each, for the sake of tomorrow, continually
aware of her own worth on the market, thinking always of the dressed surface that
does cost more than she costs.
Anna becomes pregnant from one of her casual encounters and Voyage in the Dark
ends with a graphic, virtually unbearable description of an illegal abortion and Anna's
subsequent near death from bleeding. The doctor can be called once there are
complications, told she fell down the steps. " 'Oh, so you had a fall, did you?[. . .] You
girls are too naive to live, aren't you?[. . .] She'll be all right [. . .] Ready to start all over
again in no time, I've no doubt.' " 17
Anna is eighteen when the book begins, nineteen when it ends.
In Voyage in the Dark, Rhys uses race to underline Anna's total estrangement from
what is taken to be middle‐class reality. Anna has been raised in the West Indies, fifth‐
generation West Indian on her mother's side, as she brags to Walter. This boast and an
accusation from her stepmother suggest that Anna's mother was black. But her status
is white, the legitimate daughter of a white father who has many illegitimate black
children. Being white estranges her from these undeniable relatives and from the
black society in which she lives. She is alien. Her stepmother blames Anna's inability
to marry up in England on her closeness with blacks in her childhood: "I tried to teach
you to talk like a lady and behave like a lady and not like a nigger and of course I
couldn't do it. Impossible to get you away from the servants. . . . Exactly like a nigger
you talked‐‐and still do." 18 Having sex with Walter, all she can think about is
something she saw when she was a child, an old slave list, the mulatto slaves:
"Maillotte Boyd, aged 18, mulatto, house servant." 19 She is eighteen, possibly
mulatto; in the sex act, this other woman, like her, haunts her. But Anna knows she is
an outsider to blacks, not accepted by the servants: "But I knew that of course she
disliked me too because I was white; and that I would never be able to explain to her
that I hated being white. Being white and getting like Hester [the stepmother] and all
the things you get‐‐old and sad and everything. I kept thinking, 'No. . . . No. . . .' And I
knew that day that I'd started to grow old and nothing could stop it," 20 She hates
London: "This is London ‐‐ hundreds of thousands of white people white people [. . .]"
21 She contrasts the white people with the dark houses, the dark streets; in literary
terms, she makes the white skin stand out against the dark backdrop of the city. Anna
is a total outsider, belonging nowhere. Voyage in the Dark exposes and condemns the
colonial racism of the English; and it also uses Anna's outsider state‐of‐being to
underscore the metaphysical exile of any woman alone, any woman as a woman per
se, an exile from the world of men and the human worth they have, the money and
power they have; an exile especially from the legitimacy that inheres simply in being
male.
17
Now: in 1934 Jean Rhys published a book about women as sexual commodities;
sophisticated and brilliant, it showed the loneliness, the despair, the fear, and by
showing how men look at and value and use women, it showed how all women live
their lives in relation to this particular bottom line, this fate, this being bought‐and‐
sold. And in 1934, Jean Rhys published a book that described an illegal abortion,
showed its often terminal horror, and also showed how it was simply part of what a
woman was supposed to undergo, the same way she was supposed to be used and
then abandoned, or poor, or homeless, or at the mercy of a male buyer. Jean Rhys is
one of many "lost women" writers rediscovered and widely read in the 1970s because
of the interest in women's writing generated by the current wave of feminism. People
are happy to say she was a great writer without much meaning it and certainly
without paying any serious attention to the substance of her work: to what she said.
She wrote about the loneliness of being a woman, poor and homeless, better than
anyone I know of. She wrote about what being used takes from you and how you
never get it back. Women who should have been reading her read The Catcher in the
Rye or Jean Genet instead because her books were gone. We had books by men on
prostitution and street life: Genet's broke some new ground, but there is a long history
of men writing on prostitution. In fact, at the beginning of Voyage in the Dark, Rhys
makes a writerly joke about those books. Anna is reading Zola's Nana: "Maudie said, 'I
know; it's about a tart. I think it's disgusting. I bet you a man writing a book about a
tart tells a lot of lies one way and another. Besides, all books are like that‐‐just
somebody stuffing you up.' " 22 Well, Voyage in the Dark, a book by a woman, doesn't
just "stuff you up." It is, finally, a truthful book. It is, at the very least, a big part of the
truth; and, I think, a lot closer to the whole truth than the women's movement that
resurrected her work would like to think.
Sometimes I look around at my generation of women writers, the ones a little older
and a little younger too, and I know we will be gone: disappeared the way Jean Rhys
was disappeared. She was better than most of us are. She said more in the little she
wrote‐‐with her twenty‐seven‐year silence. Her narrative genius was just that: genius.
We expect our mediocre little books to last forever, and don't even think they have to
risk anything to do so. Yet, the fine books of our time by women go out of print
continually; some are brought back, most are not. I wish I had grown up reading Jean
Rhys. I did grow up reading D. H. Lawrence and Jean Genet and Henry Miller. But her
truth wasn't allowed to live. To hell with their fights against censorship; she was
obliterated. I couldn't learn from her work because it wasn't there. And I needed Jean
Rhys a hell of a lot more than I needed the above‐named bad boys: as a woman and as
a writer. I don't know why we now, we women writers, think that our books are going
to live. There is nothing to indicate that things in general have changed for women
writers. I know the children of the future will have a lot of sexy literary trash from
men; but I don't think they will have much by women that shows even as much as Jean
Rhys showed in 1934. This disappearance of women writers costs us; this is a lot
worse than having to reinvent the wheel. When a woman writer is "lost," the
possibilities of the women after her are lost too; her true perceptions are driven out of
existence and we are left with books by men that tell "a lot of lies one way and
another." These are lies that keep women lost in all senses: the writers, the Annas. We
have not done much to stop ourselves from being wiped out because we think that we
are the exceptional generation, different from all the ones that came before: the lone
generation to endure male dominance (we say we are fighting it) by writing about it.
Our dead sisters, their books buried with them, try not to laugh.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Voyage in the Dark: Hers and Ours," copyright © 1987 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights
reserved.
18
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part III
TAKE BACK THE DAY
This has never been published before.
Last December in the midst of a blizzard, I had to fly from a small airport in New
England to Rochester, New York, to do a benefit for four women charged with
committing a felony: breaking a window to tear down a poster advertising the
sadistic, pornographic film, Snuff, which had been playing in a cinema adjacent to and
owned by a local Holiday Inn. The women neither admitted nor denied committing the
dastardly act, though the evidence against them is ephemeral, because they were
convinced, as was the whole Rochester feminist community, that the act needed doing.
And a felony charge, with a maximum sentence of four years, was transparently more
vendetta than justice. Being intelligent and sensitive women given to fighting for the
rights of women, they had noticed that the law enforcement officials in Rochester
were singularly indifferent to the presence of a film that celebrates the
dismemberment of a woman as an orgasmic act; and that these same officials were
highly disturbed, to the point of vengeance, by the uppity women who made a stink
about the casual exhibition of this vicious film.
Airports are not congenial places for women traveling alone, especially on snowy days
when planes are delayed interminably. Most of the bored passengers‐to‐be are men.
As men wait, they drink. The longer they wait, the more they drink. After a few hours,
an airport on a stormy day is filled with drunken, cruising men who fix their sloppy
attention on the few lone women. Such a situation may or may not be dangerous, but
it is certainly unpleasant. Having been followed, harassed, and "seductively" called
dirty names, I was pleased to notice another lone female traveler. We looked at each
other, then around at the ready‐to‐pounce men, and became immediate and fast
friends. My new traveling companion was a student, perhaps twenty, who was
studying theater at a small liberal arts college. She was on her way to Rochester to
visit friends. We discussed books, plays, work, our aspirations, and the future of
feminism. In this warm and interesting way, time passed, and eventually we arrived in
Rochester. Exiting from the plane, I was, in the crush, felt up quickly but definitively
by one of the men who had been trailing me. My friend and I anguished over "the little
rapes" as we parted.
In subsequent months, back in New England, I sometimes ran into my friend in the
small town where I live. We had coffee, conversation.
The season changed. Spring blossomed. In Rochester, feminists had spent these
months preparing for the trial. Because of their effective grassroots organizing and a
firm refusal by the defendants to plea‐bargain, the district attorney had been forced to
reduce the charge to a misdemeanor, which carries a maximum sentence of one year.
Then, one day, I received a letter from a Rochester feminist. The trial date was set.
Expert witnesses were lined up to testify to the fact that violent pornography does
verifiable harm to women. Money had been raised. Everyone, while proud of what had
been accomplished, was exhausted and depleted. They wanted me to come up and
stay for the duration of the trial to give counsel, comfort, and encouragement. On this
19
same day, I took a walk and saw my friend, but she had changed. She was somehow
frail, very old even in her obvious youth, nearly shaking. She was sitting alone,
preoccupied, but, even observed from a distance, clearly drained and upset.
How are things, I asked. Well, she had left school for a month, had just returned.
Silence. No intimacy or eager confidence. I asked over and over: why? what had
happened? Slowly, terribly, the story came out. A man had attempted to rape her on
the college campus where she lived. She knew the man, had gone to the police, to the
president of the college. She had moved off campus, in fear. Had the police found the
man? No, they had made no attempt to. They had treated her with utter contempt. And
what had the president of the college, a woman, done? Well, she had said that publicity
would not be "good for the college." Entirely undermined by the callous indifference
of those who were supposed to help and protect her, she had left school, to recover as
best she could. And the worst of it, she said, was that people would just look right
through her. Well, at least he didn't rape you, they said, as if, then, nothing had really
happened. She did not know where the man was. She was hoping desperately that he
had left the area. In her mind, she took a gun and went to find him and shot him. Over
and over. She could not quiet herself, or study, or concentrate, or recover. She knew
she was not safe anywhere. She thought she might leave school, but where would she
go and what would she do? And how would she ever regain her self‐confidence or
sense of well‐being? And how would she ever contain or discipline her anger at the
assault and then the betrayal by nearly everyone?
In Rochester, the trial of four feminists for allegedly breaking a window was
postponed, dragging out the ordeal more months. In a small New England town, one
young woman quaked and raged and tried to do simple things: drink coffee, study,
forget. And somewhere, one aspiring rapist with nothing to fear from the law or
anyone is doing who knows what.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
20
In early September 1993 I went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in
Washington, D.C., to do research for a book on scapegoating, especially of Jews and
women in anti‐Semitism and woman hating. In November I went back to the museum
because Ms. asked me to write about it. I consider myself not‐a‐civilian in the world of
Holocaust memory, no stranger. A survivor's knowledge of the women's camp and
killing center at Auschwitz‐Birkenau was passed on to me by an aunt having
flashbacks‐‐ graphic, detailed. of rapes, murders, tortures‐‐when I was ten, a child
without intellectual defenses. In a tiny room in Camden, New Jersey, I saw what she
said was happening‐‐what she was seeing‐‐as she reexperienced her captivity. I still
see it. Many of my teachers in Hebrew school were survivors, and they were different
from everyone else. In the 1950s, closer to the real events, they lived more there than
here: they shook, they cowered, they suffered‐‐beyond understanding, in silence,
without explanation. They lived in terror.
For me, the Shoah, the Hebrew word for "annihilation," is the root of my resistance to
the sadism of rape, the dehumanization of pornography. In my private heart, forever,
rape began at Auschwitz; and a species of pornography‐‐sexualized anti‐Semitic
propaganda‐‐was instrumental in creating the hate. My adult heart knows that Julius
Streicher, who joined with Hitler in 1921, was executed at Nuremberg for his part in
the genocide of the Jews because he published the rabid, pornographic, Jew‐hating
tabloid Der Sturmer, which was used by the Nazi party, then Hitler's regime, to fuel
aggression against the Jews. Streicher was convicted of committing a crime against
humanity.
* * *
Inside, the museum building is purposefully uncomfortable to the eye, to
consciousness. Prisonlike elements are part of the design: cold, institutional brick
walls made colder by exposed steel girders; windows obscured by metal bars or
grates or louvered slats. There is a visual eloquence that does not let the mind drift,
because the eye cannot find anywhere not prison‐inspired to land. The interior,
developed by the architect to suggest physical elements of Auschwitz, is ruthless: it
demands alertness and suggests both danger and oppression.
The permanent exhibition is on three floors of a five‐story building. One takes an
elevator to the fourth floor: Nazi Assault 1933‐1939 (Hitler's ascendance and the
German conquest of Europe). The third floor is dedicated to illustrating and
explicating the facts of the Final Solution 1940‐1944; and the second floor is the
Aftermath, 1945 to the present.
Standing in line for an elevator, I am encouraged to take a card on which is a
photograph of a Holocaust victim, his name, his biography. Other women fingering
through the cards ask each other, where are the women? Why aren't there
biographies of women? They express a muted outrage‐‐not wanting to call attention
to themselves yet unable to accept that among the hundreds of cards there are no
women. A museum employee (a woman) explains that the cards of women have all
21
been used. We are supposed to be able to pick a biography of someone like ourselves
and, with interactive computer technology, find out what happened to our person at
various stages of the exhibit. The card machines were not in use (and have since been
discontinued); but the absence of women's lives from the biographies was part of an
old program, a familiar invisibility and absence, a simple carelessness to get more
cards printed or a more malignant indifference.
I went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum with questions about women.
Where, how, in what numbers, were women raped? Where, how, in what numbers,
were women prostituted‐‐the brothels in forced labor and concentration camps,
where were they, who were the women, who used them? Where, how, in what
numbers, were women used in medical experiments, and with what results? Who
were the inmates in Ravensbruck, a camp for women from many occupied countries
but that earlier in Hitler's reign held German political prisoners, prostitutes, and
lesbians‐‐how did they get there, what happened to them? What exactly was done to
Jewish women at Auschwitz‐Birkenau or to the Jewish women held at Bergen‐Belsen
in 1944? How did the hatred of Jews and women intersect, not abstractly but on their
bodies? How was the sadism against Jewish women organized, expressed?
There were no answers to my questions in the permanent exhibition's story of the rise
of Hitler or the genocide of the Jews or the mass murders of the Poles, Gypsies
(Roma), and other stigmatized groups; nor in the "aftermath," what happened in
Europe when the Nazis were defeated. Although there were films and photographs of
women, often naked, terribly brutalized, and there was first‐person testimony by
women survivors, there was no explanation or narrative of their persecution as
women; nor was there any coherent information in the computers in the Wexner
Learning Center, intended to be an electronic encyclopedia of the Holocaust; nor in
any side exhibits. (One temporary exhibit, for children, is on the fate of a young Jewish
boy. Another documents the efforts of a brave male intellectual to rescue mostly male
intellectuals from Nazi‐dominated France. In both, the romance of male significance
mobilizes feelings and attention.)
I was given research materials that demonstrated the museum's commitment to
documenting the egregious persecution of homosexuals; included were biographies of
eight gay men and one lesbian. The museum's first conference‐‐held in December
1993 on "The Known, the Unknown, the Disputed, and the Reexamined"‐‐ eliminated
women altogether by disappearing the one lesbian. There were talks at the conference
on "Nazi Anti‐Homosexual Policies and Their Consequences for Homosexual Men" and
"The Pink Triangle: Homosexuals as 'Enemies of the State.'" There was scholarship on
"The Black Experience in the Holocaust Period"; but nothing on women‐‐not on Jewish
women or Gypsy women or women political prisoners; not on female perpetrators,
S.S. volunteers, for instance, some of whom were convicted of war crimes; not on
Hitler's social policies on women's reproductive rights; not on the relentless early
suppression of the feminist movement in Germany. Women were apparently neither
known nor unknown, a common enough condition but no less heartbreaking for that.
In the museum, the story of women is missing. Women are conceptually invisible: in
the design of the permanent exhibition, by which I mean its purpose, its fundamental
meaning; in its conception of the Jewish people. Anti‐Semites do not ignore the
specific meaning or presence of women, nor how to stigmatize or physically hurt
women as such, nor do those who commit genocide forget that to destroy a people,
one must destroy the women. So how can this museum, dedicated to memory, forget
to say what happened to Jewish women? If this genocide is unique, then what
happened to Jewish women was unique; attention must be paid. If not here, where?
Genocide is different from war. In a genocide, women and children are primary
targets, not accidental victims or occasional combatants. This museum, governed in its
narrative choices by a courteous, inclusive politics of sensitivity to ethnic and political
persecution, leaves out the story of the Nazis' hatred of women. The role of misogyny
22
in the organized sadism of these men must be articulated: because women's lives
were destroyed by careful plan; and because that sadism continues to contaminate
and compromise what it means to be human. The Nazi invasion of the human body‐‐
the literal and metaphoric castration of subjugated men, the specter of the sexualized,
tortured. emaciated "Jewess," mass plundered, mass murdered‐‐is still the touchstone
for an apparently depoliticized social sadism, a fetishized rapism that normalizes
sexual humiliation and mass dehumanization. Sex tourism is one contemporary
example‐‐Thai women and children kept in brothels for the use of male consumers
from developed countries.
This is what it means to pay attention to the sadism of the Nazis in the context of the
Holocaust museum. Germans with disabilities were the first victims of secret,
systematic murder‐‐from October 1939 to August 1941 at psychiatric clinics. Groups
of 15 to 20 would be gassed in carbon monoxide chambers. In the permanent
exhibition, there is a photograph of children being killed by lethal injection, their
awful steel beds, the restraints. Behind this photo is another‐‐smoke comes out of the
chimney of Hartheim, a storybooklike castle near Linz, one of the clinics.
There is a photo of a naked girl, probably adolescent, "mentally handicapped," taken
before she was killed. She is standing up, facing the camera, full‐frontal, but she does
not have the strength to stand on her own‐‐her rib cage is all bones‐‐so a nurse in a
conventional white uniform holds her up by force; the pain on the girl's face is
horrible. The photograph itself is Nazi child pornography‐‐no breasts, no hips, not
enough food for that, no paint or makeup, just a naked body and pure suffering; child
pornography for real sadists, those who do not want their victims to smile. And there
is a photo of an eight‐year‐old boy, also "mentally retarded," also naked, also full‐
frontal, this too child pornography Nazi‐style, the camera complicit in the torturer's
pride, his monument to memory.
Concerning disability, so‐called Aryans turned in their own, not a dreaded racial
"other." This was the first place where murder could hide behind doctors who would
legitimize it. I heard a woman say, "It makes you wonder about Dr. Kevorkian." Yes, it
does; and also about oneself‐‐how complicit am I in devaluing those with disabilities,
how much fear and prejudice are part of that complicity? I asked myself a lot of hard
questions. I was able to ask them because the museum told the story. Those who don't
see that pornography is, at its core, the appropriation of another person's body,
identity, life, might also begin to have questions.
The museum uses words, photographs, documents, films, and artifacts to create a
discourse vivid with detail. Archival film and photographs from the period have been
transferred to videotape for display. Some exhibits feature photographs mounted on
walls. There are more than ten thousand artifacts, ranging from concentration camp
uniforms to leaflets confiscated by the Nazis to children's drawings and paintings
made during the years 1932‐1944. The artifacts are startling, often beautiful. In telling
the story of how the Nazis persecuted and murdered the Gypsies, there is a wagon,
with a violin. "Yeah, this is the kind of wagon I saw going along the Danube in 1935,"
said a man behind me. The violin belonged to Miodrag Djordjevic‐Tukalia, a Roma
musician executed by the Germans in October 1941. Each time a name is attached to
an artifact, one is made to remember that everything happened to someone. It is as
hard to remember the individuality of the victims as it is to take in the mass nature of
the slaughter.
There are clothes and ornaments that belonged to Roma women; photographs of
Roma prisoners being deported to Poland; and a film of Roma children used in so‐
called racial research. They are clothed and still vibrant, many smiling. Almost all of
the Gypsy children at Auschwitz were killed.
Approaching the concentration‐camp area, I stop thinking. None of it is unfamiliar to
me; but here is a real boxcar used to transport Jews, a real barrack from Auschwitz‐
23
Birkenau. Film is not easier. There are films of the mass killings by mobile killing
squads: a line of naked women standing in front of an already‐dug mass grave, naked
women shot, falling, piled on top of each other, ravines filled with misshapen bodies.
Months later, this will be what I wish I had not seen.
Before one enters the boxcar, there are artifacts from the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising,
Passover 1943: a 1929 Mauser rifle, fuses for the two unused Molotov cocktails, two
75mm artillery shells, a pistol. Near the boxcar, to its side, is a workbench that
concealed a hiding place for Polish Jews in the house of Stefan Petri near Warsaw; a
handcart used to transport heavy loads and dead bodies in the ghetto; a manhole
cover, from Warsaw, because Jews hid in the sewers.
There is a wall of photographs of Jews and Gypsies being deported, from internment
camps and ghettos to concentration camps and killing centers; still photos of the
trains that transported them, all preface to the actual boxcar. Now one must choose to
walk through it or around it. The boxcar is set up this way so that Holocaust survivors
do not have to walk through it.
The freight car is clean now. I wonder if they had to scrub it out. It is smaller than I
could have imagined. It is dark inside. There is nowhere to sit. Aunts and uncles and
cousins of mine were here.
There is a wrought‐iron gate to a camp, with its wrought‐iron arch, Arbeit Macht Frei
("Freedom Through Labor"). In front of it are piles of things taken from the victims:
scissors, can openers, strainers, graters, mirrors, toothbrushes, razors, clothes,
hangers, hairbrushes, shoe brushes, knives, forks, spoons; and a photo of confiscated
suitcases, duffel bags, prayer shawls, canes, leg braces, and artificial limbs. One walks
under the arch‐‐through the gate‐‐to a real barrack from Auschwitz‐Birkenau, one of
the more than 200. This barrack held Jews from Theresienstadt Ghetto in
Czechoslovakia.
There are benches to sit on, before going in. I sit. The bench is peaceful, the floor a
hard, smooth, shiny stone surface with lovely pastels in it. Then I see the identification
of the very floor under my feet: "A path connecting Treblinka killing center with a
nearby forced labor camp was paved with the crushed remains of tombstones from
Jewish cemeteries. Below is a casting from a section of the path; Hebrew letters are
visible in several pieces." Behind me there is sound: a glass‐enclosed room, also with
benches, with photos of the physical plant at Auschwitz‐Birkenau, and from speakers
in the floor come the voices of survivors of Auschwitz saying what happened to them
there, the small details of degradation, narratives of humiliation, torture, and
overwhelming loss. I walk on the casting of the crushed tombstones from Treblinka
into the Auschwitz‐Birkenau barrack where, had I been born earlier, I might have
been with the majority of my family on both sides. The bunks are wood, almost slats‐‐
but then, they didn't have to bear much weight, did they? I have seen photos with the
inmates stacked‐in lying flat, but the eye plays a trick: one thinks the bunks must have
been bigger to hold so many. There is no smell. This too must have been scrubbed
down.
In the center of the barrack; are cement walls about four feet high behind which are
video displays of some of the medical experiments: photos of dismembered bodies
and of bodies and body parts preserved in vats: films of skeletal boys used in medical
experiments by Dr. Josef Mengele, known in Auschwitz as "the Angel of Death"; photos
of skeletal girls with bruises and open sores all over them. There is a Ravensbruck
woman; a single man at Dachau being used for experiments at extremes of air
pressure; a Gypsy man being injected with seawater right into his heart; a Jewish
dwarf who was subsequently stabbed to death to study his bone structure; a Jewish
woman used in sterilization experiments. The low walls are supposed to conceal these
videos from children.
24
There are bowls the prisoners ate from; Zyklon B canisters that were used in
Auschwitz‐Birkenau and Majdanek; a scale model of Crematorium 11 at Auschwitz‐
Birkenau that shows how vast it was, and also where the victims undressed, were
gassed, were cremated.
You pass an exhibit on why the U.S. War Department, when bombing military targets
only five miles away, refused to bomb the train tracks to Auschwitz to stop delivery of
Jews. Though Jewish groups in the U.S. repeatedly begged for this bombing, Assistant
Secretary of War John J. McCloy said it "would be of such doubtful efficacy that it
would not warrant the use of our resources." You pass through a steel passageway
with a glass floor and the names of victims etched in glass panels on the walls. You
move into an area with brick walls and a steel floor. You round a corner and there is a
smell, strange and bad, thick and heavy, almost suffocating. But you walk onward and
then on each side of you there are shoes, thousands of shoes; to your left and your
right, the shoes of the dead brought from Auschwitz to be on exhibit here. "We are the
shoes, we are the last witnesses," says a poem by Yiddish poet Moses Schulstein
inscribed on a wall. It is almost unbearable. Then there is a wall of photographs‐‐just
arms with tattooed numbers. The arms face a wall with smaller photographs of
emaciated prisoners.
Covering another wall there is a huge color photograph of the hair they cut off the
women at Auschwitz, a mountain of human hair; adjacent to it, a black and white
photo of this hair as it was baled for sale. Facing the mountain of hair are photographs
of Hungarian Jewish women with their heads shorn. There is a casting of a table on
which gold fillings were removed from corpses: castings of crematorium ovens from
Mauthausen; a stretcher used to move bodies, a crematorium poker.
When the war ended in 1945, two thirds of Europe's Jews had been murdered.
According to Deborah Dwork in Children with a Star, "a mere 11 percent of European
Jewish children alive in 1939 survived the war; one and a half million were killed."
The museum honors the "Rescuers," those who tried to save Jewish lives: a whole
village, Le Chambon‐sur‐Lignon, in France, that saved 5,000 refugees, including
several thousand Jews (the Bible of its pastor, Andre Trocme, is on display); Raoul
Wallenberg, a Swedish diplomat who worked relentlessly to rescue the Jews of
Budapest; an underground Polish group code‐named Zegota that provided money,
false identity papers, and hiding places for 4,000 Jews; and the Danes, who refused en
masse to collaborate with the Nazis. On display is a boat used by the Danes to smuggle
Jews to safety in Sweden. According to the museum, "Among the Nazi‐occupied
countries, only Denmark rescued its Jews." The Danes raised over $600,000 to help
the hunted escape; 7,220 Jews were saved; nearly 500 were deported to
Theresienstadt Ghetto‐‐and all but 51 survived.
And there are sadder stories of resistance. In Lidice, Czechoslovakia, on May 27, 1942,
Reinhard Heydrich, former chief of Reich security police, an architect of the genocide,
was shot (he died later). In retaliation, all the male villagers were murdered, the
women sent to concentration camps, the children jailed in Lodz Ghetto or, if blond
enough, put in German homes. The two Czech resistance fighters who killed Heydrich
committed suicide rather than surrender. The Nazis, never camera‐shy, photographed
the executions of the villagers.
There were 32 parachutists trained by the British in Palestine and sent to Hungary
and the Balkans as saboteurs. These fighters also wanted to rescue Jews under
German occupation. None was more committed to this cause than the poet Hannah
Senesh, a Zionist who emigrated from Hungary to Palestine as a teenager.
Commissioned as an officer in the British Army, she fought in Yugoslavia with the
resistance. On crossing the border into Hungary, Senesh was arrested by the Nazis as
an enemy soldier and jailed by the Gestapo in a military prison in Budapest. The Nazis
also jailed her mother, Catherine Senesh, who was still living in Hungary, in the same
25
prison, and threatened Hannah with the torture and killing of her mother. But it was
Hannah, who never broke, whom they tortured and, after five months, executed on
November 7, 1944. Her last poem read in part: "I could have been twenty‐three next
July;/I gambled on what mattered most,/The dice were cast. I lost." The museum
displays her words but does not tell her story.
There was the White Rose, students identified by the museum as the only German
group to demonstrate and leaflet against the genocide of the Jews. The leaders, Sophie
and Hans Scholl, sister and brother, were beheaded in 1943. (I keep a remembrance of
them‐‐an enamel white rose raised on a background of black and gray beads‐‐in front
of the German editions of my books.)
The permanent exhibition ends in an open amphitheater, on the screen survivors, in
good health, strong, fleshy, spirited, with stories of agony and unexpected uplift. They
speak with calm and authority, only one with the constant nervous tremble I
remember in survivors when I was a child. This is a triumph: to have forged a way of
telling. It is impossible to overestimate how hard this must have been. The Nuremberg
trials, the historians, gave the survivors some ground on which to stand; but they had
to find both words and the will to speak. Many overcame their shame‐‐the
internalized humiliation of anyone so debased, in captivity. But many have not
spoken, maybe because here too men have established the standard for what can be
said.
In the last two decades, feminists have learned how to talk with raped, prostituted,
and tortured women‐‐what they need to be able to speak, how to listen to them. This
museum was in formation for the second of those two decades, a ten‐year period of
research, investigation, discovery‐‐finding artifacts, deciding which to use and how,
which stories to tell and how. No use was made of feminist work on sexual abuse or
bodily invasion and violation‐‐neither the substance of this knowledge nor the
strategies used to create the safety in which women can bear remembering. I know
Holocaust survivors who have not spoken out: women who were raped or sexually
hurt. This museum did not become a safe place for women's testimony about the
sadism of sexualized assault. One rationale for building it was that soon the survivors
would pass on, and the burden of memory would be passed from them to all the rest
of us. But because the museum did not pay attention to women as a distinct
constituency with distinct experience, what women cannot bear to remember will die
with them; what happened will die with them. This is a tragedy for Jews and for
women, with miserable consequences for Jewish women. The conceptual invisibility
of Jewish women is the kind of erasure that is used‐‐indefensibly, with a prejudiced
illogic of its own‐‐to justify yet another generation of second‐class status for women in
Jewish communities and in Israel. The torment of women in the Holocaust was not
second‐class, and it cannot translate into second‐class rights. Acknowledgment and
respect are necessary; the conceptually invisible have neither.
Perhaps the threat of seeking this knowledge is that some of the sadism is familiar,
even familial; not confined to camps or genocide. Better to avoid any crime against
women that men who are not Nazis still commit. Or perhaps women are conceptually
invisible because of the continuing and belligerent sexism of the men w ho run Jewish
institutions now‐‐but the blinding arrogance of sexism has no place in this museum. I
want the suffering and endurance of women‐‐Jewish or not Jewish, in Auschwitz or
Ravensbruck, Bergen‐Belsen or Dachau, Majdanek or Sobibor‐‐reckoned with and
honored: remembered. I want the rapes documented, the brothels delineated, the
summary murders of pregnant women discussed. I want the medical experiments‐‐
excision of genitals, injections into the uterus‐‐explained, exposed. I want the
humiliation rituals‐‐forced nakedness, cutting and shaving of hair, punishments of
hundreds or thousands of women standing naked in the cold for 12 hours at a time‐‐
articulated. I want the beatings, the whippings, the forced hard labor and slave labor,
narrated. I need to know about those who resisted and those who escaped; there were
26
some. I need a heritage on the female side. I want this museum changed so that
remembrance is not male. I want to know the story of women in the Holocaust.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Copyright © 1994 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
27
a short story by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1977, 1980 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
[This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters in this book
and real persons living or dead is coincidental.]
it began quite possibly with Nancy Drew.
there she was.
her father Carson was a lawyer and her boyfriend Ned always wore a suit.
she solved mysteries.
in particular I remember The Secret in the Old Attic. there she was, her hands tied behind her
back, her feet tied together, thrown on the floor of a deserted attic in the middle of the night. that
was because she had singlehandedly and against all odds discovered the murderous villain who
had committed unspeakable crimes. I cant remember what they were but Nancy never
underestimated or overestimated. he wanted to kill her so (it seemed absolutely logical then) he
locked her in a pitch black attic with a black widow spider. there she was, on the floor, struggling
and twisting, at any moment, any wrong move, she would be bitten by the black widow spider and
die a slow, lingering, agonizing death. she wasnt even afraid.
me, I was terrified. I had learned to be terrified in the 2nd grade, Mrs. (as we said then) Jones
class, when we did a science project‐‐ the boys did theirs on spiders, we did ours on seashells.
every time the boys discovered a new poisonous or even a very ugly non‐poisonous spider they
made creepy sounds. for about 8 years I always felt at the foot of my bed for spiders and wore
socks. naturally I was relieved when, on the last page, Carson and Ned flung open the door to the
attic, turned on the light, and stomped on the black widow spider which was just inches from her
brave, abused body. she never even screamed or cried.
there were also, of course, Cherry Ames Student Nurse and Ginny Gordon Detective and
Flossie of the Bobbsey Twins and Nan who was I think another Bobbsey Twin (there were 2 sets).
they always had adventures and went out at night and had boyfriends and were rescued just in the
nick of time. they werent much as heroes go but they were all I had.
sometime about the 6th grade I got into the heavy stuff. Scarlett O'Hara and Marjorie
Morningstar. I read Gone with the Wind at least 22 times. I had total visual recall of every page. I
could open it up at will to any episode and begin crying immediately. I would sit in my room, door
locked, and cry‐‐tears streaming down my cheeks, body racked in agony. but quietly so my mother
wouldnt hear and take the book away. when Rhett carried her up those stairs. "My dear, I don't
give a damn," he said when finally, at last, she begged. when Ashley almost died. when Tara was
burned to the ground. how Scarlett suffered and how I suffered. we were the same really. both
women of greatness. I saw my grand white house in rubble, myself in ashes and sackcloth,
destitute, humiliated. my slaves loved me (here I quivered, knowing even then I was a jerk) and
were forced to leave. Rhett. Rhett. I was her, and I was him, and I was her being cruel to him, and
him being cruel to her, and all of us, suffering, heroic, driven. by History no less. Melanie, or
Melody, or whatever her name was, pale, dull, and well behaved under every circumstance,
appalled me. I skipped all the parts she was in.
28
Marjorie. the thrill of eating bacon for the 1st time. of course I had eaten bacon all my life. I
just hadnt ever before known how dangerous it really was. Noel Airman. An Actor. soon he would
be balding, thats how old and evil he was. danger. sex. I could feel his creepy decadence. I looked
for it everywhere. I couldnt find it in the grammar school I went to. he would corrupt her. he would
corrupt me. somewhere in the world there was a Noel Airman waiting to do some dirty thing to
me‐‐IT they called it‐‐that would degrade me. I would never be able to be with decent people again.
I might even go to Hell. I would be an artist. I would be able to feel. I would know everything. I
ignored the 2nd part of the book where she married that jerk. none of that for me. keeping kosher
indeed.
also that same year. A.F. fell in love with me. he gave me a wooden snake. I was supposed to
scream in horror so I did even though I quite liked it and later named it Herman. he wouldnt let me
play with the other boys. he grabbed my arms and pulled me out of all the games. also Joel
Christian and Agnes. he was at least 19. they necked all the time. everywhere. during recess. they
expelled him but she got pregnant anyway.
the next year I went to camp.
with my best friend S.
we were one year too young to be counselors‐in‐training. it was humiliating. we were above
going on hikes and making beaded purses.
Barry Greenberg was a counselor‐in‐training. he was tall and thin and had a crew cut that
stood up. he wore a bright red shirt that said SAM'S MEAT MARKET. he worked there after school
in the winter.
we tried to follow him everywhere.
finally we even went bowling to see him. he always hit the pins but we didnt dare. we always
missed and giggled. we wore tight sweaters. he was pretty bored and above it all.
then we went back to school. desperate for Barry Greenberg. in love. suffering. Rhett. Noel.
Barry Greenberg.
a few months later I slept at her house or she slept at mine. we put on our pajamas and
giggled for hours. we talked about Barry Greenberg.
then I said, Ill be Barry Greenberg and I climbed on top of her and I was Barry Greenberg.
then she said, Ill be Barry Greenberg and she climbed on top of me and she was Barry Greenberg.
then I was Barry Greenberg. then she was Barry Greenberg. then I was Barry Greenberg. then she
was Barry Greenberg. I might have been twice in a row when she got tired. then the light broke and
we lay together drenched in sweat and love of Barry Greenberg. then we went to school and
danced together during recess to "Chantilly Lace" and invented a new step where I swung her over
me and she swung me over her and we both turned around.
then we met Mary and everything changed.
Mary wasnt like us. we were both brilliant. Mary wasnt. we were both in fact, according to
ourselves, prodigies. Mary wasnt. we were both Jewish. Mary wasnt. we were both too smart to be
popular. Mary wasnt.
we loved Mary immediately.
Mary was a conservative. that meant that she wore only beige and blue and certain shades of
green and peter pan collars and a circle pin on the correct side (one side meant virgin, the other
meant whore, typically I never could remember which was which). S. and I both wore sweaters and
dark red neither of which was conservative.
we each wanted Mary to be our best friend.
so S. told Mary lies about me and Mary stopped speaking to me. I suffered. Rhett. Noel. Mary.
then I told Mary lies about S. and Mary stopped speaking to her.
there was a confrontation. I won. I won Mary. it was strictly platonic and ethereal. S. had a
nervous breakdown and her mother sent her to school in another city. when she was 15 she had an
29
affair with a painter. he fucked her and she became a woman. then she became a Bunny in a
Playboy Club. then she disappeared. Once S. left, Mary seemed kind of dull.
then my best friend was Rona. she was afraid of me because by then I was angry as well as
smart. I wore only black by then. she had read in Dear Abby that if you had a close friend and she
didnt pluck her eyebrows and they were hairy you should take her aside and tell her to pluck her
eyebrows. Rona and I had never spoken but since she wanted me to be her friend she took me
aside anyway and told me to pluck my eyebrows. I did. then she was my best friend.
because I wore black and we both emulated Holden Caulfield as much as possible we went to
Ronas house every Wednesday night to drink her parents booze. they went bowling. Rona had a
boyfriend who had a boyfriend. her boyfriend was tall, handsome, blond, broad shouldered, and
had been in the Navy. she wasnt allowed to see him because her parents thought he was a creep
and too mature for her. her boyfriends boyfriend was (as we said then) a fag. he said mean
malicious things about everyone we knew and we thought he was very clever. Ronas boyfriend of
course was not a fag since he was Ronas boyfriend, had been in the Navy, and was tall, handsome,
blond, and broad shouldered. he had even, Rona whispered, made some girl pregnant and fucked a
real whore.
the 4 of us would drink whatever we thought Ronas parents wouldnt miss (we drank mostly
from heavily tinted bottles) and make lewd remarks to the best of our combined abilities and talk
about the disgusting fact that Rona and I were virgins. it disgusted all of us but not equally. it
particularly disgusted Ronas boyfriend and her boyfriends boyfriend. they after all did everything.
whatever that was.
the next morning I would go to school wasted, superior, and dangerous, and shout in the
hall: damn this damn school. an outlaw I was.
then we met Johnny. he was a real outlaw. he had 7 brothers and sisters and was Catholic
and went to a Catholic school. he made his tuition turning tricks in bars in Philadelphia, and he
smoked grass, and he used morphine. he was our hero.
he came to visit us in school. beer spilled out of his pockets and we hid him in the girls room
and he drank his beer while we smoked the grass he had brought for us.
once he was in a car crash and went through the windshield and they took him to the
hospital and shot him up with morphine and he loved it so much that he did it again.
he said that he turned tricks in the bars in Philadelphia to make his tuition so that he could
go to Catholic school even though his family was poor. he said that in a Catholic school they couldnt
touch his mind or fuck him up. he was our image of purity.
the night we graduated from high school Rona gave a party and one of our teachers fucked
one of our friends and she had a nervous breakdown when he never called her again. until 2 years
later when he called her. then it got worse because he made her suck his cock all the time and then
would tell her that if she ever did it to anyone else she would be a disgusting slut.
he didnt call Rona until she got married.
he and I had an even stormier story. before graduation he threatened to turn me in to the
FBI for smoking grass and to take me to a hospital to watch junkies scream and vomit and he made
a list for me, he explained everything that would happen throughout life‐‐
THERES ORAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE WOMAN SUCKS THE COCK OF THE MAN
AND THERES ANAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE ASS AND
THEN THERES REGULAR INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE
VAGINA‐‐
thats what sex is, he said. thats what happens. he drew pictures to illustrate his points.
he taught me everything I know.
I never believed a word he said.
he was, according to our unspoken mutual understanding, going to be my first lover but he
turned into such a jerk, traitor, and villainous turncoat that I had to look elsewhere.
30
S. of course hadnt been.
now the thing about this story is that, like life, it just goes on and on, or, like life as we know
it, it did for about 8 years which was 250 or so men, women, and variations thereof later. then I
thought it time to reassess and perhaps invent.
at some point S. was.
at some point, in Amsterdam, or on Crete, in London, or maybe on a boat somewhere S. was.
at some point whenever I lay on some floor or bed or the backseat of some car drenched in
sweat, watching the light break, it wasnt Barry Greenberg, or Rhett, or Noel, or some rotten high
school teacher. it was S. pure and simple. who had a nervous breakdown, got fucked by a painter,
became a woman, then a Bunny, then disappeared. vanished into thin air, which is here, there, and
everywhere.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"the simple story of a lesbian girlhood" copyright © 1977, 1980 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved. First published in an earlier version in Christopher Street, Vol. 2,
No. 5, November 1977, under the title "The Simple Story of a Lesbian Childhood.".
31
OUR BLOOD: PROPHECIES AND DISCOURSES ON SEXUAL POLITICS
by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1975, 1976 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 9
One basic principle of reality, universally believed and adhered to with a vengeance, is
that there are two sexes, man and woman, and that these sexes are not only distinct
from each other, but are opposite. The model often used to describe the nature of
these two sexes is that of magnetic poles. The male sex is likened to the positive pole,
and the female sex is likened to the negative pole. Brought into proximity with each
other, the magnetic fields of these two sexes are supposed to interact, locking the two
poles together into a perfect whole. Needless to say, two like poles brought into
proximity are supposed to repel each other.
The male sex, in keeping with its positive designation, has positive qualities; and the
female sex, in keeping with its negative designation, does not have any of the positive
qualities attributed to the male sex. For instance, according to this model, men are
active, strong, and courageous; and women are passive, weak, and fearful. In other
words, whatever men are, women are not; whatever men can do, women cannot do;
whatever capacities men have, women do not have. Man is the positive and woman is
his negative.
Apologists for this model claim that it is moral because it is inherently egalitarian.
Each pole is supposed to have the dignity of its own separate identity; each pole is
necessary to a harmonious whole. This notion, of course, is rooted in the conviction
that the claims made as to the character of each sex are true, that the essence of each
sex is accurately described. In other words, to say that man is the positive and woman
is the negative is like saying that sand is dry and water is wet‐‐the characteristic
which most describes the thing itself is named in a true way and no judgment on the
worth of these differing characteristics is implied. Simone de Beauvoir exposes the
fallacy of this "separate but equal" doctrine in the preface to THE SECOND SEX:
In actuality the relation of the two sexes is not . . . like that of two electrical poles, for
man represents both the positive and the neutral, as is indicated by the common use
of man to designate human beings in general; whereas woman represents only the
negative, defined by limiting criteria, without reciprocity.... "The female is a female by
virtue of a certain lack of qualities," said Aristotle; "we should regard the female
nature as afflicted with a natural defectiveness." And St. Thomas for his part
pronounced woman to be "an imperfect man," all "incidental" being . . .
Thus, humanity is male and man defines woman not in herself but as relative to him;
she is not regarded as an autonomous being. 1
This diseased view of woman as the negative of man, "female by virtue of a certain
lack of qualities," infects the whole of culture. It is the cancer in the gut of every
political and economic system, of every social institution. It is the rot which spoils all
human relationships, infests all human psychological reality, and destroys the very
fiber of human identity.
This pathological view of female negativity has been enforced on our flesh for
thousands of years. The savage mutilation of the female body, undertaken to
distinguish us absolutely from men, has occurred on a massive scale. For instance, in
China, for one thousand years, women's feet were reduced to stumps through
footbinding. When a girl was seven or eight years old, her feet were washed in alum, a
chemical that causes shrinkage. Then, all toes but the big toes were bent into the soles
of her feet and bandaged as tightly as possible. This procedure was repeated over and
over again for approximately three years. The girl, in agony, was forced to walk on her
feet. Hard calluses formed; toenails grew into the skin; the feet were pus‐filled and
bloody; circulation was virtually stopped; often the big toes fell off. The ideal foot was
three inches of smelly, rotting flesh. Men were positive and women were negative
because men could walk and women could not. Men were strong and women were
weak because men could walk and women could not. Men were independent and
women were dependent because men could walk and women could not. Men were
virile because women were crippled.
33
This atrocity committed against Chinese women is only one example of the systematic
sadism acted out on the bodies of women to render us opposite to, and the negatives
of, men. We have been, and arc, whipped, beaten, and assaulted; we have been, and
are, encased in clothing designed to distort our bodies, to make movement and
breathing painful and difficult; we have been, and are, turned into ornaments, so
deprived of physical presence that we cannot run or jump or climb or even walk with
a natural posture; we have been, and are, veiled, our faces covered by layers of
suffocating cloth or by layers of make‐up, so that even possession of our own faces is
denied us; we have been, and are, forced to remove the hair from our armpits, legs,
eyebrows, and often even from our pubic areas, so that men can assert, without
contradiction, the positivity of their own hairy virility. We have been, and are,
sterilized against our will; our wombs are removed for no medical reason; our
clitorises are cut off; our breasts and the whole musculature of our chests are
removed with enthusiastic abandon. This last procedure, radical mastectomy, is eighty
years old. I ask you to consider the development of weaponry in the last eighty years,
nuclear bombs, poisonous gases, laser beams, noise bombs, and the like, and to
question the development of technology in relation to women. Why are women still
being mutilated so promiscuously in breast surgery; why has this savage form of
mutilation, radical mastectomy, thrived if not to enhance the negativity of women in
relation to men? These forms of physical mutilation are brands which designate us as
female by negating our very bodies, by destroying them.
In the bizarre world made by men, the primary physical emblem of female negativity
is pregnancy. Women have the capacity to bear children; men do not. But since men
are positive and women are negative, the inability to bear children is designated as a
positive characteristic, and the ability to bear children is designated as a negative
characteristic. Since women are most easily distinguished from men by virtue of this
single capacity, and since the negativity of women is always established in opposition
to the positivity of men, the childbearing capacity of the female is used first to fix, then
to confirm, her negative or inferior status. Pregnancy becomes a physical brand, a sign
designating the pregnant one as authentically female. Childbearing, peculiarly,
becomes the form and substance of female negativity.
Again, consider technology in relation to women. As men walk on the moon and a
man‐made satellite approaches Mars for a landing, the technology of contraception
remains criminally inadequate. The two most effective means of contraception are the
pill and the I.U.D. The pill is poisonous and the I.U.D is sadistic. Should a woman want
to prevent conception, she must either fail eventually because she uses an ineffective
method of contraception, in which case she risks death through childbearing; or she
must risk dreadful disease with the pill, or suffer agonizing pain with the I.U.D.‐‐and,
of course, with either of these methods, the risk of death is also very real. Now that
abortion techniques have been developed which are safe and easy, women are
resolutely denied free access to them. Men require that women continue to become
pregnant so as to embody female negativity, thus confirming male positivity.
While the physical assaults against female life are staggering, the outrages committed
against our intellectual and creative faculties have been no less sadistic. Consigned to
a negative intellectual and creative life, so as to affirm these capacities in men, women
are considered to be mindless; femininity is roughly synonymous with stupidity. We
are feminine to the degree that our mental faculties are annihilated or repudiated. To
enforce this dimension of female negativity, we are systematically denied access to
formal education, and every assertion of natural intelligence is punished until we do
not dare to trust our perceptions, until we do not dare to honor our creative impulses,
until we do not dare to exercise our critical faculties, until we do not dare to cultivate
our imaginations, until we do not dare to respect our own mental or moral acuity.
Whatever creative or intellectual work we do manage to do is trivialized, ignored, or
ridiculed, so that even those few whose minds could not be degraded are driven to
suicide or insanity, or back into marriage and childbearing. There are very few
exceptions to this inexorable rule.
34
The most vivid literary manifestation of this pathology of female negation is found in
pornography. Literature is always the most eloquent expression of cultural values;
and pornography articulates the purest distillation of those values. In literary
pornography, where female blood can flow without the real restraint of biological
endurance, the ethos of this murderous male‐positive culture is revealed in its skeletal
form: male sadism feeds on female masochism; male dominance is nourished by
female submission.
In pornography, sadism is the means by which men establish their dominance. Sadism
is the authentic exercise of power which confirms manhood; and the first
characteristic of manhood is that its existence is based on the negation of the female ‐‐
manhood can only be certified by abject female degradation, a degradation never
abject enough until the victim's body and will have both been destroyed.
In literary pornography, the pulsating heart of darkness at the center of the male‐
positive system is exposed in all of its terrifying nakedness. That heart of darkness is
this‐‐that sexual sadism actualizes male identity. Women are tortured, whipped, and
chained; women are bound and gagged, branded and burned, cut with knives and
wires; women are pissed on and shit on; red‐hot needles are driven into breasts,
bones are broken, rectums are torn, mouths are ravaged, cunts are savagely
bludgeoned by penis after penis, dildo after dildo‐‐and all of this to establish in the
male a viable sense of his own worth.
Typically in pornography, some of this gruesome cruelty takes place in a public
context. A man has not thoroughly mastered a woman‐‐he is not thoroughly a man‐‐
until her degradation is publicly witnessed and enjoyed. In other words, as a man
establishes dominance he must also publicly establish ownership. Ownership is
proven when a man can humiliate a woman in front of, and for the pleasure of, his
fellows, and still she remains loyal to him. Ownership is further established when a
man can loan a woman out as a carnal object, or give her as a gift to another man or to
other men. These transactions make his ownership a matter of public record and
increase his esteem in the eyes of other men. These transactions prove that he has not
only claimed absolute authority over her body, but that he has also entirely mastered
her will. What might have begun for the woman as submission to a particular man out
of "love" for him‐‐and what was in that sense congruent with her own integrity as she
could recognize it‐‐must end in the annihilation of even that claim to individuality.
The individuality of ownership‐‐"I am the one who owns"‐‐is claimed by the man; but
nothing must be left to the woman or in the woman on which she could base any claim
to personal dignity, even the shabby dignity of believing, "I am the exclusive property
of the man who degrades me." In the same way, and for the same reasons, she is
forced to watch the man who possesses her exercising his sexual sadism against other
women. This robs her of that internal grain of dignity that comes from believing, "I am
the only one," or "I am perceived and my singular identity is verified when he
degrades me," or "I am distinguished from other women because this man has chosen
me."
The pornography of male sadism almost always contains an idealized, or unreal, view
of male fellowship. The utopian male concept which is the premise of male
pornography is this‐‐since manhood is established and confirmed over and against the
brutalized bodies of women, men need not aggress against each other; in other words,
women absorb male aggression so that men are safe from it. Each man, knowing his
own deep‐rooted impulse to savagery, presupposes this same impulse in other men
and seeks to protect himself from it. The rituals of male sadism over and against the
bodies of women are the means by which male aggression is socialized so that a man
can associate with other men without the imminent danger of male aggression against
his own person. The common erotic project of destroying women makes it possible for
men to unite into a brotherhood; this project is the only firm and trustworthy
groundwork for cooperation among males and all male bonding is based on it.
This idealized view of male fellowship exposes the essentially homosexual character
of male society. Men use women's bodies to form alliances or bonds with each other.
Men use women's bodies to achieve recognizable power which will certify male
35
identity in the eyes of other men. Men use women's bodies to enable them to engage
in civil and peaceable social transactions with each other. We think that we live in a
heterosexual society because most men are fixated on women as sexual objects; but,
in fact, we live in a homosexual society because all credible transactions of power,
authority, and authenticity take place among men; all transactions based on equity
and individuality take place among men. Men are real; therefore, all real relationship
is between men; all real communication is between men; all real reciprocity is
between men; all real mutuality is between men. Heterosexuality, which can be
defined as the sexual dominance of men over women, is like an acorn‐‐from it grows
the mighty oak of the male homosexual society, a society of men, by men, and for men,
a society in which the positivity of male community is realized through the negation of
the female, through the annihilation of women's flesh and will.
In literary pornography, which is a distillation of life as we know it, women are gaping
holes, hot slits, fuck tubes, and the like. The female body is supposed to consist of
three empty holes, all of which were expressly designed to be filled with erect male
positivity.
The female life‐force itself is characterized as a negative one: we are defined as
inherently masochistic; that is, we are driven toward pain and abuse, toward self‐
destruction, toward annihilation‐‐and this drive toward our own negation is precisely
what identifies us as women. In other words, we are born so that we may be
destroyed. Sexual masochism actualizes female negativity, just as sexual sadism
actualizes male positivity. A woman's erotic femininity is measured by the degree to
which she needs to be hurt, needs to be possessed, needs to be abused, needs to
submit, needs to be beaten, needs to be humiliated, needs to be degraded. Any woman
who resists acting out these so‐called needs, or any woman who rebels against the
values inherent in these needs, or any woman who refuses to sanction or participate
in her own destruction is characterized as a deviant, one who denies her femininity, a
shrew, a bitch, etc. Typically, such deviants are brought back into the female flock by
rape, gang rape, or some form of bondage. The theory is that once such women have
tasted the intoxicating sweetness of submission they will, like lemmings, rush to their
own destruction.
Romantic love, in pornography as in life, is the mythic celebration of female negation.
For a woman, love is defined as her willingness to submit to her own annihilation. As
the saying goes, women are made for love‐‐that is, submission. Love, or submission,
must be both the substance and purpose of a woman's life. For the female, the capacity
to love is exactly synonymous with the capacity to sustain abuse and the appetite for
it. For the woman, the proof of love is that she is willing to be destroyed by the one
whom she loves, for his sake. For the woman, love is always self‐sacrifice, the sacrifice
of identity, will, and bodily integrity, in order to fulfill and redeem the masculinity of
her lover.
In pornography, we see female love raw, its naked erotic skeleton; we can almost
touch the bones of our dead. Love is the erotic masochistic drive; love is the frenzied
passion which compels a woman to submit to a diminishing life in chains; love is the
consuming sexual impulse toward degradation and abuse. The woman does literally
give herself to the man; he does literally take and possess her.
The primary transaction which expresses this female submission and this male
possession, in pornography as in life, is the act of fucking. Fucking is the basic physical
expression of male positivity and female negativity. The relationship of sadist to
masochist does not originate in the act of fucking; rather, it is expressed and renewed
there.
For the male, fucking is a compulsive act, in pornography and in real life. But in real
life, and not in pornography, it is an act fraught with danger, filled with dread. That
sanctified organ of male positivity, the phallus, penetrates into the female void. During
penetration, the male's whole being is his penis‐‐it and his will to domination are
entirely one; the erect penis is his identity; all sensation is localized in the penis and in
effect the rest of his body is insensate, dead. During penetration, a male's very being is
36
at once both risked and affirmed. Will the female void swallow him up, consume him,
engulf and destroy his penis, his whole self? Will the female void pollute his virile
positivity with its noxious negativity? Will the female void contaminate his tenuous
maleness with the overwhelming toxicity of its femaleness? Or will he emerge from
the terrifying emptiness of the female's anatomical gaping hole intact‐‐his positivity
reified because, even when inside her, he managed to maintain the polarity of male
and female by maintaining the discreteness and integrity of his steel‐like rod; his
masculinity affirmed because he did not in fact merge with her and in so doing lose
himself, he did not dissolve into her, he did not become her nor did he become like
her, he was not subsumed by her.
This dangerous journey into the female void must be undertaken again and again,
compulsively, because masculinity is nothing in and of itself; in and of itself it does not
exist; it has reality only over and against, or in contrast to, female negativity.
Masculinity can only be experienced, achieved, recognized, and embodied in
opposition to femininity. When men posit sex, violence, and death as elemental erotic
truths, they mean this‐‐that sex, or fucking, is the act which enables them to
experience their own reality, or identity, or masculinity most concretely; that violence,
or sadism, is the means by which they actualize that reality, or identity, or
masculinity; and that death, or negation, or nothingness, or contamination by the
female is what they risk each time they penetrate into what they imagine to be the
emptiness of the female hole.
What then is behind the claim that fucking is pleasurable for the male? How can an act
so saturated with the dread of loss of self, of loss of penis, be pleasurable? How can an
act so obsessive, so anxiety‐ridden, be characterized as pleasurable?
First, it is necessary to understand that this is precisely the fantasy dimension of
pornography. In the rarefied environs of male pornography, male dread is excised
from the act of fucking, censored, edited out. The sexual sadism of males rendered so
vividly in pornography is real; women experience it daily. Male domination over and
against female flesh is real; women experience it daily. The brutal uses to which
female bodies are put in pornography are real; women suffer these abuses on a global
scale, day after day, year after year, generation after generation. What is not real, what
is fantasy, is the male claim at the heart of pornography that fucking is for them an
ecstatic experience, the ultimate pleasure, an unmixed blessing, a natural and easy act
in which there is no terror, no dread, no fear. Nothing in reality documents this claim.
Whether we examine the slaughter of the nine million witches in Europe which was
fueled by the male dread of female carnality, or examine the phenomenon of rape
which exposes fucking as an act of overt hostility against the female enemy, or
investigate impotence which is the involuntary inability to enter the female void, or
trace the myth of the vagina dentata (the vagina full of teeth) which is derived from a
paralyzing fear of female genitalia, or isolate menstrual taboos as an expression of
male terror, we find that in real life the male is obsessed with his fear of the female,
and that this fear is most vivid to him in the act of fucking.
Second, it is necessary to understand that pornography is a kind of propaganda
designed to convince the male that he need not be afraid, that he is not afraid; to shore
him up so that he can fuck; to convince him that fucking is an unalloyed joy; to obscure
for him the reality of his own terror by providing a pornographic fantasy of pleasure
which he can learn as a creed and from which he can act to dominate women as a real
man must. We might say that in pornography the whips, the chains, and the other
paraphernalia of brutality are security blankets which give the lie to the pornographic
claim that fucking issues from manhood like light from the sun. But in life, even the
systematized abuse of women and the global subjugation of women to men is not
sufficient to stem the terror inherent for the male in the act of fucking.
Third, it is necessary to understand that what is experienced by the male as authentic
pleasure is the affirmation of his own identity as a male. Each time he survives the
peril of entering the female void, his masculinity is reified. He has proven both that he
is not her and that he is like other hims. No pleasure on earth matches the pleasure of
37
having proven himself real, positive and not negative, a man and not a woman, a bona
fide member of the group which holds dominion over all other living things.
Fourth, it is necessary to understand that under the sexual system of male positivity
and female negativity, there is literally nothing in the act of fucking, except accidental
clitoral friction, which recognizes or actualizes the real eroticism of the female, even
as it has survived under slave conditions. Within the confines of the male‐positive
system, this eroticism does not exist. After all, a negative is a negative is a negative.
Fucking is entirely a male act designed to affirm the reality and power of the phallus,
of masculinity. For women, the pleasure in being fucked is the masochistic pleasure of
experiencing self‐negation. Under the male‐positive system, the masochistic pleasure
of self‐negation is both mythicized and mystified in order to compel women to believe
that we experience fulfillment in selflessness, pleasure in pain, validation in self‐
sacrifice, femininity in submission to masculinity. Trained from birth to conform to
the requirements of this peculiar world view, punished severely when we do not learn
masochistic submission well enough, entirely encapsulated inside the boundaries of
the male‐positive system, few women ever experience themselves as real in and of
themselves. Instead, women are real to themselves to the degree that they identify
with and attach themselves to the positivity of males. In being fucked, a woman
attaches herself to one who is real to himself and vicariously experiences reality, such
as it is, through him; in being fucked, a woman experiences the masochistic pleasure
of her own negation which is perversely articulated as the fulfillment of her
femininity.
Now, I want to make a crucial distinction‐‐the distinction between truth and reality.
For humans, reality is social; reality is whatever people at a given time believe it to be.
In saying this, I do not mean to suggest that reality is either whimsical or accidental. In
my view, reality is always a function of politics in general and sexual politics in
particular‐‐that is, it serves the powerful by fortifying and justifying their right to
domination over the powerless. Reality is whatever premises social and cultural
institutions are built on. Reality is also the rape, the whip, the fuck, the hysterectomy,
the clitoridectomy, the mastectomy, the bound foot, the high‐heel shoe, the corset, the
make‐up, the veil, the assault and battery, the degradation and mutilation in their
concrete manifestations. Reality is enforced by those whom it serves so that it appears
to be self‐evident. Reality is self‐perpetuating, in that the cultural and social
institutions built on its premises also embody and enforce those premises. Literature,
religion, psychology, education, medicine, the science of biology as currently
understood, the social sciences, the nuclear family, the nation‐state, police, armies,
and civil law‐‐all embody the given reality and enforce it on us. The given reality is, of
course, that there are two sexes, male and female; that these two sexes are opposite
from each other, polar; that the male is inherently positive and the female inherently
negative; and that the positive and negative poles of human existence unite naturally
into a harmonious whole.
Truth, on the other hand, is not nearly so accessible as reality. In my view, truth is
absolute in that it does exist and it can be found. Radium, for instance, always existed;
it was always true that radium existed; but radium did not figure in the human notion
of reality until Marie and Pierre Curie isolated it. When they did, the human notion of
reality had to change in fundamental ways to accommodate the truth of radium.
Similarly, the earth was always a sphere; this was always true; but until Columbus
sailed west to find the East, it was not real. We might say that truth does exist, and
that it is the human project to find it so that reality can be based on it.
I have made this distinction between truth and reality in order to enable me to say
something very simple: that while the system of gender polarity is real, it is not true. It
is not true that there are two sexes which are discrete and opposite, which are polar,
which unite naturally and self‐evidently into a harmonious whole. It is not true that
the male embodies both positive and neutral human qualities and potentialities in
contrast to the female who is female, according to Aristotle and all of male culture, "by
virtue of a certain lack of qualities." And once we do not accept the notion that men
are positive and women are negative, we are essentially rejecting the notion that there
38
are men and women at all. In other words, the system based on this polar model of
existence is absolutely real; but the model itself is not true. We are living imprisoned
inside a pernicious delusion, a delusion on which all reality as we know it is
predicated.
In my view, those of us who are women inside this system of reality will never be free
until the delusion of sexual polarity is destroyed and until the system of reality based
on it is eradicated entirely from human society and from human memory. This is the
notion of cultural transformation at the heart of feminism. This is the revolutionary
possibility inherent in the feminist struggle.
As I see it, our revolutionary task is to destroy phallic identity in men and masochistic
nonidentity in women‐‐that is, to destroy the polar realities of men and women as we
now know them so that this division of human flesh into two camps‐‐one an armed
camp and the other a concentration camp‐‐is no longer possible. Phallic identity is real
and it must be destroyed. Female masochism is real and it must be destroyed. The
cultural institutions which embody and enforce those interlocked aberrations‐‐for
instance, law, art, religion, nation‐states, the family, tribe, or commune based on
father‐right‐‐these institutions are real and they must be destroyed. If they are not, we
will be consigned as women to perpetual inferiority and subjugation.
I believe that freedom for women must begin in the repudiation of our own
masochism. I believe that we must destroy in ourselves the drive to masochism at its
sexual roots. I believe that we must establish our own authenticity, individually and
among ourselves‐‐to experience it, to create from it, and also to deprive men of
occasions for reifying the lie of manhood over and against us. I believe that ridding
ourselves of our own deeply entrenched masochism, which takes so many tortured
forms, is the first priority; it is the first deadly blow that we can strike against
systematized male dominance. In effect, when we succeed in excising masochism from
our own personalities and constitutions, we will be cutting the male life line to power
over and against us, to male worth in contradistinction to female degradation, to male
identity posited on brutally enforced female negativity‐‐we will be cutting the male
life line to manhood itself. Only when manhood is dead‐‐and it will perish when
ravaged femininity no longer sustains it‐‐only then will we know what it is to be free.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"The Root Cause." Copyright © 1975, 1976 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
First delivered as a lecture under the title "Androgyny."
39
a short story by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1978, 1979, 1980 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
[This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters in this book
and real persons living or dead is coincidental.]
(for E. and L.)
morning broke. I mean, fell right on its goddam ass and broke. no walking barefoot
if you care about yr feet, kid.
I waited and waited. no call came. I cant say, the call didnt come because it wasnt a
question of one really. it was a question of any one. it was a question of one goddam
person calling to say I like this or that or I want to buy this or that or you moved my
heart, my spirit, or I like yr ass. to clarify, not a man calling to say I like yr ass but one
of those shining new women, luminous, tough, lighting right up from inside. one of
them. or some of the wrecked old women I know, too late not to be wrecked, too many
children torn right out of them, but still, I like the wrinkles, I like the toughness of the
heart. one of them. not one of those new new new girl children playing soccer on the
boys team for the first time. young is dumb. at least it was when I was young. I have no
patience with the untorn, anyone who hasnt weathered rough weather. fallen apart,
been ripped to pieces, put herself back together, big stitches, jagged cuts, nothing nice.
then something shines out. but these ones all shined up on the outside, the ass
wigglers. I'll be honest, I dont like them. not at all. the smilers. the soft voices, eyes on
the ground or scanning outer space. its not that I wouldnt give my life for them, I just
dont want them to call me on the telephone.
still, business is business. I needed one of them, the ass wigglers, to call me on the
phone. editors. shits. smiling, cleaned up shits. plasticized turds. everything is too long
or too short or too angry or too rude. one even said too urban. Im living on goddam
east 5 street, dog shit, I mean, buried in dog shit, police precinct across the street
sirens blazing day and night, hells angels 2 streets down, toilet in the hall and of
course I have colitis constant diarrhea, and some asshole smiler says too urban. Id like
to be gods editor. I have a few revisions Id like to make.
so I wait. not quietly, I might add. I sigh and grunt and groan. I make noise, what
can I say. my cat runs to answer and then demands attention, absolutely demands. not
a side glance either but total rapt absolute attention, my whole body in fact, not a
hand, or a touch, or a little condescending pat on the head. I hiss. why not, I mean I
speak the language so to speak.
which brings me to the heart of the matter. ladies. for instance, a lady would
pretend she did not know exactly what to say to a cat that demanded her whole life on
the spot. she would not hiss. she would make polite muted gestures. even if she were
alone, she would act as if someone was watching her. or try to. she would push the cat
aside with one hand, pretending gentle, but it would be a goddam rude push you had
better believe it, and she would smile. at the window. at the wall. at the goddam cat if
you can imagine that. me, I hiss. thus, all my problems in life. the ladies dare not
respect hissers. they wiggle their goddam asses but hissers are pariahs. female
hissers. male hissers are another story altogether.
40
for example, one morning I go to cover a story. I go 1500 miles to cover this
particular story. now, I need the money. people are very coy about money, and the
ladies arent just coy, they are sci fi about money. me, Im a hisser. I hate it but I need it.
only I dont want to find it under the pillow the next morning if you know what I mean.
I dont wear stockings and I want to buy my own hershey bars. or steal them myself at
least. Id really like to give them up altogether. but I wouldnt really and its the only
social lie I tell. anyway I pick my own health hazards and on my list sperm in situ
comes somewhere below being eaten slowly by a gourmet shark and being spit out
half way through because you dont quite measure up. its an attitude, what can I say.
except to remind the public at large that the Constitution is supposed to protect it.
so I go to cover the story and the ass wigglers are out in large numbers. I mean
they are fucking hanging from the chandeliers, and there are chandeliers. ritzy hotel.
lots of male journalists. whither they goest go the ass wigglers.
so its a conference of women. and the point is that this particular event occurred
because a lot of tough shining new women have demanded this and that, like men not
going inside them at will, either naked or with instruments, to tear them up, knock
them up, beat them up, fuck them up, etc. and suddenly, the ladies have crawled out of
the woodwork. so I go to pee in the classy lounge where the toilets are, and one of the
ass wigglers doesnt talk to me. I mean, Im peeing, shes peeing, so who the fuck does
she think she is. so the line is drawn. but its been drawn before. in fact its been drawn
right across my own goddam flesh, its been drawn in high heeled ladies boots
trampling over me to get into print. I mean, I cant make a living. the boys like the ass
wigglers.
so I work you know. I mean, I fucking work. but theres work I wont take on, like
certain kinds of ass wiggling at certain specific moments. the crucial moments. like
when the male editor wants that ass to move back and forth this way and that. as a
result, I am what is euphemistically referred to as a poor person. I am ass breaking
poor and no person either. a woman is what I am, a hisser, a goddam fucking poor
woman who stays goddam fucking poor because she doesnt fuck various jerks around
town.
its the white glove syndrome. the queen must be naked except for the white
gloves. while hes fucking her raw she has to pretend shes sitting with her legs closed
proper and upright and while hes sitting with his legs closed handing out work
assignments she has to pretend shes fucking him until she drops dead from it. yeah its
tough on her. its tougher on me.
I dont mean for this to be bitter. I dont know from bitter. its true that morning fell
flat on its ass and when morning breaks its shit to clean it up. and I dont much like
sleeping either because I have technicolor dreams in which strangers try to kill me in
very resourceful ways. and its true that since the ass wiggler snubbed me in the toilet
of the ritzy hotel I get especially upset when I go to pee in my own house (house here
being a euphemism for apartment, room, or hovel‐‐as in her own shithole which she
does not in any sense own, in other words, where she hangs her nonexistent hat) and
remember that the food stamps ran out and I have $11.14 in the bank. bleak, Arctic in
fact, but not bitter. because I do still notice some things I particularly like. the sun, for
instance, or the sky even when the sun isnt in it. I mean, I like it. I like trees. I like them
all year long, no matter what. I like cold air. Im not one of those complainers about
winter which should be noted since so many people who pretend to love life hate
winter. I like the color red a lot and purple drives me crazy with pleasure. I churn
inside with excitement and delight every time a dog or cat smiles at me. when I see a
graveyard and the moon is full and everything is covered with snow I wonder about
vampires. you cant say I dont like life.
people ask, well, dont sweet things happen? yes, indeed. many sweet things. but
sweet doesnt keep you from dying. making love doesnt keep you from dying unless
41
you get paid. writing doesnt keep you from dying unless you get paid. being wise
doesnt keep you from dying unless you get paid. facts are facts. being poor makes you
face facts which also does not keep you from dying.
people ask, well, why dont you tell a story the right way, you woke up then what
happened and who said what to whom. I say thats shit because when you are ass
fucking poor every day is the same. you worry. ok. she had brown hair and brown eyes
and she worried. theres a story for you. she worried when she peed and she worried
when she sat down to figure out how far the $11.14 would go and what would happen
when it was gone and she worried when she took her walk and saw the pretty tree.
she worried day and night. she choked on worry. she ate worry and she vomited
worry and no matter how much she shitted and vomited the worry didnt come out, it
just stayed inside and festered and grew. she was pregnant with worry, hows that? so
how come the bitch doesnt just sell that ass if shes in this goddam situation and its as
bad as she says. well, the bitch did, not just once but over and over, long ago, but not
so long ago that she doesnt remember it. she sold it for a corned beef sandwich and
for steak when she could get it. she sold it for a bed to sleep in and it didnt have to be
her own either. she ate speed because it was cheaper than food and she got fucked
raw in exchange for small change day after day and night after night. she did it in ones
twos threes and fours with onlookers and without. so she figures shes wiggled her ass
enough for one lifetime and the truth is she would rather be dead if only the dying
wasnt so fucking slow and awful and she didnt love life goddam it so much. the truth
is once you stop you stop. its not something you can go back to once its broken you in
half and you know what it means. I mean, as long as youre alive and you know what
trading in ass means and you stop, thats it. its not negotiable. and the woman for
whom it is not negotiable is anathema.
for example, heres a typical vignette. not overdrawn, underdrawn. youre done yr
days work, fucking. youre home. so some asshole man thinks thats his time. so he
comes with a knife and since hes neighborhood trade you try to calm him down. most
whores are pacifists of the first order. so he takes over yr room, takes off his shirt, lays
down his knife. thats yr triumph. the fuck isnt anything once the knife is laid down.
only the fuck is always something. you have to pretend that you won. then you got to
get him to go but hes all comfy isnt he. so another man comes to the door and you say
in an undertone, this fuckers taken over my house. so it turns out man 2 is a hero, he
comes in and says what you doing with my woman. and it turns out man 2 is a big
drug dealer and man 1 is a fucking junkie. so you listen to man 1 apologize to man 2
for fucking his woman. so man 1 leaves. guess who doesnt leave? right. man 2 is there
to stay. so he figures hes got you and he does. and he fucking tries to bite you to death
and you lie still and groan because you owe him and he fucking bites you near to
death. between yr legs, yr clitoris, he fucking bites and bites. then he wants breakfast.
so once you been through it enough, enough is enough.
ah, you say, so this explains it, whores hate men because whores see the worst,
what would a whore be doing with the best. but the truth is that a whore does the
worst with the best. the best undress and reduce to worse than the rest. besides, all
women are whores and thats a fact. at least all women with more than $11.14 in the
bank. me too. shit, I should tell you what I did to get the $11.14. nothing wrong with
being a whore. nothing wrong with working in a sweatshop. nothing wrong with
picking cotton. nothing wrong with nothing.
I like the books these jerko boys write. I mean, and get paid for. its interesting.
capital, labor, exploitation, tomes, volumes, journals, essays, analyses. all they fucking
have to do is stop trading in female ass. apparently its easier to write books. it gives
someone like me a choice. laugh to death or starve to death. Ive always been pro
choice. the ladies are very impressed with those books. its a question of physical
coordination. some people can read and wiggle ass simultaneously. ambidextrous.
42
so now Im waiting and thinking. Anne Frank and Sylvia Plath leap to mind. they
both knew Nazis when they saw them, at some point. there were a lot of ass wigglers
in the general population around them wiggling ass while ovens filled and emptied.
wiggling ass while heroes goosestepped or wrote poetry. wiggling ass while women,
those old fashioned women who did nothing but hope or despair, died. this new
woman is dying too, of poverty and a broken heart. the heart broken like fine china in
an earthquake, the earth rocking and shaking under the impact of all that goddam ass
wiggling going off like a million time bombs. an army of whores cannot fail‐‐to die one
by one so that no one has to notice. meanwhile one sad old whore who stopped liking
it has a heart first cracked then broken by the ladies who wiggle while they work.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"the new womans broken heart" copyright © 1978, 1979, 1980 by Andrea
Dworkin. All rights reserved. First published in Heresies, Vol. 2, No. 3, spring 1979.
43
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part I TAKE BACK THE NIGHT
In legend there is relief from the enemy,
sorrow is turned into gladness, mourning into holiday.
In life, only some of this is possible.
‐‐E. M. Broner, A Weave of Women
The Lie
1979
Copyright © 1979, 1988, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
The Lie was written as a speech and given at a rally on October 20, 1979, at Bryant Park,
behind New York City's formal and beautiful main public library. This park is usually
dominated by drug pushers. It, with the library behind it, marks the lower boundary of
Times Square, the sexualabuse capital of industrialized Amerika. 5000 people,
overwhelmingly women, had marched on Times Square in a demonstration organized by
Women Against Pornography and led by Susan Brownmiller, Gloria Steinem, and Bella
Abzug, among others. The March had begun at Columbus Circle at West 59 Street, the
uppermost boundary of the Times Square area, and the rally at Bryant Park marked its
conclusion. For the first time, Times Square didn't belong to the pimps; it belonged to
womennot women hurt and exploited for profit but women proud and triumphant. The
March served notice on pornographers that masses of women could rise up and stop the
organized trafficking in women and girls that was the usual activity on those very mean
streets. Feminists took the ground but didn't hold it.
There is one message basic to all kinds of pornography from the sludge that we see all
around us, to the artsy‐fartsy pornography that the intellectuals call erotica, to the
under‐the‐counter kiddie porn, to the slick, glossy men's "entertainment" magazines.
The one message that is carried in all pornography all the time is this: she wants it;
she wants to be beaten; she wants to be forced; she wants to be raped; she wants to be
brutalized; she wants to be hurt. This is the premise, the first principle, of all
pornography. She wants these despicable things done to her. She likes it. She likes to
be hit and she likes to be hurt and she likes to be forced.
Meanwhile, all across this country, women and young girls are being raped and beaten
and forced and brutalized and hurt.
The police believe they wanted it. Most of the people around them believe they
wanted it. "And what did you do to provoke him?" the battered wife is asked over and
over again when finally she dares to ask for help or for protection. "Did you like it?"
44
the police ask the rape victim. "Admit that something in you wanted it," the
psychiatrist urges. "It was the energy you gave out," says the guru. Adult men claim
that their own daughters who are eight years old or ten years old or thirteen years old
led them on.
The belief is that the female wants to be hurt. The belief is that the female likes to be
forced. The proof that she wants it is everywhere: the way she dresses; the way she
walks; the way she talks; the way she sits; the way she stands; she was out after dark;
she invited a male friend into her house; she said hello to a male neighbor; she opened
the door; she looked at a man; a man asked her what time it was and she told him; she
sat on her father's lap; she asked her father a question about sex; she got into a car
with a man; she got into a car with her best friend's father or her uncle or her teacher;
she flirted; she got married; she had sex once with a man and said no the next time;
she is not a virgin; she talks with men; she talks with her father; she went to a movie
alone; she took a walk alone; she went shopping alone; she smiled; she is home alone,
asleep, the man breaks in, and still, the question is asked, "Did you like it? Did you
leave the window open just hoping that someone would pop on through? Do you
always sleep without any clothes on? Did you have an orgasm?"
Her body is bruised, she is torn and hurt, and still the question persists: did you
provoke it? did you like it? is this what you really wanted all along? is this what you
were waiting for and hoping for and dreaming of? You keep saying no. Try proving no.
Those bruises? Women like to be roughed up a bit. What did you do to lead him on?
How did you provoke him? Did you like it?
A boyfriend or a husband or one's parents or even sometimes a female lover will
believe that she could have fought him off‐‐if she had really wanted to. She must have
really wanted it‐‐if it happened. What was it she wanted? She wanted the force, the
hurt, the harm, the pain, the humiliation. Why did she want it? Because she is female
and females always provoke it, always want it, always like it.
And how does everyone whose opinion matters know that women want to be forced
and hurt and brutalized? Pornography says so. For centuries men have consumed
pornography in secret‐‐yes, the lawyers and the legislators and the doctors and the
artists and the writers and the scientists and the theologians and the philosophers.
And for these same centuries, women have not consumed pornography and women
have not been lawyers and legislators and doctors and artists and writers and
scientists and theologians and philosophers.
Men believe the pornography, in which the women always want it. Men believe the
pornography, in which women resist and say no only so that men will force them and
use more and more force and more and more brutality. To this day, men believe the
pornography and men do not believe the women who say no.
Some people say that pornography is only fantasy. What part of it is fantasy? Women
are beaten and raped and forced and whipped and held captive. The violence depicted
is true. The acts of violence depicted in pornography are real acts committed against
real women and real female children. The fantasy is that women want to be abused.
And so we are here today to explain calmly‐‐to shout, to scream, to bellow, to holler‐‐
that we women do not want it, not today, not tomorrow, not yesterday. We never will
want it and we never have wanted it. The prostitute does not want to be forced and
hurt. The homemaker does not want to be forced and hurt. The lesbian does not want
to be forced and hurt. The young girl does not want to be forced and hurt.
And because everywhere in this country, daily, thousands of women and young girls
are being brutalized‐‐and this is not fantasy‐‐every day women and young girls are
being raped and beaten and forced‐‐we will never again accept any depiction of us
45
that has as its first principle, its first premise, that we want to be abused, that we
enjoy being hurt, that we like being forced.
That is why we will fight pornography wherever we find it; and we will fight those
who justify it and those who make it and those who buy and use it.
And make no mistake: this movement against pornography is a movement against
silence‐‐the silence of the real victims. And this movement against pornography is a
movement for speech‐‐the speech of those who have been silenced by sexual force, the
speech of women and young girls. And we will never, never be silenced again.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"The Lie," first published in New Women's Times, Vol. 5, No. 21, November 9‐22, 1979.
Copyright © 1979 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
46
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part IV
THE NEW TERRORISM
Towards the end of 1975, I received several letters asking me to become a
member of the ACLU. The stationery was lined with the names of eminent women.
The letters were signed by an eminent woman. The plea was a feminist plea: the ACLU
was in the forefront of the fight for women's rights. In 1975,1 earned $1679. Deeply
moved by the wonderful work being done by my sisters in the ACLU, that crusading
organization for women's rights, I wrote a check for fifteen dollars and joined. I
received a letter thanking me. This letter too had names on it, all male. It was signed
by Aryeh Neier, then Executive Director. Verily, a woman's name, a reference to
feminist issues, was not to be found. I wrote Mr Neier a letter that said in part: "All of
the mail soliciting my membership was exemplary in its civility‐‐that is, female names
mingled with male names on letterheads; even men were chairpersons, etc. Now that I
am a member, I find that I have been deceived by a bait and switch technique. My form
letter welcoming me is replete with 'man's' and men, and nary a woman or a nod to
feminist sensibilities is to be found." Of course, being very poor I had missed the
fifteen dollars, but not for long. Mr Neier returned it to me immediately. He said that
he would rather receive my complaint that old stationery "doesn't use the best
neologism than a complaint about profligacy for discarding it." My membership fee
was "cheerfully refunded."
In the intervening years, letters soliciting money continued to arrive at a steady
pace. Despite Mr Neier's cavalier attitude, it seemed that my fifteen dollars was sorely
needed. As feminists confronted the issue of pornographic assault on women as
individuals and as a class, prominent civil libertarians, Mr Neier foremost among
them, denounced us for wasting civil libertarian time by speaking about the issue at
all. Meanwhile, the ACLU saw to it that Nazis marched in Skokie and that the Klan was
defended in California. While we feminists piddled around, the ACLU was doing the
serious business of defending freedom.
In January 1981, I received yet another letter claiming that the ACLU needed me,
this time from George McGovern. The letter said that the ACLU was fighting the Right,
47
the Moral Majority, the Right to Life Movement, the New Right, and the evangelical
Right. The entire thrust of the letter pitted a gargantuan Right against a broadly
construed left. Reading it, one could only believe that the passion and purpose of the
ACLU was to triumph over the terrible and terrifying Right. And what were the Nazis
and the Klan, I asked myself. Chopped liver? The ACLU, in both philosophy and
practice, makes no distinction between Right and Left, or Right and Liberal, or Right
and anything else. It does not even make a distinction between those who have
genocidal ambitions and those who do not. The ACLU prides itself on refusing to make
these distinctions.
Some think that the ACLU would not choose to defend Nazis if Nazis were what
is called "a real threat." For some, this supposition gets the ACLU off the hook. But the
Klan is "a real threat": count the dead bodies; watch the murderers acquitted; see the
military training camps the Klan is establishing. It is time for the ACLU to come clean.
Its fight is not against the Right in any form, including the Moral Majority or
opponents of the Equal Rights Amendment (as Mr McGovern's letter claims). Its fight
is for an absence of distinctions: "kill the Jews" and "rape the women"
indistinguishable from all other speech; action mistaken for speech; the victim
confounded into honoring the so‐called rights of the executioner. In bondage
photographs and movies, we are to interpret the bondage itself as speech and protect
it as such. The symbol of free speech ACLU‐style might well be a woman tied, chained,
strung up, and gagged. Needless to say, she will not be on any letterhead. If the ACLU
were honest, she would be.
I am tired of the sophistry of the ACLU and also of its good reputation among
progressive people. In 1975, it seemed smart to rope in feminists, so eminent women
were used to proclaim the ACLU a strong feminist organization, which no doubt they
wanted it to become. This year, people are afraid of the so‐called Moral Majority, and
so the ACLU gets bucks by claiming to be a stalwart enemy of the Right. There is
nothing in ACLU philosophy or practice to prohibit the use of those bucks to defend
the Right‐‐the Nazis, the Klan, or the Moral Majority.
There is nothing as dangerous as an unembodied principle: no matter what
blood flows, the principle comes first. The First Amendment absolutists operate
precisely on unembodied principle: consequences do not matter; physical acts are
taken to be abstractions; genocidal ambitions and concrete organizing toward
genocidal goals are trivialized by male lawyers who are a most protected and
privileged group. Meanwhile, those who are targeted as victims are left defenseless. Of
course, the ACLU does help the targeted groups sometimes, in some cases, depending
on the resources available, resources depleted by defenses of the violent Right.
It is time for the ACLU to stop working both sides of the street. Some groups
exist in order to hurt other groups. Some groups are socially constructed for the
purpose of hurting other groups. The Klan is such a group. Some people are born into
groups that others want to hurt. The distinction is fundamental: so fundamental that
even the ACLU will have to reckon with it.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"The ACLU: Bait and Switch," copyright © 1981 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights
reserved.
48
by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1991 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
[Andrea Dworkin delivered this keynote speech at the Canadian Mental Health
Association's "Women and Mental Health ConferenceWomen In a Violent Society," held
in Banff, Alberta, May 1991.]
We're here because of an emergency. You all know that. We're here wanting to
speak about the progress we've made, but knowing that women are not any safer
from rape now than when we started out. I'm glad that the Canadian Mental Health
Association is concerned with our health. Because I for one am sick to death. I am sick
from the numbers of women who are being brutalized and raped and sodomized. Who
are being killed, who are missing. Who in a women's culture of non‐violence don't
hurt the people who are hurting us. We do take our own lives. We do commit suicide.
So many women I have known have spent every day of their lives fighting to stay alive,
because of the despair they carry around with them from the sexual abuse that they
have experienced in their lives. And these are brave women. And these are strong
women. And these are creative women. These are women who thought that they had a
right to dignity, to individuality, to freedom, to creativity, and in fact, they couldn't
even walk down a city block in freedom. Many of them were raped as children in their
own homes, by relatives. By their fathers, by their uncles, by their brothers, before
they were, quote, women. Many of them were beaten by the men who loved them.
Their husbands, by lovers. Many of them were tortured by those men and when you
look at what happened to these women, you say Amnesty International where are
you? Where are you? Because the prisons for women are our homes. We live under
martial law. We live in places in which a rape culture exists. That is a women's home,
where she lives. Men have to be sent to prison, to live in a culture that is as rapist as
the normal home in North America. We live under what amounts to a military curfew.
Enforced by rapists. And we say usually that we're free citizens in a free society. We
lie. We lie, we lie everyday about it.
We survive through amnesia. By not remembering what happened to us. By
being unable to remember the name of the woman who was in the newspaper
yesterday. Who was walking somewhere and was missing. What was her name? I am
sick to death of not being able to remember the names. There are too many of them. I
can't remember them. There's one name especially I can never remember. The woman
who was raped, gang raped on the pool table in New Bedford, Massachusetts. By four
men while everyone in the bar stood and watched and cheered and so on. That
woman died in an accident. The kind of accident the police will always call suicide,
within one year after the trial for rape. It wasn't news to anyone. Three months before
this woman was raped on that pool table, Hustler ran a spread of a woman being gang
raped on a pool table. Everything that was done to the woman in the pornography was
done to that woman, in that bar, that night. After the New Bedford gang rape, Hustler
ran a photograph of a woman in a pornographic pose, made like a greeting card,
sitting on a pool table, saying Welcome to New Bedford. The rape trial was televised in
the United States. The ratings beat out the soap operas. In the United States, people
watched it as entertainment every day. The woman was driven out of town. Even
though the rapists were convicted. And within one year she was dead and I can't
remember her name, no matter how hard I try. Hollywood made a movie, called "The
Accused." A brilliant movie, an incredible movie, in which Jodie Foster, through her
artistry and creativity, shows us that a woman is a human being. And it takes two
hours to establish for a main stream audience that in fact, that's true, so that at the
49
point, when we reach the gang rape, we understand that someone, someone, someone
has been hurt in a way that goes beyond the sum of the physical brutalities that were
done to her. The Hollywood version had a happy ending. The voyeurs were convicted
of having incited the rape. And the woman triumphed. And I sat in the theatre
thinking, "But she's dead. What's her name? Why can't I remember her name?"
And the women whose name I do remember, for instance, a woman in New York
who was murdered in Central Park by a man who had been her lover. Her name is
Jennifer Levin. And the reason that I know her name is that when she was killed,
murdered by this lover of hers, the New York press put her name on the front page of
every newspaper in tabloid headlines to say what a slut she was. Now I didn't buy any
of those papers. It's just that I couldn't leave my house and not read the headlines. And
so, the boy goes to trial. A white boy. An upper class boy. A wealthy boy. It becomes
called the preppie murder case. And we hear in the United States, for the first time,
about something called the rough sex defense, and it goes as follows, "She wanted to
have really rough, painful, humiliating sex." "She was an aggressive bitch and she tried
to tie him up. And she hurt him, and he got so upset, that in trying to free himself, he
accidentally strangled her, with her bra." Alright. Now in this scenario, women in New
York, were terrorized by the media exploitation where, the way women are treated
when women are raped, is suddenly the way women are treated when women are
murdered. She provoked it. She wanted it. She liked it and she got what she deserved.
When the head of our sex crimes unit, Linda Fairstein, tried to get a conviction of this
man for murder, she had a problem. And her problem was that she couldn't find a
motive. She didn't think that she could convince the jury that there was any reason for
him to kill Jennifer Levin. And, of course, there wasn't any reason for him to. Except
that he wanted to. And he could. He plea bargained, and so the jury decision never
came in. Most of us thought he was going to be acquitted. After he plea bargained,
videos were shown on television, of Mr. Chambers at sex parties, making fun of
strangling the woman. Sitting naked, surrounded by women, and reenacting the
murder. And laughing about it. We live in a world where men kill women and the
motives are not personal at all. As any woman in this room who has ever been beaten
or raped knows. It is one of the most impersonal experiences you will ever have. You
are a married woman. You live with a man. You think that he knows you and you
know him. But in fact, when he begins to hurt you he does it because you're a woman.
Not because you're who you are, whoever that is.
I want us to stop lying. I think that we tell a lot of lies to get through everyday
and I want us to stop lying. And one of the lies that we tell is that this kind of woman
hating is not as pernicious, as lethal, as sadistic, as vicious as other kinds of hatred that
are directed against people because of a condition of birth. We have recognized some,
only some, of the historical atrocities that have occurred. We say to ourselves, this
isn't the same. I'm Andrea. I'm Jane. I'm...I'm...I'm...I'm me. I'm me. But everyone has
said that. Every Jew pushed on to a train said, "But... I'm me. Don't you...why are you
doing this? I'm me." And the Nazis didn't have a personal motive, that could be
understood in those terms. And what I am saying to you is that we are in a situation of
emergency. You know that. You know that. Maybe in the States there is no longer the
belief on any woman's part whatever her politics, that she will be exempt. Whatever
her class. Whatever her race. Whatever her profession. No one of us believes that we
will get out this life not only alive, but unraped, unbeaten, unused, unforced. Let alone
having actually experienced what we have a right to, which is freedom. We have a
right to freedom. What happens when you're walking down that street? You can't get
lost in thought can you? Because you better know who's around you at every moment.
We live in a police state where every man is deputized. I want us to stop smiling. I
want us to stop saying we're fine. I want us to stop saying that this can be fixed after it
happens. It might be able to be used. What we learn from being hurt, we may be able
to use but can it be fixed? No. It can't be fixed. So the question is how do we stop it
from happening to begin with?
50
We have had a brilliant movement that has saved many lives. And I, especially,
thank you and honor you, those of you who work in rape crisis centres and in battered
women shelters. I wished to hell you had been there during some parts of my life. And
anyone my age, anyone in their forties, would not have encountered any kind of help.
Like the kind of help we provide. But we have to change our focus now. We have to
stop it from happening. Because, otherwise, we accept that our condition is one in
which the rape of women is normal. Brutality towards women is normal. And the
question is how do we regulate it? How do we reduce it? Maybe they could even go to
more hockey games than they go to now. You know, other outlets, diversions. I'm here
to say that the war against women is a real war. It's real. There's nothing abstract
about it. It's not ideological, although it includes ideology. And people fight on the
ground of ideas, yes. But this is a war in which his fist is in your face. And that's real.
And that's true. And freedom means that that doesn't happen. You see, we walk
around saying it didn't happen today or it hasn't happened yet. Or I've been lucky for
the last three months. Or, oh I found a good one now. Nice one, he won't hurt me too
much. He may insult me a lot, but he won't hurt me. And maybe it's true and maybe it
isn't. But we have to find out how to stop men from hurting women, at all. Under any
circumstances.
You know that most women are hurt in their homes. You know most women are
murdered in their homes. A political movement, as I understand it, exists to change
the way social reality is organized. And that means that we need to understand
everything about the way this system works. And that means that every woman who
has had experience with sexual violence of any kind has not just pain, and not just
hurt, but has knowledge. Knowledge of male supremacy. Knowledge of what it is.
Knowledge of what it feels like. And can begin to think strategically about how to stop
it. We are living under a reign of terror. Now what I want to say is that I want us to
stop accepting that that's normal. And the only way that we can stop accepting that
that's normal is if we refuse to have amnesia everyday of our lives. If we remember
what we know about the world we live in. And we get up in the morning, determined
that we are going to do something about it.
We need to understand how male violence works. That's one of the reasons that
studying pornography and fighting the pornography industry is so important. Because
that's the pentagon. That's the war room. They train the soldiers. Then the soldiers go
out and do the actions on us. We're the population that the war is against. And this has
been a terrible war. Because our resistance has not been serious. It has not been
enough. The minute we think we might have a right to do something about that
pornography shop, we stop thinking. And I mean legal or illegal. We don't believe we
have legal right to do much about it. Let alone any illegal right. Inside us, this
worthlessness that we carry around, which is the main consequence of the fear that
we live with, makes us subscribe in terms of our behavior, to the system that says, the
man who wants to hurt us, his life is worth more than ours. We accept it. And a lot of
our ability to survive is based on forgetting it as much as we can. I understand that I
am talking to women who spend more time than most women with the reality of
sexual abuse. If the premise that the freedom of women matters and that the equality
of women matters, then education, quote unquote, education, education, education,
education is not enough. You know they're educated. Do you know that?
Do you know that the rapist still knows more about rape than we do? Really.
That he's keeping secrets from us. We're not keeping secrets from him. Do you know
that the pimps know how to manipulate and sell women? They're not stupid men. I am
going to challenge the notion that rape and prostitution and other vicious violations of
women's rights are abnormal. And that the regular male use of women, the sanctioned
male use of women in intercourse is normal and unrelated to the excesses that we
seem to be just falling over all of the time. We women who want to be hurt so much.
It's actually us that's provoking it all. When a woman has been raped and goes into
court, why is it that the judges' premises are the same as pornographers'? Why is that?
Intercourse has been a material way of owning woman. This is real, this is concrete.
51
We know it, most of us have experienced it. Now, I'm talking about history and I'm
talking about sexuality. Not as an idea in your head, but as what happens to a woman
when she is in bed with a man. And the reason that I'm doing it is because, if we're not
willing to look at intercourse as a political institution, that is directly related to the
ways in which we are socialized to accept our inferior status, and one of the ways in
which we are controlled, we are not ever going to get to the roots of the ways in which
male dominance works, in our lives. The fact of the matter is that the basic premise
about women is that we are born to be fucked. That is it. Now that means a lot of
things. For a lot of years it meant that marriage was outright ownership of a woman's
body and intercourse was a right of marriage. That meant that intercourse was, per se,
an act of force. Because the power of the state mandated that the woman accept
intercourse. She belonged to the man. The cultural remnants of this is that in our
society, men experience intercourse as possession of women. The culture talks about
intercourse as conquering women. Women surrendering. Women being taken. We are
looking at a paradigm for rape. Not at a paradigm for reciprocity, for equality, for
mutuality or for freedom. When the premise is that women exist on earth, in order to
be sexually available to men for intercourse, it means that our very bodies are seen as
having boundaries that have less integrity than male bodies. Men have orifices. Men
can be penetrated. The point of homophobia is to direct men towards women. To
punish men for not using women. And that's an acknowledgment of how aggressive
and how dangerous men know male sexuality can be for women. When a woman goes
into court and she says I've been raped, the judge, the defense lawyer, the press, and
many, many, many other people say: no, you had intercourse. And she says no I was
raped. And they say a little bit of force is fine. You know that, you know it's still true. It
hasn't changed. When you look at male domination as a social system, what you see is
that it is organized to make certain that women are sexually available for men. That is
its basic premise. And we have a choice. And the choice is not in the political science
books. The universities are not trying to work out this level of choice for us. The
question is what comes first, men's need to get laid or women's dignity. And I am
telling you that you cannot separate the so‐called abuses of women from the so‐called
normal uses of women. The history of women in the world as sexual chattel, makes it
impossible to do that.
So, then, are there other implications of this? Yes there are. Because, as sex is
currently socialized and existing in our society, men can't have sex with women who
are their equals. They're incapable of it. Right? That's what objectification is about.
When we're being good, we use the word objectification. We use long words. We
really try to get some dignity in using big words. Well, I'm going to use the short
words. The words that they mean when they do what they're doing. Which is we're
things. And in order to get the response from men, one has to be the right kind of
thing. Now think about what that means. That means that the woman polices herself.
That means that she makes decisions that make her freedom impossible. Because if
she is going to live, if she is going to make a living, she is going to have to be the kind
of object to which the man will respond, in a way that is important to him. And what
that means is, in a way that is sexual. Sexual harassment on the job is not some kind of
accident. And the fact that women are migrants in the work place is not an accident.
When you enter into the agreement, the sexual agreement to be a thing, you then
narrow your own possibilities for freedom. And you then accept, as a basic premise of
your life, that you will be available, that you will not challenge his sexual hegemony.
That you will not demand equality in intimacy. Because after all you've already given
up your own body, whether it's been to the plastic surgeon or in whatever way. The
women, and it was women...it was women, the women, the mothers, who bound their
daughters' feet, so that their daughters' feet were three inches long. The daughters
were crippled. Did it because that was the standard of beauty. And if a woman wanted
to eat, a man had to find her beautiful. And if that meant she couldn't walk for the rest
of her life, it was a trade that had to be made. It was let's make a deal. And we women
are still playing let's make a deal. Instead of deciding what we want, what we need. We
have a second class standard for our own freedom. We're afraid, not because we're
cowards, god dammit we are not cowards, we are brave people. But we use our
52
bravery to sustain ourselves when we make these deals. Instead of fighting the system
that forces us to make the deal. So that when we make a choice it is a free choice. It is
our choice. It is a choice that is really rooted in equality and not in the fact that every
woman is still one man away from welfare.
In the United States, violence against women is a major pastime. It is a sport. It is
an amusement. It is a mainstream cultural entertainment. And it is real. It is pervasive.
It is epidemic. It saturates the society. It's very hard to make anyone notice it, because
there is so much of it. We have had 30 years, basically, in the United States in
particular, I will talk about the United States, of the total saturation of the society with
pornography. In this 30 years, we have had many people who have wanted us to study
the problem. We have had many people who have wanted us to debate the issues. We
have studied, we have debated, we have done it all. There has been the development
of a very major population of man in the United States called serial killers. There are
a lot of them. And they're men who rape and kill mostly women, sometimes children.
They usually mutilate the bodies. Sometimes they have sex before. Sometimes they
have sex after. It's all sex to them. Now we can say it's a power trip, but the fact of the
matter is that for them, that's the way they have sex. By mutilating and hurting and
killing us. We have, in the United States, an incredible, continuing epidemic of
murders of women. We have huge missing pieces of our populations in cities. In
Kansas City, the midwest, since 1977 the police‐‐the police the worst source in the
world‐‐say that 60 women have been killed. Three quarters of them have been black.
They've been women in prostitution. They have been mutilated, or left in what the
police and the media‐‐the euphemisms are extraordinary‐‐call suggestive positions.
One of the patterns of serial killers is that they do the things they have seen in
pornography to their victims and they leave their victims posed as pornography. That
is part of what many of them do. Pornography is involved in the biographies of all of
them. Sometimes they use it to stalk their victim, sometimes they use it to plan their
crime. Sometimes, they use it to rev themselves up to commit the acts. And yet, people
keep insisting that there must be something in the air. It must be the water, it must...I
mean, who knows what it is. We can't figure out what it is. How is it that these guys
get these ideas to do these things? Where could it be? Let's go on an egg hunt and try
to find it. And the fact of the matter is, it's being sold everywhere. It's in the
pornography. It says go get them. It says do this to them. It says it's fun. It says they'll
like it too. That's the truth and in terms of understanding male dominance, what it
means is that society has to stay organized so that there are enough women to provide
the raw material for that pornography.
And the material conditions that provide the raw material, the women, again,
someone‐‐not something, someone‐‐are poverty, usually incestuous child abuse and
homelessness. It is not a mystery. We didn't have the knowledge before; we have been
seeking it. All of us in this room have been seeking knowledge. What happens to
women? How does it happen? I am telling you we know a lot now. It is time to begin to
act on what we know. We know that pornography causes sexual abuse. We know in
the United States that the average age of rapists is going down. I mean, it's boys in
their young teen age years now, who are committing a preponderance of first assaults
against young girls. I brought specific cases but they don't matter really. I mean
they're very strange. They're young boys who stick things in...in...infants and kill them.
Because they say they've seen it in pornography, when they're asked why did they do
it that way. They're young boys who take guns and try to put them in women's
vaginas. Where did they see it? Where did they learn it? Ask them. Ask the ones who
have been put in jail, in juvenile places for sex offenders. They will tell you I learned
how to do it. Now what makes somebody want to do it, may be different than how
they learn to do it. But the fact of the matter is, that if you live in a society that is
saturated with this kind of woman hating, you live in a society that has marked you as
a target for rape, for battery, for prostitution or for death. These are, in my view, the
facts.
53
Now there are some other facts. I want you to know what is in the pornography,
because I want you to know what kind of entertainment this is. And I want you to talk
about the violence against women and you're here to talk about healing. I wish that
you could raise the dead. That is what I would like to see. This is a political point. One
of the reasons that the Right reaches so many women is that the Right has a
transcendent god that says I will heal all your hurt and all your pain and all your
wounds. I died for you. I will heal you. Feminists do not have a transcendent god who
can heal that way. We have ideas about fairness and justice and equality. And we have
to find ways to make them real. We don't have magic. We don't have supernatural
powers. And we can't keep sticking women together who have been broken up into
little pieces. So what I think is that fighting back is as close to healing as we are going
to come. And I think that it is important to understand that we will live with a fair
amount of pain for most of our lives. And I think that if your first priority is to live a
painless life, you will not be able to help yourself or other women. And I think that
what matters is to be a warrior. And I think that having a sense of honor about
political struggle is healing. And I think that discipline is necessary. And I think that
actions against men who hurt women, must be real. We need to win...to win. We are in
a war. We have not been fighting back. We need to win this war. We need a political
resistance. We need it above ground. We need it with our lawmakers, with our
government officials. We need it with our professional women. We need it above
ground. We need it underground too.
Everything that didn't happen to you‐‐I apply this to myself as part of the way
that I survive‐‐everything that didn't happen to you is a little slack in your leash. You
weren't raped when you were three, or you weren't raped when you were 10. Or you
weren't battered, or you weren't in prostitution, whatever it is that you managed to
miss is the measure of your freedom. And the measure of your strength. And what you
owe to other women. I'm not asking you to be martyrs. I'm not asking you to give up
your lives. I'm asking you to live your lives, honorably and with dignity. I'm asking you
to fight. I'm asking you to do things for women that women do all the time in political
struggle for men. Right? Women put our bodies on the line in political struggles in
which both sexes are involved. But we do not do it for women. I'm not asking you to
get caught. I'm asking you to escape. I'm asking you to run for your life. If you need to
run through a brick wall, run through it. If you get some bruises on your arms, it's
better than having him give the bruises to you because you were standing still. None
of us has the right to stand still.
I'm going to ask you to consider doing these things. One is addressing the
pornography issue in social policy terms, which I believe means passing some version
of the civil rights law that we developed in Minneapolis. There are many reasons for
this and I won't go into all of them, but I will tell you this. That obscenity laws say that
women's bodies are dirty. That's what they're based on. And that criminal laws do
not‐‐do not‐‐do not stop the pornography industry. The business can go on. Somebody
else can manage the business: it is a business. But to make men accountable for the
ways in which women are exploited in pornography, to recognize it as a form of sex
discrimination. To understand that it destroys women's chances in life and to say you
are going to pay a penalty. We're going to take your money away from you. We're
going to find a way to hurt you back. We are. You're going to pay a price now. No more
free ride for you, Mr. Pimp.
I think it's very important that rape and battery and prostitution be recognized
legally as violations of the civil rights of women. That we construct a legal system that
acknowledges our dignity by acknowledging our wholeness as human beings. And
these as human rights violations of the deepest importance and magnitude. I am
asking you to retaliate against rapists. To organize against rapists. We know who the
rapists are. We know 'cause they do it to us. They did it to our best friend. We know
who he is. We know that it happened. I'm asking you to take it seriously. I'm saying if
the law won't do anything you must do something.
54
I'm asking you to close down the pornography outlets wherever you can and to
stop the distribution wherever you can, in whatever way you can. I am asking you to
stop passing: stop passing and having feminism be part of a secret life. I am asking you
not to apologize to anyone for doing it. I am asking you to organize political support
for women who kill men who have been hurting them. They have been isolated and
alone. This is a political issue. They're being punished, because at some moment in
their lives, they resisted a domination that they were expected to accept. They stand
there in jail for us, for everyone of us who got away without having to pull the trigger,
for everyone of us who lived to tell about getting away without having the trigger on
us. I'm asking you to stop men who beat women. Get them jailed or get them killed.
But stop them. I am not asking you to be martyrs. I am saying that we have been
talking for 20 years. And I am saying that men who rape make a choice to rape. And
men who beat women make a choice to beat women. And we women now have
choices that we have to make to fight back. And I am asking you to look at every single
political possibility for fighting back. Instead of saying I asked him, I told him, but he
just wouldn't stop. All right? We need to do it together. We need to find ways to do it
together. But we need to do it.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Copyright © 1991 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved. First published as
"Terror, Torture and Resistance" in Canadian Woman Studies/Les Cahiers de la
Femme, fall 1991, Volume 12, Number 1.
55
WOMAN HATING
Excerpt from Part Two
The Pornography
by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1974 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
Bookshop shelves are lined with pornography. It is a staple of the market place, and
where it is illegal it flourishes and prices soar. From The Beautiful Flagellants of New
York to Twelve Inches around the World, cheapeditioned, overpriced renditions of
fucking, sucking, whipping, footlicking, gangbanging, etc., in all of their manifold
varieties are availablewhether in the supermarket or on the black market. Most
literary pornography is easily describable: repetitious to the point of inducing catatonia,
illconceived, simpleminded, brutal, and very ugly. Why, then, do we spend our money on
it? Why, then, is it erotically stimulating for masses of men and women?
Literary pornography is the cultural scenario of male/female. It is the collective scenario
of master/slave. It contains cultural truth: men and women, grown now out of the fairy
tale landscape into the castles of erotic desire; woman, her carnality adult and explicit,
her role as victim adult and explicit, her guilt adult and explicit, her punishment lived
out on her flesh, her end annihilationdeath or complete submission.
Pornography, like fairy tale, tells us who we are. It is the structure of male and female
mind, the content of our shared erotic identity, the map of each inch and mile of our
oppression and despair. Here we move beyond childhood terror. Here the fear is clammy
and real, and rightly so. Here we are compelled to ask the real questions: why are we
defined in these ways, and how can we bear it?
CHAPTER 3
Woman as Victim: Story of O
56
The Story of O, by Pauline Reage, incorporates, along with all literary pornography,
principles and characters already isolated in my discussion of children's fairy tales. The female as a
figure of innocence and evil enters the adult world‐‐the brutal world of genitalia. The female
manifests in her adult form‐‐cunt. She emerges defined by the hole between her legs. In addition,
Story of O is more than simple pornography. It claims to define epistemologically what a woman is,
what she needs, her processes of thinking and feeling, her proper place. It links men and women in
an erotic dance of some magnitude: the sado‐masochistic complexion of O is not trivial‐‐it is
formulated as a cosmic principle which articulates, absolutely, the feminine.
Also, O is particularly compelling for me because I once believed it to be what its defenders
claim‐‐the mystical revelation of the true, eternal, and sacral destiny of women. The book was
absorbed as a pulsating, erotic, secular Christianity (the joy in pure suffering, woman as Christ
figure). I experienced O with the same infantile abandon as the NEWSWEEK reviewer who wrote:
"What lifts this fascinating book above mere perversity is its movement toward the transcendence
of the self through a gift of the self . . . to give the body, to allow it to be ravaged, exploited, and
totally possessed can be an act of consequence, if it is done with love for the sake of love." 1 Any
clear‐headed appraisal of O will show the situation, O's condition, her behavior, and most
importantly her attitude toward her oppressor as a logical scenario incorporating Judeo‐Christian
values of service and self‐sacrifice and universal notions of womanhood, a logical scenario
demonstrating the psychology of submission and self‐hatred found in all oppressed peoples. O is a
book of astounding political significance.
This is, then, the story of O: O is taken by her lover Rene to Roissy and cloistered there; she is
fucked, sucked, raped, whipped, humiliated, and tortured on a regular and continuing basis‐‐she is
programmed to be an erotic slave, Rene's personal whore; after being properly trained she is sent
home with her lover; her lover gives her to Sir Stephen, his half‐brother; she is fucked, sucked,
raped, whipped, humiliated, and tortured on a regular and continuing basis; she is ordered to
become the lover of Jacqueline and to recruit her for Roissy, which she does; she is sent to Anne‐
Marie to be branded with Sir Stephen's mark and to have rings with his insignia inserted in her
cunt; she serves as an erotic model for Jacqueline's younger sister Natalie who is infatuated with
her; she is taken to a party masked as an owl, led on a leash by Natalie, and there plundered,
despoiled, raped, gangbanged; realizing that there is nothing else left for Sir Stephen to do with her
or to her, fearing that he will abandon her, she asks his permission to kill herself and receives it.
Q.E.D., pornography is never big on plot.
Of course, like most summaries, the above is somewhat sketchy. I have not mentioned the
quantities of cock that O sucks, or the anal assaults that she sustains, or the various rapes and
tortures perpetrated on her by minor characters in the book, or the varieties of whips used, or
described her clothing or the different kinds of nipple rouge, or the many ways in which she is
chained, or the shapes and colors of the welts on her body.
From the course of O's story emerges a clear mythological figure: she is woman, and to name
her O, zero, emptiness, says it all. Her ideal state is one of complete passivity, nothingness, a
submission so absolute that she transcends human form (in becoming an owl). Only the hole
between her legs is left to define her, and the symbol of that hole must surely be O. Much, however,
even in the rarefied environs of pornography, necessarily interferes with the attainment of utter
passivity. Given a body which takes up space, has needs, makes demands, is connected, even
symbolically, to a personal history which is a sequence of likes, dislikes, skills, opinions, one is
formed, shaped‐‐one exists at the very least as positive space. And since in addition as a woman
one is born guilty and carnal, personifying the sins of Eve and Pandora, the wickedness of Jezebel
and Lucretia Borgia, O's transcendence of the species is truly phenomenal.
The thesis of O is simple. Woman is cunt, lustful, wanton. She must be punished, tamed,
debased. She gives the gift of herself, her body, her well‐being, her life, to her lover. This is as it
should be‐‐natural and good. It ends necessarily in her annihilation, which is also natural and good,
as well as beautiful, because she fulfills her destiny:
As long as I am beaten and ravished on your behalf, I am naught but the thought of you, the
desire of you, the obsession of you. That, I believe, is what you wanted. Well, I love you, and that is
what I want too. 2
57
Then let him take her, if only to wound her! O hated herself for her own desire, and loathed
Sir Stephen for the self‐control he was displaying. She wanted him to love her, there, the truth was
out: she wanted him to be chafing under the urge to touch her lips and penetrate her body, to
devastate her if need be. . . . 3
. . . Yet he was certain that she was guilty and, without really wanting to, Rene was punishing
her for a sin he knew nothing about (since it remained completely internal), although Sir Stephen
had immediately detected it: her wantonness. 4
. . . no pleasure, no joy, no figment of her imagination could ever compete with the happiness
she felt at the way he used her with such utter freedom, at the notion that he could do anything
with her, that there was no limit, no restriction in the manner with which, on her body, he might
search for pleasure. 5
O is totally possessed. That means that she is an object, with no control over her own
mobility, capable of no assertion of personality. Her body is a body, in the same way that a pencil is
a pencil, a bucket is a bucket, or, as Gertrude Stein pointedly said, a rose is a rose. It also means
that O's energy, or power, as a woman, as Woman, is absorbed. Possession here denotes a
biological transference of power which brings with it a commensurate spiritual strength to the
possessor. O does more than offer herself; she is herself the offering. To offer herself would be
prosaic Christian self‐sacrifice, but as the offering she is the vehicle of the miraculous‐‐she
incorporates the divine.
Here sacrifice has its ancient, primal meaning: that which was given at the beginning
becomes the gift. The first fruits of the harvest were dedicated to and consumed by the vegetation
spirit which provided them. The destruction of the victim in human or animal sacrifice or the
consumption of the offering was the very definition of the sacrifice‐‐death was necessary because
the victim was or represented the life‐giving substance, the vital energy source, which had to be
liberated, which only death could liberate. An actual death, the sacrifice per se, not only liberated
benevolent energy but also ensured a propagation and increase of life energy (concretely
expressed as fertility) by a sort of magical ecology, a recycling of basic energy, or raw power. O's
victimization is the confirmation of her power, a power which is transcendental and which has as
its essence the sacred processes of life, death, and regeneration.
But the full significance of possession, both mystically and mythologically, is not yet clear. In
mystic experience communion (wrongly called possession sometimes) has meant the dissolution
of the ego, the entry into ecstasy, union with and illumination of the godhead. The experience of
communion has been the province of the mystic, prophet, or visionary, those who were able to
alchemize their energy into pure spirit and this spirit into a state of grace. Possession, rightly
defined, is the perversion of the mystic experience; it is by its very nature demonic because its goal
is power, its means are violence and oppression. It spills the blood of its victim and in doing so
estranges itself from life‐giving union. O's lover thinks that she gives herself freely but if she did
not, he would take her anyway. Their relationship is the incarnation of demonic possession:
Thus he would possess her as a god possesses his creatures, whom he lays hold of in the
guise of a monster or bird, of an invisible spirit or a state of ecstasy. He did not wish to leave her.
The more he surrendered her, the more he would hold her dear. The fact that he gave her was to
him a proof, and ought to be for her as well, that she belonged to him: one can only give what
belongs to you. He gave her only to reclaim her immediately, to reclaim her enriched in his eyes,
like some common object which had been used for some divine purpose and has thus been
consecrated. For a long time he had wanted to prostitute her, and he was delighted to feel that the
pleasure he was deriving was even greater than he had hoped, and that it bound him to her all the
more so because, through it, she would be more humiliated and ravished. Since she loved him, she
could not help loving whatever derived from him. 6
A precise corollary of possession is prostitution. The prostitute, the woman as object, is
defined by the usage to which the possessor puts her. Her subjugation is the signet of his power.
58
Prostitution means for the woman the carnal annihilation of will and choice, but for the man it
once again signifies an increase in power, pure and simple. To call the power of the possessor,
which he demonstrates by playing superpimp, divine, or to confuse it with ecstasy or communion,
is to grossly misunderstand. "All the mouths that had probed her mouth, all the hands that had
seized her breasts and belly, all the members that had been thrust into her had so perfectly
provided the living proof that she was worthy of being prostituted and had, so to speak, sanctified
her." 7 Of course, it is not O who is sanctified, but Rene, or Sir Stephen, or the others, through her.
O's prostitution is a vicious caricature of old‐world religious prostitution. The ancient sacral
prostitution of the Hebrews, Greeks, Indians, et al., was the ritual expression of respect and
veneration for the powers of fertility and generation. The priestesses/prostitutes of the temple
were literal personifications of the life energy of the earth goddess, and transferred that energy to
those who participated in her rites. The cosmic principles, articulated as divine male and divine
female, were ritually united in the temple because clearly only through their continuing and
repeated union could the fertility of the earth and the well‐being of a people be ensured. Sacred
prostitution was "nothing less than an act of communion with god (or godhead) and was as remote
from sensuality as the Christian act of communion is remote from gluttony." 8 O and all of the
women at Roissy are distinguished by their sterility and bear no resemblance whatsoever to any
known goddess. No mention is ever made of conception or menstruation, and procreation is never
a consequence of fucking. O's fertility has been rendered O. There is nothing sacred about O's
prostitution.
O's degradation is occasioned by the male need for and fear of initiation into manhood.
Initiation rites generally include a period of absolute solitude, isolation, followed by tests of
physical courage, mental endurance, often through torture and physical mutilation, resulting in a
permanent scar or tattoo which marks the successful initiate. The process of initiation is designed
to reveal the values, rites, and rules of manhood and confers on the initiate the responsibilities and
privileges of manhood. What occurs at Roissy is a clear perversion of real initiation. Rene and the
others mutilate O's body, but they are themselves untouched. Her body substitutes for their bodies.
O is marked with the scars which they should bear. She undergoes their ordeal for them, endures
the solitude and isolation, the torture, the mutilation. In trying to become gods, they have bypassed
the necessary rigors of becoming men. The fact that the tortures must be repeated endlessly, not
only on O but on large numbers of women who are forced as well as persuaded, demonstrates that
the men of Roissy never in fact become men, are never initiates, never achieve the security of
realized manhood.
What would be the sign of the initiate, the final mark or scar, manifests in the case of O as an
ultimate expression of sadism. The rings through O's cunt with Sir Stephen's name and heraldry,
and the brand on her ass, are permanent wedding rings rightly placed. They mark her as an owned
object and in no way symbolize the passage into maturity and freedom. The same might be said of
the conventional wedding ring.
O, in her never‐ending role as surrogate everything, also is the direct sexual link between Sir
Stephen and Rene. That the two men love each other and fuck each other through O is made clear
by the fact that Sir Stephen uses O anally most of the time. The consequences of misdirecting
sexual energy are awesome indeed.
But what is most extraordinary about Story of O is the mind‐boggling literary style of Pauline
Reage, its author. O is wanton yet pure, Sir Stephen is cruel yet kind, Rene is brutal yet gentle, a
wall is black yet white. Everything is what it is, what it isn't, and its direct opposite. That technique,
which is so skillfully executed, might help to account for the compelling irrationality of Story of O.
For those women who are convinced yet doubtful, attracted yet repelled, there is this schema for
self‐protection: the doubledouble think that the author engages in is very easy to deal with if we just
realize that we only have to doubledouble unthink it.
To sum up, Story of O is a story of psychic cannibalism, demonic possession, a story which
posits men and women as being at opposite poles of the universe‐‐the survival of one dependent
on the absolute destruction of the other. It asks, like many stories, who is the most powerful, and it
answers: men are, literally over women's dead bodies.
59
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Introductory note to Part Two and "Woman as Victim: Story of O" chapter, pp. 53‐63,
from Woman Hating, copyright © 1974 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
Grateful acknowledgment is due for permission to quote from Pauline Reage, Story of
O, copyright © 1965 by Grove Press. Reprinted by permission of Grove Press, Inc.
595959
60
I'm very honored to be here with my friends and my peers, my sisters in this
movement.
I also feel an awful lot of conflict about being here, because it is very hard to think
about talking about prostitution in an academic setting. It's really difficult.
The assumptions of academia can barely begin to imagine the reality of life for women
in prostitution. Academic life is premised on the notion that there is a tomorrow and a
next day and a next day; or that someone can come inside from the cold for time to
study; or that there is some kind of discourse of ideas and a year of freedom in which
you can have disagreements that will not cost you your life. These are premises that
those who are students here or who teach here act on every day. They are antithetical
to the lives of women who are in prostitution or who have been in prostitution.
If you have been in prostitution, you do not have tomorrow in your mind, because
tomorrow is a very long time away. You cannot assume that you will live from minute
to minute. You cannot and you do not. If you do, then you are stupid, and to be stupid
in the world of prostitution is to be hurt, is to be dead. No woman who is prostituted
can afford to be that stupid, such that she would actually believe that tomorrow will
come.
I cannot reconcile these different premises. I can only say that the premises of the
prostituted woman are my premises. They are the ones that I act from. They are the
ones that my work has been based on all of these years. I cannot accept‐‐because I
cannot believe‐‐the premises of the feminism that comes out of the academy: the
feminism that says we will hear all these sides year after year, and then, someday, in
the future, by some process that we have not yet found, we will decide what is right
and what is true. That does not make sense to me. I understand that to many of you it
does make sense. I am talking across the biggest cultural divide in my own life. I have
been trying to talk across it for twenty years with what I would consider marginal
success.
I want to bring us back to basics. Prostitution: what is it? It is the use of a woman's
body for sex by a man, he pays money, he does what he wants. The minute you move
away from what it really is, you move away from prostitution into the world of ideas.
You will feel better; you will have a better time; it is more fun; there is plenty to
discuss, but you will be discussing ideas, not prostitution. Prostitution is not an idea. It
is the mouth, the vagina, the rectum, penetrated usually by a penis, sometimes hands,
sometimes objects, by one man and then another and then another and then another
and then another. That's what it is.
I ask you to think about your own bodies‐‐if you can do so outside the world that the
pornographers have created in your minds, the flat, dead, floating mouths and vaginas
and anuses of women. I ask you to think concretely about your own bodies used that
61
way. How sexy is it? Is it fun? The people who defend prostitution and pornography
want you to feel a kinky little thrill every time you think of something being stuck in a
woman. I want you to feel the delicate tissues in her body that are being misused. I
want you to feel what it feels like when it happens over and over and over and over
and over and over and over again: because that is what prostitution is.
Which is why‐‐from the perspective of a woman in prostitution or a woman who has
been in prostitution‐‐the distinctions other people make between whether the event
took place in the Plaza Hotel or somewhere more inelegant are not the distinctions
that matter. These are irreconcilable perceptions, with irreconcilable premises. Of
course the circumstances must matter, you say. No, they do not, because we are
talking about the use of the mouth, the vagina, and the rectum. The circumstances
don't mitigate or modify what prostitution is.
And so, many of us are saying that prostitution is intrinsically abusive. Let me be clear.
I am talking to you about prostitution per se, without more violence, without extra
violence, without a woman being hit, without a woman being pushed. Prostitution in
and of itself is an abuse of a woman's body. Those of us who say this are accused of
being simple‐minded. But prostitution is very simple. And if you are not simple‐
minded, you will never understand it. The more complex you manage to be, the
further away from the reality you will be‐‐the safer you will be, the happier you will
be, the more fun you will have discussing the issue of prostitution. In prostitution, no
woman stays whole. It is impossible to use a human body in the way women's bodies
are used in prostitution and to have a whole human being at the end of it, or in the
middle of it, or close to the beginning of it. It's impossible. And no woman gets whole
again later, after. Women who have been abused in prostitution have some choices to
make. You have seen very brave women here make some very important choices: to
use what they know; to try to communicate to you what they know. But nobody gets
whole, because too much is taken away when the invasion is inside you, when the
brutality is inside your skin. We try so hard to communicate, all of us to each other,
the pain. We plead, we make analogies. The only analogy I can think of concerning
prostitution is that it is more like gang rape than it is like anything else.
Oh, you say, gang rape is completely different. An innocent woman is walking down
the street and she is taken by surprise. Every woman is that same innocent woman.
Every woman is taken by surprise. In a prostitute's life, she is taken by surprise over
and over and over and over and over again. The gang rape is punctuated by a money
exchange. That's all. That's the only difference. But money has a magical quality,
doesn't it? You give a woman money and whatever it is that you did to her she wanted,
she deserved. Now, we understand about male labor. We understand that men do
things they do not like to do in order to earn a wage. When men do alienating labor in
a factory we do not say that the money transforms the experience for them such that
they loved it, had a good time, and in fact, aspired to nothing else. We look at the
boredom, the dead‐endedness; we say, surely the quality of a man's life should be
better than that.
The magical function of money is gendered; that is to say, women are not supposed to
have money, because when women have money, presumably women can make
choices, and one of the choices that women can make is not to be with men. And if
women make the choice not to be with men, men will then be deprived of the sex that
men feel they have a right to. And if it is required that a whole class of people be
treated with cruelty and indignity and humiliation, put into a condition of servitude,
so that men can have the sex that they think they have a right to, then that is what will
happen. That is the essence and the meaning of male dominance. Male dominance is a
political system.
It is always extraordinary, when looking at this money exchange, to understand that in
most people's minds the money is worth more than the woman is. The ten dollars, the
thirty dollars, the fifty dollars, is worth much more than her whole life. The money is
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real, more real than she is. With the money he can buy a human life and erase its
importance from every aspect of civil and social consciousness and conscience and
society, from the protections of law, from any right of citizenship, from any concept of
human dignity and human sovereignty. For fifty fucking dollars any man can do that. If
you were going to think of a way to punish women for being women, poverty would
be enough. Poverty is hard. It hurts. The bitches would be sorry they're women. It's
hard to be hungry. It's hard not to have a nice place to live in. You feel real desperate.
Poverty is very punishing. But poverty isn't enough, because poverty alone does not
provide a pool of women for men to fuck on demand. Poverty is insufficient to create
that pool of women, no matter how hungry women get. So, in different cultures,
societies are organized differently to get the same result: not only are women poor,
but the only thing of value a woman has is her so‐called sexuality, which, along with
her body, has been turned into a sellable commodity. Her so‐called sexuality becomes
the only thing that matters; her body becomes the only thing that anyone wants to
buy. An assumption then can be made: if she is poor and needs money, she will be
selling sex. The assumption may be wrong. The assumption does not create the pool of
women who are prostituted. It takes more than that. In our society, for instance, in the
population of women who are prostituted now, we have women who are poor, who
have come from poor families; they are also victims of child sexual abuse, especially
incest; and they have become homeless.
Incest is boot camp. Incest is where you send the girl to learn how to do it. So you
don't, obviously, have to send her anywhere, she's already there and she's got
nowhere else to go. She's trained. And the training is specific and it is important: not
to have any real boundaries to her own body; to know that she's valued only for sex;
to learn about men what the offender, the sex offender, is teaching her. But even that
is not enough, because then she runs away and she is out on the streets and homeless.
For most women, some version of all these kinds of destitution needs to occur.
I have thought a lot in the last couple of years about the meaning of homelessness for
women. I think that it is, in a literal sense, a precondition, along with incest and
poverty in the United States, to create a population of women who can be prostituted.
But it has a wider meaning, too. Think about where any woman really has a home. No
child is safe in a society in which one out of three girls is going to be sexually abused
before she is eighteen. 1 No wife is safe in a society in which recent figures appear to
say that one out of two married women has been or is being beaten. 2 We are the
homemakers; we make these homes but we have no right to them. I think that we
have been wrong to say that prostitution is a metaphor for what happens to all
women. I think that homelessness really is that metaphor. I think that women are
dispossessed of a place to live that is safe, that belongs to the woman herself, a place
in which she has not just sovereignty over her own body but sovereignty over her
actual social life, whether it is life in a family or among friends. In prostitution, a
woman remains homeless.
But there is something very specific about the condition of prostitution that I would
like to try to talk about with you.
I want to emphasize that in these conversations, these discussions about prostitution,
we are all looking for language. We are all trying to find ways to say what we know
and also to find out what we don't know. There is a middle‐class presumption that one
knows everything worth knowing. It is the presumption of most prostituted women
that one knows nothing worth knowing. In fact, neither thing is true. What matters
here is to try to learn what the prostituted woman knows, because it is of immense
value. It is true and it has been hidden. It has been hidden for a political reason: to
know it is to come closer to knowing how to undo the system of male dominance that
is sitting on top of all of us.
I think that prostitutes experience a specific inferiority. Women in general are
considered to be dirty. Most of us experience this as a metaphor, and, yes, when things
63
get very bad, when terrible things happen, when a woman is raped, when a woman is
battered, yes, then you recognize that underneath your middle‐class life there are
assumptions that because you are a woman you are dirty. But a prostitute lives the
literal reality of being the dirty woman. There is no metaphor. She is the woman
covered in dirt, which is to say that every man who has ever been on top of her has left
a piece of himself behind; and she is also the woman who has a purely sexual function
under male dominance so that to the extent people believe that sex is dirty, people
believe that prostituted women are dirt.
The prostituted woman is, however, not static in this dirtiness. She's contagious. She's
contagious because man after man after man comes on her and then he goes away. For
instance, in discussions of AIDS, the prostituted woman is seen as the source of the
infection. That is a specific example. In general, the prostituted woman is seen as the
generative source of everything that is bad and wrong and rotten with sex, with the
man, with women. She is seen as someone who is deserving of punishment, not just
because of what she "does"‐‐and I put does in quotes, since mostly it is done to her‐‐
but because of what she is.
She is, of course, the ultimate anonymous woman. Men love it. While she is on her
twenty‐fourth false name‐‐dolly, baby, cutie, cherry tart, whatever all the
pornographers are cooking up this week as a marketing device‐‐her namelessness
says to the man, she's nobody real, I don't have to deal with her, she doesn't have a
last name at all, I don't have to remember who she is, she's not somebody specific to
me, she's a generic embodiment of woman. She is perceived as, treated as‐‐and I want
you to remember this, this is real‐‐vaginal slime. She is dirty; a lot of men have been
there. A lot of semen, a lot of vaginal lubricant. This is visceral, this is real, this is what
happens. Her anus is often torn from the anal intercourse, it bleeds. Her mouth is a
receptacle for semen, that is how she is perceived and treated. All women are
considered dirty because of menstrual blood but she bleeds other times, other places.
She bleeds because she's been hurt, she bleeds and she's got bruises on her.
When men use women in prostitution, they are expressing a pure hatred for the
female body. It is as pure as anything on this earth ever is or ever has been. It is a
contempt so deep, so deep, that a whole human life is reduced to a few sexual orifices,
and he can do anything he wants. Other women at this conference have told you that. I
want you to understand, believe them. It's true. He can do anything he wants. She has
nowhere to go. There is no cop to complain to; the cop may well be the guy who is
doing it. The lawyer that she goes to will want payment in kind. When she needs
medical help, it turns out he's just another john. Do you understand? She is literally
nothing. Now, many of us have experiences in which we feel like nothing, or we know
that someone considers us to be nothing or less than nothing, worthless, but for a
woman in prostitution, this is the experience of life every day, day in and day out.
He, meanwhile, the champion here, the hero, the man, he's busy bonding with other
men through the use of her body. One of the reasons he is there is because some man
has been there before him and some man will be there after him. This is not theory.
When you live it, you see that it is true. Men use women's bodies in prostitution and in
gang rape to communicate with each other, to express what they have in common.
And what they have in common is that they are not her. So she becomes the vehicle of
his masculinity and his homoeroticism, and he uses the words to tell her that. He
shares the sexuality of the words, as well as the acts, directed at her, with other men.
All of those dirty words are just the words that he uses to tell her what she is. (And
from the point of view of any woman who has been prostituted‐‐if she were to express
that point of view, which it is likely she will not‐‐the fight that male artists wage for
the right to use dirty words is one of the sicker and meaner jokes on the face of this
earth, because there is no law, no rule, no etiquette, no courtesy that stops any man
from using every single one of those words on any prostituted woman; and the words
have the sting that they are supposed to have because in fact they are describing her.)
She's expendable. Funny, she has no name. She is a mouth, a vagina, and an anus, who
64
needs her in particular when there are so many others? When she dies, who misses
her? Who mourns her? She's missing, does anybody go look for her? I mean, who is
she? She is no one. Not metaphorically no one. Literally, no one.
Now, in the history of genocide, for instance, the Nazis referred to the Jews as lice and
they said, we are going to exterminate them. 3 In the history of the slaughter of the
indigenous people of the Americas, those who made policy said, they're lice, kill them.
4 Catharine MacKinnon talked earlier about gender cleansing: murdering prostitutes.
She is right. Prostituted women are women who are there, available for the gynocidal
kill. And prostituted women are being killed every single day, and we don't think
we're facing anything resembling an emergency. Why should we? They're no one.
When a man kills a prostitute, he feels righteous. It is a righteous kill. He has just
gotten rid of a piece of dirt, and the society tells him he is right.
There is also a specific kind of dehumanization experienced by women who are
prostituted. Yes, all women experience being objects, being treated like objects. But
prostituted women are treated like a certain kind of object, which is to say, a target. A
target isn't any old object. You might take pretty good care of some objects that you
have around the house. But a target you go after. You put the dart in the hole. That's
what the prostitute is for. What that should tell you is how much aggression goes into
what a man does when he seeks out, finds, and uses a prostituted woman.
One of the conflicts that I feel about talking here, being here, is that I am afraid that
anything I say that is even slightly abstract will immediately move everyone's mind off
of the fundamental issue. And the fundamental issue is what is done to women who
are in prostitution, what exactly prostitution is. But I have to risk that because I want
to say to you that you can't think about prostitution unless you are willing to think
about the man who needs to fuck the prostitute. Who is he? What is he doing? What
does he want? What does he need?
He is everyone. I want you to take one hour, on Monday. I want you to walk through
your school, and I want you to look at every man. I want you to take his clothes off
with your eyes. I want you to see him with a stiff prick. I want you in your mind to put
him on top of a woman with money on the table next to them. Everyone. The dean of
this law school, the professors, the male students, everyone. If you are going to the
emergency room, I want you to do it. If you have a heart attack, I want you to do it
with the intern who is taking care of you. Because this is the world that prostituted
women live in. It is a world in which no matter what happens to you, there is another
man who wants a piece of you. And if you need something from him, you have to give
him that piece.
Men who use prostitutes think they are real big and real brave. They're very proud of
themselves‐‐they brag a lot. They write novels, they write songs, they write laws‐‐
productive folk‐‐and they have a sense that they are very adventurous and heroic, and
why do they think that? Because they are predators who go out and hump women‐‐
they rub up against a woman who's dirty and they live to tell about it. Goddamn it.
They live to tell about it. Unfortunately. Virtually all the time, no matter what they
have done, no matter what harm they have done to her‐‐they live to tell about it, sing
about it, write about it, make television shows about it, make movies about it. I would
like to say to you that these men are cowards, that these men are brutes, that these
men are fools, that these men are able to do what they do because they have the
power of men as a class behind them, which they get because men use force against
women. If you want a definition of what a coward is, it's needing to push a whole class
of people down so that you can walk on top of them. Societies are organized so that
men have the power they need, to use women the way that they want to. Societies can
be organized in different ways and still create a population of women who are
prostituted. For instance, in the United States the women are poor, the women are
mostly incest victims, the women are homeless. In parts of Asia, they were sold into
65
slavery at the age of six months because they were females. That is how they do it
there. It does not have to be done the same way in every place to be the same thing.
Male dominance means that the society creates a pool of prostitutes by any means
necessary so that men have what men need to stay on top, to feel big, literally,
metaphorically, in every way; and yet men are our standard for being human. We say
we want to be human. We say that we want them to treat us like human beings. In a
male‐dominant society, men are the human beings. I want to point out to you that we
use the word human metaphorically. We are not talking about how men act. We are
talking about an idea, a dream, a vision that we have, of what a human being is. We are
saying that we do not want them stepping on top of us; we are also saying implicitly
that they are not a good enough standard for what being human is because look at
what they are doing to us. We cannot want to be like them because being like them
means using people the way that they use people‐‐for the sake of establishing one's
importance or one's identity. I am saying that in part men are mythological figures to
us when we talk about them as human beings. We are not talking about how men
really behave. We are talking about the mythology of men as arbiters of civilization.
This political movement involves understanding that the human qualities that we
want in life with each other are not qualities that characterize the way men really
behave.
What prostitution does in a society of male dominance is that it establishes a social
bottom beneath which there is no bottom. It is the bottom. Prostituted women are all
on the bottom. And all men are above it. They may not be above it much but even men
who are prostituted are above the bottom that is set by prostituted women and girls.
Every man in this society benefits from the fact that women are prostituted whether
or not every man uses a woman in prostitution. This should not have to be said but it
has to be said: prostitution comes from male dominance, not from female nature. It is
a political reality that exists because one group of people has and maintains power
over another group of people. I underline that because I want to say to you that male
domination is cruel. I want to say to you that male domination must be destroyed.
Male domination needs to be ended, not simply reformed, not made a little nicer, and
not made a little nicer for some women. We need to look at the role of men‐‐really
look at it, study it, understand it‐‐in keeping women poor, in keeping women
homeless, in keeping girls raped, which is to say, in creating prostitutes, a population
of women who will be used in prostitution. We need to look at the role of men in
romanticizing prostitution, in making its cost to women culturally invisible, in using
the power of this society, the economic power, the cultural power, the social power, to
create silence, to create silence among those who have been hurt, the silence of the
women who have been used.
We need to look at the role of men in creating a hatred of women, in creating
prejudice against women, in using the culture to support, promote, advocate,
celebrate aggression against women. We need to look at the role of men in creating a
political idea of freedom that only they can actually have. Isn't that funny? What is
freedom? Two thousand years of discourse and somehow it manages to leave us out. It
is an amazingly self‐serving monologue that they have had going here. We need to
look at the role of men in creating political systems that subordinate women; and that
means that we have to look at the role of men in creating prostitution, in protecting
prostitution‐‐how law enforcement does it, how journalism does it, how lawyers do it.
We need to know the ways in which all those men use prostitutes and in doing so
destroy the human dignity of the women.
The cure to this problem is political. That means taking power away from men. This is
real stuff; it is serious stuff. They have too much of it. They do not use it right. They are
bullies. They do not have a right to what they have; and that means it has to be taken
away from them. We have to take the power that they have to use us away from them.
We have to take the power that they have to hurt us away from them. We have to take
their money away from them. They have too much of it. Any man who has enough
66
money to spend degrading a woman's life in prostitution has too much money. He
does not need what he's got in his pocket. But there is a woman who does.
We need to take away their social dominance‐‐over us. We live in a tyranny of liars
and hypocrites and sadists.
Now, it will cost you to fight them. They have to be taken off of women, do you
understand me? They need to be lifted up and off. What is intractable about
prostitution is male dominance. And it is male dominance that has to be ended so that
women will not be prostituted.
You, you‐‐you have to weaken and destroy every institution that is part of how men
rule over women. And don't ask if you should. The question is how, not if. How? Do
one thing, rather than spend your lives debating if you should do this or if you should
do that and do they really deserve it and is it really fair? Fair? Is it really fair? Darlings,
we could get the machine guns out tonight. Fair? We break our own hearts with these
questions. Is it fair? Don't respect their laws. No. Don't respect their laws. Women
need to be making laws. I hope that Catharine MacKinnon and I have set an example.
We have tried to. There is no reason for any woman, any woman in the world, to be
basically performing fellatio on the current legal system. But mostly that is what one is
in law school to learn how to do.
What I hope you will take away from here is this: that any vestige of sex hierarchy,
any, will mean that some women somewhere are being prostituted. If you look around
you and you see male supremacy, you know that somewhere where you cannot see, a
woman is being prostituted, because every hierarchy needs a bottom and prostitution
is the bottom of male dominance. So when you accommodate, when you compromise,
when you turn a blind eye, you are collaborating. Yes, I know that your life is also at
stake but yes you are collaborating, both things are true, in the destruction of another
woman's life.
I am asking you to make yourselves enemies of male dominance, because it has to be
destroyed for the crime of prostitution to end‐‐the crime against the woman, the
human‐rights crime of prostitution: and everything else is besides the point, a lie, an
excuse, an apology, a justification, and all the abstract words are lies, justice, liberty,
equality, they are lies. As long as women are being prostituted they are lies. You can
tellS the lie and in this institution you will be taught how to tell the lie; or you can use
your lives to dismantle the system that creates and then protects this abuse. You, a
well‐trained person, can stand with the abuser or with the rebel, the resister, the
revolutionary. You can stand with the sister he is doing it to; and if you are very brave
you can try to stand between them so that he has to get through you to get to her.
That, by the way, is the meaning of the often misused word choice. These are choices. I
am asking you to make a choice.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Copyright © 1993, 1994 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved. First published in
Michigan Journal of Gender & Law, Vol I, 1993.
67
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part II WORDS
Live as domestic a life as possible. Have your child with you all the time.... Lie down an
hour after each meal. Have but two hours' intellectual life a day. And never touch pen,
brush or pencil as long as you live.
‐‐Dr S. Weir Mitchell's prescription for Charlotte Perkins Gilman
1978
Copyright © 1978, 1988, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
In the spring of 1978, the Massachusetts Daily Collegian, the school newspaper of the
University of Massachusetts at Amherst, became a battleground for women's rights.
Women journalists reporting on socalled women's issues, including, as I remember,
the DES health emergency, were censored: their stories were suppressed or cut to
pieces. They were lectured sanctimoniously about free speech and the high calling of
objective journalism by boy editors even as they were being denied access to print.
The women fought back. Julie Melrose, women 's editor, was threatened and an
atmosphere of violence was palpable. The male editors especially aroused anger
against the women by calling them lesbians. The Power of Words is about the hate
campaign these male editors waged. Instead of being intimidated, the women
occupied the offices of the newspaper and appropriated its equipment to put out an
insurgent newspaper (in which The Power of Words was published). They set up a
blockade, physically resisting efforts to remove them. They held the offices for twelve
days. The Chancellor of the University set up a commission to investigate their
charges. His commission recommended separate women's pages and autonomy. The
Chancellor refused to implement the recommendations. A few years ago, a man was
made women's editor. The claim was that no qualified woman existed. The Power of
Words was given as a speech at a rally to support the occupiers when they were still
inside. Robin Morgan and Janice Raymond also spoke; and Simone de Beauvoir sent a
message of solidarity. Feminists do fight for freedom of speech when it is a real fight
for real freedom of real speech.
In Berlin in the late 1920s, Joseph Goebbels, soon to be Nazi Minister of
Propaganda under Hitler, organized an anti‐Semitic propaganda campaign that took
the form of cartoons. These cartoons all ridiculed one individual, a Jewish police
official. In one cartoon this man, broadly caricatured with a huge, crooked nose and
derisively nicknamed "Isidor," is sitting on a pavement. He is leaning against a
lamppost. A rope is around his neck. Flags emblazoned with swastikas fly from the
rooftops. The caption reads: "For him too, Ash Wednesday will come." "Isidor" became
a mocking synonym for Jew; the cartoons became a vehicle for attributing repulsive
characteristics and behaviors to Jews as a group. The police official sued Goebbels to
stop publication of the libelous, malicious material. Goebbels, making full use of
democratic protections ensuring free speech, was acquitted. On appeal, his acquittal
was upheld because the court equated the word Jew with Protestant or Catholic. If
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there was no insult involved in calling a Protestant a Protestant, how could there be
injury in calling a Jew a Jew?
In a world with no history of persecuting Jews because they are Jews, the decision
would have made sense. But in this world, the one we still live in, all words do not
have equal weight. Some words can be used to provoke the deepest hatred, the most
resilient impulses toward slaughter. Jew is one such word. Goebbels used it cynically,
with cunning, to provoke a genocide of nearly unparalleled monstrosity.
Another word that can be manipulated to induce both fear and violence is the
word lesbian. In a time of burgeoning feminism, it is this word that spreaders of hate
spit, whisper, and shout with varying degrees of contempt, ridicule, and threat.
We cannot afford to make the mistake made by the pre‐Nazi German court: we
cannot afford to overlook the real power and the real meaning of words or the real
uses to which words are put.
It is no secret that fear and hatred of homosexuals permeate our society. But the
contempt for lesbians is distinct. It is directly rooted in the abhorrence of the self‐
defined woman, the self‐determining woman, the woman who is not controlled by
male need, imperative, or manipulation. Contempt for lesbians is most often a political
repudiation of women who organize in their own behalf to achieve public presence,
significant power, visible integrity.
Enemies of women, those who are determined to deny us freedom and dignity, use
the word lesbian to provoke a hatred of women who do not conform. This hatred
rumbles everywhere. This hatred is sustained and expressed by virtually every
institution. When male power is challenged, this hatred can be intensified and
inflamed so that it is volatile, palpable. The threat is that this hatred will explode into
violence. The threat is omnipresent because violence against women is culturally
applauded. And so the word lesbian, hurled or whispered as accusation, is used to
focus male hostility on women who dare to rebel, and it is also used to frighten and
bully women who have not yet rebelled.
When a word is used to provoke hatred, it does not matter what the word actually
means. What matters is only what the haters insist it means‐‐the meaning they give it,
the common prejudices they exploit. In the case of the word lesbian, the haters use it
to impute a gross, deviant masculinity to the uppity woman who insists on taking her
place in the world. To women raised to be beautiful, compliant, and desirable (all in
male terms), the word lesbian connotes a foul, repellent abnormality. It brings up
women's deep dread of exile, isolation, and punishment. For women controlled by
men, it means damnation.
It is horrifying, but not surprising, that the males on the Collegian‐‐these boys who
before your very eyes are becoming men‐‐have used the word lesbian in the malicious
way I have just described. With contempt and ridicule, they have been waging a
furtive, ruthless propaganda campaign against the feminist occupiers. They are using
the word lesbian to rouse the most virulent woman‐hating on this campus. They are
using the word lesbian to direct male hostility and aggression against the feminist
occupiers. They are using the word lesbian to dismiss every just charge the feminist
occupiers have made against them. They are using the word lesbian to justify their
own rigid opposition to the simple and eminently reasonable demands these women
have made. They are using the word lesbian to hide the true history of their own
woman‐hating malice in running that corrupt, pretentious, utterly hypocritical
newspaper. They are using the word lesbian to cover over the threats of violence
made before the occupation against the head of the Women's Department‐‐threats of
violence made by her male colleagues. They are using the word lesbian to cover up
their consistent, belligerent refusal to publish crucial women's news. And, painfully
but inevitably, they are using the word lesbian to divide women from women, to keep
69
women staffers in line, to discourage them from associating with feminists or thinking
for themselves. Intimidated by the malicious use of the word lesbian, women are
afraid of guilt by association. Hearing the derision and the threats, good girls, smart
girls, do what is expected of them.
Feminists are occupying the offices of the Collegian because words matter. Words
can be used to educate, to clarify, to inform, to illuminate. Words can also be used to
intimidate, to threaten, to insult, to coerce, to incite hatred, to encourage ignorance.
Words can make us better or worse people, more compassionate or more prejudiced,
more generous or more cruel. Words matter because words significantly determine
what we know and what we do. Words change us or keep us the same. Women,
deprived of words, are deprived of life. Women, deprived of a forum for words, are
deprived of the power necessary to ensure both survival and well‐being.
When all news pertaining to women is omitted from a newspaper, or distorted
beyond recognition, a crime is being committed against women. It is a bitter irony that
this crime is euphemistically called "objective journalism." It is another bitter irony
that when women attempt to stop the crime, they are accused of impeding something
called "free speech." It is interesting that the phrase "objective journalism" always
means the exclusion of hard‐hitting women's news and it is curious how the valiant
defenders of so‐called free speech threaten violence to shut women up. Marxists call
these perplexing phenomena "contradictions." Feminists call them facts.
I say to you that the men who control the Collegian have used words to foster
ignorance and to encourage bigotry; to keep women invisible, misinformed, and
silent; to threaten and bully; to ridicule and demean. It is shameful to continue to
tolerate their flagrant contempt for women, for lesbians; for words, for news, for
simple fairness and equity. It is honorable and right to take from them the power they
have so abused. I hope that you will strip them of it altogether. In the words of the
great Emmeline Pankhurst, "I incite this meeting to rebellion."
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"The Power of Words," first published in Massachusetts Daily Occupied Collegian,
Vol. 1, No. 1, May 8, 1978. Copyright © 1978 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
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LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by
Andrea Dworkin
Part IV
know a lot more now about how pornography hurts women, why it is so pernicious;
but this speech was a conceptual breakthrough that helped change the terms of the
argument. The new terms mobilized women to action.
All through human history, there have been terrible, cruel wrongs. These wrongs were
not committed on a small scale. These wrongs were not rarities or oddities. These
wrongs have raged over the earth like wind‐swept fires, maiming, destroying, leaving
humans turned to ash. Slavery, rape, torture, extermination have been the substance
of life for billions of human beings since the beginning of patriarchal time. Some have
battened on atrocity while others have suffered from it until they died.
In any given time, most people have accepted the cruelest wrongs as right. Whether
through indifference, ignorance, or brutality, most people, oppressor and oppressed,
have apologized for atrocity, defended it, justified it, excused it, laughed at it, or
ignored it.
The oppressor, the one who perpetrates the wrongs for his own pleasure or profit, is
the master inventor of justification. He is the magician who, out of thin air, fabricates
wondrous, imposing, seemingly irrefutable intellectual reasons which explain why
one group must be degraded at the hands of another. He is the conjurer who takes the
smoking ash of real death and turns it into stories, poems, pictures, which celebrate
degradation as life's central truth. He is the illusionist who paints mutilated bodies in
chains on the interior canvas of the imagination so that, asleep or awake, we can only
hallucinate indignity and outrage. He is the manipulator of psychological reality, the
framer of law, the engineer of social necessity, the architect of perception and being.
The oppressed are encapsulated by the culture, laws, and values of the oppressor.
Their behaviors are controlled by laws and traditions based on their presumed
inferiority. They are, as a matter of course, called abusive names, presumed to have
low or disgusting personal and collective traits. They are always subject to sanctioned
assault. They are surrounded on every side by images and echoes of their own
worthlessness. Involuntarily, unconsciously, not knowing anything else, they have
branded into them, burned into their brains, a festering self‐hatred, a virulent self‐
contempt. They have burned out of them the militant dignity on which all self‐respect
is based.
Oppressed people are not subjugated or controlled by dim warnings or vague threats
of harm. Their chains are not made of shadows. Oppressed people are terrorized‐‐by
raw violence, real violence, unspeakable and pervasive violence. Their bodies are
assaulted and despoiled, according to the will of the oppressor.
This violence is always accompanied by cultural assault‐‐propaganda disguised as
principle or knowledge. The purity of the "Aryan" or Caucasian race is a favorite
principle. Genetic inferiority is a favorite field of knowledge. Libraries are full of
erudite texts that prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jews, the Irish, Mexicans,
blacks, homosexuals, women are slime. These eloquent and resourceful proofs are
classified as psychology, theology, economics, philosophy, history, sociology, the so‐
called science of biology. Sometimes, often, they are made into stories or poems and
called art. Degradation is dignified as biological, economic, or historical necessity; or
as the logical consequence of the repulsive traits or inherent limitations of the ones
degraded. Out on the streets, the propaganda takes a more vulgar form. Signs read
"Whites Only" or "Jews and Dogs Not Allowed." Hisses of kike, nigger, queer, and
pussy fill the air. In this propaganda, the victim is marked. In this propaganda, the
victim is targeted. This propaganda is the glove that covers the fist in any reign of
terror.
This propaganda does not only sanction violence against the designated group; it
incites it. This propaganda does not only threaten assault; it promises it.
These are the dreaded images of terror.
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* A Jew, emaciated, behind barbed wire, nearly naked, mutilated by the knife of a Nazi
doctor: the atrocity is acknowledged.
* A Vietnamese, in a tiger cage, nearly naked, bones twisted and broken, flesh black
and blue: the atrocity is acknowledged.
* A black slave on an Amerikan plantation, nearly naked, chained, flesh ripped up from
the whip: the atrocity is acknowledged.
* A woman, nearly naked, in a cell, chained, flesh ripped up from the whip, breasts
mutilated by a knife: she is entertainment, the boy‐next‐door's favorite fantasy, every
man's precious right, every woman's potential fate.
The woman tortured is sexual entertainment.
The woman tortured is sexually arousing.
The anguish of the woman tortured is sexually exciting.
The degradation of the woman tortured is sexually entrancing.
The humiliation of the woman tortured is sexually pleasing, sexually thrilling, sexually
gratifying.
Women are a degraded and terrorized people. Women are degraded and terrorized by
men. Rape is terrorism. Wife‐beating is terrorism. Medical butchering is terrorism.
Sexual abuse in its hundred million forms is terrorism.
Women's bodies are possessed by men. Women are forced into involuntary
childbearing because men, not women, control women's reproductive functions.
Women are an enslaved population‐‐the crop we harvest is children, the fields we
work are houses. Women are forced into committing sexual acts with men that violate
integrity because the universal religion‐‐contempt for women‐‐has as its first
commandment that women exist purely as sexual fodder for men.
Women are an occupied people. Our very bodies are possessed, taken by others who
have an inherent right to take, used or abused by others who have an inherent right to
use or abuse. The ideology that energizes and justifies this systematic degradation is a
fascist ideology‐‐the ideology of biological inferiority. No matter how it is disguised,
no matter what refinements pretty it up, this ideology, reduced to its essence,
postulates that women are biologically suited to function only as breeders, pieces of
ass, and servants. This fascist ideology of female inferiority is the preeminent ideology
on this planet. As Shulamith Firestone put it in The Dialectic of Sex, "Sex class is so
deep as to be invisible." That women exist to be used by men is, quite simply, the
common point of view, and the concomitant of this point of view, inexorably linked to
it, is that violence used against women to force us to fulfill our so‐called natural
functions is not really violence at all. Every act of terror or crime committed against
women is justified as sexual necessity and/or is dismissed as utterly unimportant.
This extreme callousness passes as normalcy, so that when women, after years or
decades or centuries of unspeakable abuse, do raise our voices in outrage at the
crimes committed against us, we are accused of stupidity or lunacy, or are ignored as
if we were flecks of dust instead of flesh and blood.
We women are raising our voices now, because all over this country a new campaign
of terror and vilification is being waged against us. Fascist propaganda celebrating
sexual violence against women is sweeping this land. Fascist propaganda celebrating
the sexual degradation of women is inundating cities, college campuses, small towns.
Pornography is the propaganda of sexual fascism. Pornography is the propaganda of
sexual terrorism. Images of women bound, bruised, and maimed on virtually every
street corner, on every magazine rack, in every drug store, in movie house after movie
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house, on billboards, on posters pasted on walls, are death threats to a female
population in rebellion. Female rebellion against male sexual despotism, female
rebellion against male sexual authority, is now a reality throughout this country. The
men, meeting rebellion with an escalation of terror, hang pictures of maimed female
bodies in every public place.
We are forced either to capitulate, to be beaten back by those images of abuse into
silent acceptance of female degradation as a fact of life, or to develop strategies of
resistance derived from a fully conscious will to resist. If we capitulate‐‐smile, be
good, pretend that the woman in chains has nothing to do with us, avert our eyes as
we pass her image a hundred times a day‐‐we have lost everything. What, after all,
does all our work against rape or wife‐beating amount to when one of their pictures is
worth a thousand of our words?
Strategies of resistance are developing. Women are increasingly refusing to accept the
pernicious, debilitating lie that the sexual humiliation of women for fun, pleasure, and
profit is the inalienable right of every man. Petitions, leafleting, picketing, boycotts,
organized vandalism, speak‐outs, teach‐ins, letter writing campaigns, intense and
militant harassment of distributors and exhibitors of woman‐hating films, and an
unyielding refusal to give aid and comfort to the politically self‐righteous fellow‐
travelers of the pornographers are increasing, as feminists refuse to cower in the face
of this new campaign of annihilation. These are beginning actions. Some are rude and
some are civil. Some are short‐term actions, spontaneously ignited by outrage. Others
are long‐term strategies that require extensive organization and commitment. Some
disregard male law, break it with militancy and pride. Others dare to demand that the
law must protect women‐‐even women‐‐from brazen terrorization. All of these
actions arise out of the true perception that pornography actively promotes violent
contempt for the integrity and rightful freedom of women. And, despite male claims to
the contrary, feminists, not pornographers, are being arrested and prosecuted by male
law enforcers, all suddenly "civil libertarians" when male privilege is confronted on
the streets by angry and uppity women. The concept of "civil liberties" in this country
has not ever, and does not now, embody principles and behaviors that respect the
sexual rights of women. Therefore, when pornographers are challenged by women,
police, district attorneys, and judges punish the women, all the while ritualistically
claiming to be the legal guardians of "free speech." In fact, they are the legal guardians
of male profit, male property, and phallic power.
Feminist actions against pornography must blanket the country, so that no
pornographer can hide from, ignore, ridicule, or find refuge from the outrage of
women who will not be degraded, who will not submit to terror. Wherever women
claim any dignity or want any possibility of freedom, we must confront the fascist
propaganda that celebrates atrocity against us head on‐‐expose it for what it is,
expose those who make it, those who show it, those who defend it, those who consent
to it, those who enjoy it.
In the course of this difficult and dangerous struggle, we will be forced, as we
experience the intransigence of those who commit and support these crimes against
us, to ask the hardest and deepest questions, the ones we so dread:
* what is this male sexuality that requires our humiliation, that literally swells with
pride at our anguish;
* what does it mean that yet again‐‐and after years of feminist analysis and activism‐‐
the men (gay, leftist, whatever) who proclaim a commitment to social justice are
resolute in their refusal to face up to the meaning and significance of their enthusiastic
advocacy of yet another woman‐hating plague;
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* what does it mean that the pornographers, the consumers of pornography, and the
apologists for pornography are the men we grew up with, the men we talk with, live
with, the men who are familiar to us and often cherished by us as friends, fathers,
brothers, sons, and lovers;
* how, surrounded by this flesh of our flesh that despises us, will we defend the worth
of our lives, establish our own authentic integrity, and, at last, achieve our freedom?
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Pornography: The New Terrorism," first published under the title "Pornography: The
New Terrorism?" in The Body Politic, No. 45, August 1978; then published under its
real title, without the question mark, in New York University Review of Law and Social
Change, Vol. III, No. 2, 1978‐1979. Copyright © 1977 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights
reserved.
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[Andrea Dworkin delivered this speech at a conference entitled "Speech, Equality and
Harm: Feminist Legal Perspectives on Pornography and Hate Propaganda" at the
University of Chicago Law School March 6, 1993.]
For twenty years, people that you know and people that you do not know inside the
women's movement, with its great grass‐roots breadth and strength, have been trying
to communicate something very simple: pornography happens. It happens. Lawyers,
call it what you want‐‐call it speech, call it act, call it conduct. Catharine A. MacKinnon
and I called it a practice when we described it in the antipornography civil‐rights
ordinance that we drafted for the City of Minneapolis in 1983; but the point is that it
happens. It happens to women, in real life. Women's lives are made two‐dimensional
and dead. We are flattened on the page or on the screen. Our vaginal lips are painted
purple for the consumer to clue him in as to where to focus his attention such as it is.
Our rectums are highlighted so that he knows where to push. Our mouths are used
and our throats are used for deep penetration.
I am describing a process of dehumanization, a concrete means of changing someone
into something. We are not talking about violence yet; we are nowhere near violence.
Dehumanization is real. It happens in real life; it happens to stigmatized people. It has
happened to us, to women. We say that women are objectified. We hope that people
will think that we are very smart when we use a long word. But being turned into an
object is a real event; and the pornographic object is a particular kind of object. It is a
target. You are turned into a target. And red or purple marks the spot where he's
supposed to get you.
This object wants it. She is the only object with a will that says, hurt me. A car does not
say, bang me up. But she, this nonhuman thing, says hurt me‐‐and the more you hurt
me, the more I will like it.
When we look at her, that purple painted thing, when we look at her vagina, when we
look at her rectum, when we look at her mouth, when we look at her throat, those of
us who know her and those of us who have been her still can barely remember that
she is a human being.
In pornography we literally see the will of women as men want to experience it. This
will is expressed through concrete scenarios, the ways in which women's bodies are
positioned and used. We see, for instance, that the object wants to be penetrated; and
so there is a motif in pornography of self‐penetration. A woman takes some thing and
she sticks it up herself. There is pornography in which pregnant women for some
reason take hoses and stick the hoses up themselves. This is not a human being. One
cannot look at such a photograph and say, There is a human being, she has rights, she
has freedom, she has dignity, she is someone. One cannot. That is what pornography
does to women.
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We talk about fetishism in sex. * Psychologists have always made that mean, for
example, a man who ejaculates to or on a shoe. The shoe can be posed as it were on a
table far from the man. He is sexually excited; he masturbates, maybe rubs up against
the shoe; he has sex "with" the shoe. In pornography, that is what happens to a
woman's body: she is turned into a sexual fetish and the lover, the consumer,
ejaculates on her. In the pornography itself, he does ejaculate on her. It is a convention
of pornography that the sperm is on her, not in her. It marks the spot, what he owns
and how he owns it. The ejaculation on her is a way of saying (through showing) that
she is contaminated with his dirt; that she is dirty. This is the pornographer's
discourse, not mine; the Marquis de Sade always refers to ejaculate as pollution.
Pornographers use every attribute any woman has. They sexualize it. They find a way
to dehumanize it. This is done in concrete ways so that, for instance, in pornography
the skin of black women is taken to be a sexual organ, female of course, despised,
needing punishment. The skin itself is the fetish, the charmed object; the skin is the
place where the violation is acted out‐‐through verbal insult (dirty words directed at
the skin) and sexualized assault (hitting, whipping, cutting, spitting on, bondage
including rope burns, biting, masturbating on, ejaculating on).
In pornography, this fetishizing of the female body, its sexualization and
dehumanization, is always concrete and specific; it is never abstract and conceptual.
That is why all these debates on the subject of pornography have such a bizarre
quality to them. Those of us who know that pornography hurts women, and care, talk
about women's real lives, insults and assaults that really happen to real women in real
life‐‐the women in the pornography and the women on whom the pornography is
used. Those who argue for pornography, especially on the ground of freedom of
speech, insist that pornography is a species of idea, thought, fantasy, situated inside
the physical brain, the mind, of the consumer no less.
In fact we are told all the time that pornography is really about ideas. Well, a rectum
doesn't have an idea, and a vagina doesn't have an idea, and the mouths of women in
pornography do not express ideas; and when a woman has a penis thrust down to the
bottom of her throat, as in the film Deep Throat, that throat is not part of a human
being who is involved in discussing ideas. I am talking now about pornography
without visible violence. I am talking about the cruelty of dehumanizing someone who
has a right to more.
In pornography, everything means something. I have talked to you about the skin of
black women. The skin of white women has a meaning in pornography. In a white‐
supremacist society, the skin of white women is supposed to indicate privilege. Being
white is as good as it gets. What, then, does it mean that pornography is filled with
white women? It means that when one takes a woman who is at the zenith of the
hierarchy in racial terms and one asks her, What do you want?, she, who supposedly
has some freedom and some choices, says, I want to be used. She says, use me, hurt
me, exploit me, that is what I want. The society tells us that she is a standard, a
standard of beauty, a standard of womanhood and femininity. But, in fact, she is a
standard of compliance. She is a standard of submission. She is a standard for
oppression, its emblem; she models oppression, she incarnates it; which is to say that
she does what she needs to do in order to stay alive, the configuration of her
conformity predetermined by the men who like to ejaculate on her white skin. She is
for sale. And so what is her white skin worth? It makes her price a little higher.
When we talk about pornography that objectifies women, we are talking about the
sexualization of insult, of humiliation; I insist that we are also talking about the
sexualization of cruelty. And this is what I want to say to you‐‐that there is cruelty that
does not have in it overt violence.
There is cruelty that says to you, you are worth nothing in human terms. There is
cruelty that says you exist in order for him to wipe his penis on you , that's who you
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are, that's what you are for. I say that dehumanizing someone is cruel; and that it does
not have to be violent in order for it to be cruel.
Things are done to women day in and day out that would be construed to be violent if
they were done in another context, not sexualized, to a man; women are pushed,
shoved, felt up, called dirty names, have their passage physically blocked on the street
or in the office; women simply move on, move through, unless the man escalates the
violence to what the larger patriarchal world takes to be real violence: ax murder;
sadistic stranger rape or gang rape; serial killing not of prostitutes. The touching, the
pushing, the physical blockades‐‐these same invasions done to men would be
comprehended as attacks. Done to women, people seem to think it's bad but it's okay,
it's bad but it's all right, it's bad but, hey, that's the way things are; don't make a
federal case out of it. It occurs to me that we have to deal here‐‐the heart of the double
standard‐‐with the impact of orgasm on our perception of what hatred is and is not.
Men use sex to hurt us. An argument can be made that men have to hurt us, diminish
us, in order to be able to have sex with us‐‐break down barriers to our bodies, aggress,
be invasive, push a little, shove a little, express verbal or physical hostility or
condescension. An argument can be made that in order for men to have sexual
pleasure with women, we have to be inferior and dehumanized, which means
controlled, which means less autonomous, less free, less real.
I am struck by how hate speech, racist hate speech, becomes more sexually explicit as
it becomes more virulent‐‐how its meaning becomes more sexualized, as if the sex is
required to carry the hostility. In the history of anti‐Semitism, by the time one gets to
Hitler's ascendance to power in the Weimar Republic, one is looking at anti‐Semitic
hate speech that is indistinguishable from pornography ** ‐‐and it is not only actively
published and distributed, it is openly displayed. What does that orgasm do? That
orgasm says, I am real and the lower creature, that thing, is not, and if the annihilation
of that thing brings me pleasure, that is the way life should be; the racist hierarchy
becomes a sexually charged idea. There is a sense of biological inevitability that comes
from the intensity of a sexual response derived from contempt; there is biological
urgency, excitement, anger, irritation, a tension that is satisfied in humiliating and
belittling the inferior one, in words, in acts. ***
We wonder, with a tendentious ignorance, how it is that people believe bizarre and
transparently false philosophies of biological superiority. One answer is that when
racist ideologies are sexualized, turned into concrete scenarios of dominance and
submission such that they give people sexual pleasure, the sexual feelings in
themselves make the ideologies seem biologically true and inevitable. The feelings
seem to be natural; no argument changes the feelings; and the ideologies, then, also
seem to be based in nature. People defend the sexual feelings by defending the
ideologies. They say: my feelings are natural so if I have an orgasm from hurting you,
or feel excited just by thinking about it, you are my natural partner in these feelings
and events‐‐your natural role is whatever intensifies my sexual arousal, which I
experience as self‐importance, or potency; you are nothing but you are my nothing,
which makes me someone; using you is my right because being someone means that I
have the power‐‐the social power, the economic power, the imperial sovereignty‐‐to
do to you or with you what I want.
This phenomenon of feeling superior through a sexually reified racism is always
sadistic; its purpose is always to hurt. Sadism is a dynamic in every expression of hate
speech. In the use of a racial epithet directed at a person, for instance, there is a desire
to hurt‐‐to intimidate, to humiliate; these is an underlying dimension of pushing
someone down, subordinating them, making them less. When that hate speech
becomes fully sexualized‐‐for instance, in the systematic reality of the pornography
industry‐‐a whole class of people exists in order to provide sexual pleasure and a
synonymous sense of superiority to another group, in this case men, when that
happens, we dare not tolerate that being called freedom.
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The problem for women is that being hurt is ordinary. It happens every day, all the
time, somewhere to someone, in every neighborhood, on every street, in intimacy, in
crowds; women are being hurt. We count ourselves lucky when we are only being
humiliated and insulted. We count ourselves goddamn lucky when whatever happens
falls short of rape. Those who have been beaten in marriage (a euphemism for
torture) also have a sense of what luck is. We are always happy when something less
bad happens than what we had thought possible or even likely, and we tell ourselves
that if we do not settle for the less bad there is something wrong with us. It is time for
us to stop that.
When one thinks about women's ordinary lives and the lives of children, especially
female children, it is very hard not to think that one is looking at atrocity‐‐if one's eyes
are open. We have to accept that we are looking at ordinary life; the hurt is not
exceptional; rather, it is systematic and it is real. Our culture accepts it, defends it,
punishes us for resisting it. The hurt, the pushing down, the sexualized cruelty, are
intended; they are not accidents or mistakes.
Pornography plays a big part in normalizing the ways in which we are demeaned and
attacked, in how humiliating and insulting us is made to look natural and inevitable.
I would like you especially to think about these things. Number one: pornographers
use our bodies as their language. Anything they say, they have to use us to say. They
do not have that right. They must not have that right. Number two: constitutionally
protecting pornography as if it were speech means that there is a new way in which
we are legally chattel. If the Constitution protects pornography as speech, our bodies
then belong to the pimps who need to use us to say something. They, the humans,
have a human right of speech and the dignity of constitutional protection; we, chattel
now, moveable property, are their ciphers, their semantic symbols, the pieces they
arrange in order to communicate. We are recognized only as the discourse of a pimp.
The Constitution is on the side it has always been on: the side of the profit‐making
property owner even when his property is a person defined as property because of
the collusion between law and money, law and power. The Constitution is not ours
unless it works for us, especially in providing refuge from exploiters and momentum
toward human dignity. Number three: pornography uses those who in the United
States were left out of the Constitution. Pornography uses white women, who were
chattel. Pornography uses African‐American women, who were slaves. Pornography
uses stigmatized men; for instance, African‐American men, who were slaves, are often
sexualized by contemporary pornographers as animalistic rapists. Pornography is not
made up of old white men. It isn't. Nobody comes on them. They are doing this to us;
or protecting those who do this to us. They do benefit from it; and we do have to stop
them.
Think about how marriage controlled women, how women were property under the
law; this did not begin to change until the early years of the twentieth century. Think
about the control the Church had over women. Think about what a resistance has
been going on, and all the trouble you have made for these men who took for granted
that you belonged to them. And think about pornography as a new institution of social
control, a democratic use of terrorism against all women, a way of saying publicly to
every woman who walks down the street: avert your eyes (a sign of second‐class
citizenship), look down, bitch, because when you look up you're going to see a picture
of yourself being hung, you're going to see your legs spread open. That is what you are
going to see.
Pornography tells us that the will of women is to be used. And I just want to say that
the antipornography civil‐rights ordinance that Catharine MacKinnon and I developed
in Minneapolis says that the will of women is not to be used; the Ordinance repudiates
the premises of the pornography; its eventual use will show in the affirmative that
women want equality.
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Please note that the Ordinance was developed in Minneapolis, and that its twin city, St.
Paul, passed a strong city ordinance against hate crimes; the courts struck down both.
I want you to understand that there are some serious pornographers in Minneapolis
and some serious racists in St. Paul and some serious citizens in both cities who want
the pornography and the racism to stop. The Ordinance that Catharine and I drafted
came out of that political culture, a grass‐roots, participatory political culture that did
not want to tolerate either kind of cruelty toward people.
In the fall of 1983, Catharine and I were asked by a group of neighborhood activists to
testify at a local zoning committee meeting. The group represented an area of
Minneapolis that was primarily African‐American, with a small poor‐white
population. The City Council kept zoning pornography into their neighborhood. For
seven years they had been fighting a host of zoning laws and zoning strategies that
allowed pornography to destroy the quality of life around them. The city could write
off their neighborhood and others like it because they mostly were not white and they
mostly were poor; the pornography was purposefully put in such places and kept out
of wealthier, whiter neighborhoods.
These activists came to us and said: we know now that the issue here is woman‐
hating. That is virtually a direct quote: we know now that the issue here is woman‐
hating. And we want to do something about it. What can we do?
They knew what to do. The organized MacKinnon and me, that's for sure; and they
organized the City of Minneapolis. The whole city was organized on a grass‐roots level
to stand against the woman‐hating in pornography. That was our mandate when we
drafted the antipornography civil‐rights law; and constituencies of poor people,
people of color, were organized in behalf of the lives of women in those communities.
A city in the United States was organized by an ever expanding feminist wave of
political workers that brought in working class women, current and former
prostitutes, academics, out and visible lesbians, students, and, inter alia, a small army
of sexual‐abuse victims, to demand passage of an amendment to the municipal civil‐
rights law that recognized pornography as sex discrimination, as a violation of the
civil rights of women. This amendment, which MacKinnon and I later redrafted to be a
free‐standing statute, is commonly called "the Ordinance."
The Ordinance got the massive, committed, excited support it did because it is fair,
because it is honest, and because it is on the side of those who have been
disenfranchised and oppressed. People mobilized‐‐not from the top down but from
the bottom up‐‐to support the Ordinance because it does stand directly in the way of
the woman‐hating in pornography: the bigotry, the hostility, the aggression, that
exploits and targets women. It does this by changing our perceptions of the will of
women. It destroys the authority of the pornographers on that subject by putting a
law, dignity, real power, meaningful citizenship, in the hands of the women they hurt.
No matter how she is despised in the pornography or by the pornographers and their
clients, she is respected by this law. Using the Ordinance, women get to say to the
pimps and the johns: we are not your colony; you do not own us as if we are territory;
my will as expressed through my use of this ordinance is, I don't want it, I don't like it,
pain hurts, coercion isn't sexy, I resist being someone else's speech, I reject
subordination, I speak, I speak for myself now, I am going into court to speak‐‐to you;
and you will listen.
We wanted a law that repudiates what happens to women when pornography
happens to women. In general, the legal system's misogyny mimics the
pornographers'; abstractly we can call it gender bias, but the legal system
incorporates an almost visceral hatred of women's bodies, as if we exist to provoke
assaults, like them, lie about them‐‐and are not really injured by them. I have a
character in Mercy‐‐named Andrea‐‐who says that you have to be clean to go before
the law. **** Now, no women are clean, or clean enough. That is what we find out
every time we try to prosecute a rape; we're not clean.
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But certainly the women who have been turned into pornography are not clean, and
the women being sold on street corners are not clean, and the women who are being
battered and pornographized in their homes are not clean. When a woman uses this
Ordinance‐‐if a woman ever gets a chance to use this Ordinance‐‐she will not need to
be clean to say, with dignity and authority, I am someone, therefore I resist.
When the Minneapolis City Council passed this Ordinance they said, women are
someone, women matter, women want to fight back, we will give them what they
want. The Minneapolis City Council had an idea of the will of women that contradicted
the pornographers'; they got that different idea from the women who came to testify
for the Ordinance, especially those who had grounds to use the Ordinance. The
Ordinance's clarity and authority derive from the flesh‐and‐blood experiences of
women who want to use it: women whose lives have been savaged by pornography.
The Ordinance expresses their will to resist, and the enormous strength, translated
into a legal right, of their capacity to endure, to survive.
The woman using the Ordinance will be saying, I am someone who has endured, I
have survived, I matter, I know a lot, and what I know matters; it matters, and it is
going to matter here in court, you pimp, because I am going to use what I know
against you; and you Mr. Consumer, I know about you, and I am going to use what I
know even about you, even when you are my teacher, even when you are my father,
even when you are my lawyer, my doctor, my brother, my priest. I am going to use
what I know.
It was not a surprise to Catharine MacKinnon and myself when, after the Ordinance
was passed, the newspapers said‐‐aha, it was a rightwing, fundamentalist
achievement. They were saying to us, to MacKinnon and me, you are no one, you can't
exist, it could no have been your idea. And it was not a surprise to us when people
believed it. We did not like it, but it was not a surprise.
And when the court said to the injured women who wanted to use the Ordinance, you
are no one, the pimp is someone, he matters, we are going to protect him, it was not a
surprise. And when the court said, the consumer is someone, none of you women are
anyone no matter how much you have been hurt but he is someone and we are here
for him, that was not a surprise. And it was not a surprise when the court said to
women: when you assert your right to equality you are expressing an opinion, a point
of view, which we should be debating in the famous marketplace of ideas, not
legislating; when you claim you were injured‐‐that rape, that beating, that kidnapping‐
‐you have a viewpoint about it, but in and of itself the injury does not signify. And it
was not a surprise when the court said that there was a direct relationship between
pornography as defined in the Ordinance and injuries to women, including rape and
battery, but that relationship does not matter because the court has a viewpoint,
which happens to be the same as the pornographers': you women are not worth
anything except what we pay for you in that famous free marketplace where we take
your actual corporeal reality to be an idea.
None of this was a surprise. Every little tiny bit of it was an outrage.
We wrote the Ordinance for women who had been raped and beaten and prostituted
in and because of pornography. They wanted to use it to say, I am someone and I am
going to win. We are part of them, we have lived lives as women, we are not exempt or
separate from any of this. We wrote the Ordinance in behalf of our own lives, too.
I want to ask you to make certain that women will have a right and a chance to go into
a U.S. court of law and say: this is what the pornographers did to me, this is what they
took from me and I am taking it back, I am someone, I resist, I am in this court because
I resist, I reject their power, their arrogance, their cold‐blooded, cold‐hearted malice,
and I am going to win.
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You here today have to make that possible. It has been ten years now. It has been ten
years. Count the number of women who have been hurt in those ten years. Count how
many of us have been lucky enough to be only insulted and humiliated. Count. We
cannot wait another ten years; we need you, we need you now‐‐please, organize.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Pornography Happens to Women," copyright © 1993, 1994 by Andrea Dworkin. All
rights reserved. First published in The Price We Pay: The Case Against Racist Speech,
Hate Propaganda, and Pornography, Laura Lederer and Richard Delgado, eds. (New
York: Hill and Wang, 1995).
82
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by
Andrea Dworkin
Part IV
THE NEW TERRORISM
It took a year to get this published in eviscerated form in Newsday, a Long Island, New
York, daily newspaper. Nearly four months later, The Los Angeles Times published
this version, closer to what I wrote. The manuscript is lost, so this is the most
complete version existing. In Ohio, Sisters of Justice destroy adult bookstores in
lightning attacks. In Minnesota, a few hundred women savage an adult bookstore and
destroy the stock. In California, in dozens of supermarkets, Hustler is saturated with
India ink month after month. In Canada, feminists are jailed for bombing an outlet of a
chain that sells video‐pornography. In Massachusetts, a woman shoots a bullet
through the window of a closed bookstore that sells pornography. A model of
nonviolent civil disobedience is the National Rampage Against Penthouse, organized
by the brilliant activists, Nikki Craft and Melissa Farley. Women invade bookstores,
especially B. Dalton, the largest distributor of Penthouse in the United States, and tear
up magazines until arrested. They tear up Playboy and Hustler too where they find
them. They claim this as protected political speech. They have been arrested in Des
Moines, Dubuque, Iowa City, Cedar Rapids, Cedar Falls, and Coralville, Iowa; Lincoln
and Omaha, Nebraska; Santa Cruz, Davis, and San Jose, California; Madison and Beloit,
Wisconsin; Minneapolis, Minnesota; St. Joseph, Missouri; Provincetown,
Massachusetts; Durham, North Carolina; Rock Island and Chicago, Illinois. One leaflet
says: "Next action is pending. We will not be Rehabilitated by jail."
Last February three women‐‐Linda Hand, Jane Quinn and Shell Wildwomoon‐‐entered
a store in Hartford, Conn., and poured human blood on books and films that depicted
the sexual abuse of women and children, as well as on an arsenal of metal‐studded
dildos and whips.
The store, "The Bare Facts," nominally sells lingerie. A "fantasy room" in the back
houses the above‐mentioned stock. Several times a year, on holidays, there is an open
house in the fantasy room. As the men drink champagne provided by the
management, female models strut and pose amidst the sexual paraphernalia in
lingerie that the male audience selects from the store's stock.
83
Hand, Quinn and Wildwomoon picketed the Christmas celebration. They tried to stop
the Valentine's Day party by spilling blood. They were charged with criminal mischief,
a felony that carries a possible five‐year sentence and $5000 fine, and criminal
trespass, a misdemeanor with a possible one‐year sentence.
The three conducted their own defense. They claimed that they had acted to prevent a
greater crime‐‐the sexual abuse of women and children; that the materials in question
contributed materially to sexual violence against women and children; that society
had a greater obligation to protect women's lives than dildos. In the great tradition of
civil disobedience, they placed the rights of people above the rights of property. This
was the first time ever that such a defense was put forth in behalf of women, against
pornography, in a court of law. They were acquitted.
I testified for the defense as an expert witness on pornography. For the first time, I
was under oath when asked whether, in my opinion, pornography is a cause of
violence against women.
I hate that question, because pornography is violence against women: the women
used in pornography. Not only is there a precise symmetry of values and behaviors in
pornography and in acts of forced sex and battery, but in a sex‐polarized society men
also learn about women and sex from pornography. The message is conveyed to men
that women enjoy being abused. Increasingly, research is proving that sex and
violence‐‐and the perception that females take pleasure in being abused, which is the
heart of pornography‐‐teach men both ambition and strategy.
But beyond the empirical research, there is the evidence of testimony: women coming
forth, at least in the safety of feminist circles, to testify to the role that pornography
played in their own experiences of sexual abuse. One nineteen‐year‐old woman
testified at the Hartford trial that her father consistently used pornographic material
as he raped and tortured her over a period of years. She also told of a network of her
father's friends, including doctors and lawyers, who abused her and other children.
One of these doctors treated the children to avoid being exposed.
Stories such as these are not merely bizarre and sensational; they are beginning to
appear in feminist literature with increasing frequency. To dismiss them is to dismiss
the lives of the victims.
The refusal, especially among liberals, to believe that pornography has any real
relationship to sexual violence is astonishing. Liberals have always believed in the
value and importance of education. But when it comes to pornography, we are asked
to believe that nothing pornographic, whether written or visual, has an educative
effect on anyone. A recognition that pornography must teach something does not
imply any inevitable conclusion: it does not per se countenance censorship. It does,
however, demand that we pay some attention to the quality of life, to the content of
pornography.
And it especially demands that when sexual violence against women is epidemic,
serious questions be asked about the function and value of material that advocates
such violence and makes it synonymous with pleasure.
Is it "prudish," "repressive," "censorious" or "fascistic" to demand that "human rights"
include the rights of women, or to insist that women who are being raped, beaten or
forced into prostitution are being denied fundamental human rights? Are the
advocates of freedom really concerned only for the freedom of the abusers?
We in the United States are so proud of our freedom, but women in the United States
have lost ground, not gained it, even in controlling sexual access to our own bodies.
This is the system of power in which rape within marriage is considered a crime in
only three states (New Jersey, Nebraska and Oregon). This is the same system of
84
power that condones the pornography that exalts rape and gang rape, bondage,
whipping and forced sex of all kinds. In this same system of power, there are an
estimated twenty‐eight million battered wives. Where, after all, do those drunken men
go when they leave the porn shop's fantasy room? They go home to women and
children.
The women who poured human blood over the material in that Hartford shop faced
the true "bare facts": Pornography is dangerous and effective propaganda that incites
violence against easy targets‐‐women and children.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Pornography's Part in Sexual Violence," first published in abridged form under the
title, "The Real Obscenity of Pornography: It Causes Violence," in Newsday, Vol. 41, No.
151, February 3, 1981; then published in full under the current title in The Los
Angeles Times, May 26, 1981. Copyright © 1981 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights
reserved.
85
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by
Andrea Dworkin
Part IV
THE NEW TERRORISM
This was written as a speech, my part of a debate on pornography with civil liberties
lawyer and Harvard professor Alan Dershowitz, who recently went on the Penthouse
payroll but had no direct ties with the pornographers that I know of at the time of the
debate. The debate was sponsored by The Schlesinger Library for Women at Radcliffe
College, Cambridge, Massachusetts. In his autobiography, The Best Defense, Mr
Dershowitz claims that he was threatened during the course of the debate by lesbians
with bicycle chains. He wasn't; there were no bicycle chains and no threats. He
continuously insulted the audience of mostly women and they talked back to him with
loud and angry eloquence. The ACLU defends the "heckler's veto"‐‐the right of
hecklers to shout a speaker down; but when women answer misogynist insults with
cogent, self‐respecting speech, Mr. Dershowitz doesn't like speech so much anymore.
Even though he has spent years defending the pornographers in the name of
principled free speech, he suppressed the tape of the debate by refusing to give
permission for its distribution. This piece has never been published before.
We live in a system of power that is male‐supremacist. This means that society is
organized on the assumption that men are superior to women and that women are
inferior to men. Male supremacy is regarded as being either divine or natural,
depending on the proclivities of the apologist for it. Theologically, God is the supreme
male, the Father, and the men of flesh and blood one might meet on the streets or in
the corridors of universities are created in His image. There is also a divine though
human though divine Son, and a phallic Holy Ghost who penetrates women as light
penetrates a window. In both Jewish and Christian tradition, women are dirty,
inclined to evil, not fit for the responsibilities of religious or civil citizenship, should be
seen and not heard, are destined, or predestined as it were, for sexual use and
reproduction and have no other value. Also, in both traditions (which are Father and
Son respectively), the sexuality of women is seen as intrinsically seductive and
sluttish, by its nature a provocation to which men respond. In theological terms, men
are superior and women inferior because God/He made it so, giving women a nature
appropriate to their animal functions and men a nature with capacities that raise them
above all other creatures.
The biological argument is even sillier, but because it is secular and university‐
sponsored, it has more credibility among intellectuals. Throughout patriarchal
history, not just now, biological determinists have made two essential claims: first,
that male superiority to women resides in an organ or a fluid or a secretion or a not‐
yet‐discovered but urgently anticipated speck on a gene; and second, that we should
study primates, fish, and insects to see how they manage, especially with their women.
Sociobiologists and ethologists, the latest kinds of biological determinists, are
selective in the species they study and the conclusions they draw because their
86
argument is political, not scientific. The male, they say, regardless of what bug they
are observing, is naturally superior because he is naturally dominant because he is
naturally aggressive and so are his sperm; the female is naturally compliant and
naturally submissive and exists in order to be fucked and bear babies. Now, fish do not
reproduce through fucking; but that did not stop Konrad Lorenz's followers from
holding up the cichlid as an example to the human woman. The cichlid is a prehistoric
fish, and according to Lorenz the male cichlids could not mate unless the female
cichlids demonstrated awe. Kate Millett wonders in Sexual Politics how one measures
awe in a fish. But biological determinists do not wait around to answer such silly
questions: they jump from species to species as suits their political purposes. And of
course there are species they do avoid: spiders, praying mantises, and camels, for
instance, since the females of these species kill or maim the male after intercourse.
Biological determinists do not find such behaviors instructive. They love the gall wasp,
which they have affectionately nicknamed the "killer wasp"‐‐so one gets an idea of its
character‐‐and they do not pay much attention to the bee, what with its queen. There
are also relatively egalitarian primates who never get a mention, and male penguins
that care for the young, and so forth. And of course, no biological determinist has yet
found the bug, fish, fowl, or even baboon who had managed to write Middlemarch.
Humans create culture; even women create culture. "Sociobiology" or "ethology" may
be new words, but biological arguments for the superiority of one group over another
are not new. They are as old as genocide and slave labor. If women are held to be a
natural class that exists to be fucked and to bear babies, then any method used to get
women to do what they exist to do is also natural. And‐‐to add insult to injury‐‐they
dare call it Mother Nature.
The biological determinists believe precisely what the theologians believe: that
women exist to be sexually used by men, to reproduce, to keep the cave clean, and to
obey; failing which both men of religion and men of nature hypothesize that hitting
the female might solve her problem. In theological terms, God raised man above all
other creatures; in biological terms, man raised himself. In both systems of thought,
man is at the top, where he belongs; woman is under him, literally and figuratively,
where she belongs.
Every area of conflict regarding the rights of women ultimately boils down to the
same issue: what are women for; to what use should women be put‐‐sexually and
reproductively. A society will be concerned that the birth rate is not high enough, but
not that there is a paucity of books produced by women. For women as a class, sex and
reproduction are presumed to be the very essence of life, which means that our fate
unfolds in the opening of our thighs and the phallic penetration of our bodies and the
introjection of sperm into our vaginas and the appropriation of our uteruses. In The
Dialectic of Sex, Shulamith Firestone wrote: "Sex class is so deep as to be invisible."
That is because sex class is seen as the work of God or nature, not men; and so the
possession of women's bodies by men is considered to be the correct and proper use
of women.
In male‐supremacist terms, sex is phallic sex; it is often called possession or conquest
or taking. A woman's body is taken or conquered or possessed or‐‐to use another
supposedly sexy synonym‐‐violated; and the means of the taking or possessing or
violating is penile penetration.
The sexual colonialization of women's bodies is a material reality: men control the
sexual and reproductive uses of women's bodies. In this system of male power, rape is
the paradigmatic sexual act. The word "rape" comes from the Latin rapere, which
means to steal, seize, or carry away. The first dictionary definition of rape is still "the
act of seizing and carrying off by force." A second meaning of rape is "the act of
physically forcing a woman to have sexual intercourse." Rape is first abduction,
kidnapping, the taking of a woman by force. Kidnapping, or rape, is also the first
known form of marriage‐‐called "marriage by capture." The second known form of
marriage is basically prostitution: a father, rather than allow the theft of his daughter,
87
sells her. Most social arrangements for the exchange of women operate on one ancient
model or the other: stealing, which is rape; or buying and selling, which is
prostitution.
The relationship of prostitution to rape is simple and direct: whatever can be stolen
can be sold. This means that women were both stolen and sold and in both cases were
sexual commodities; and when practices were codified into laws, women were defined
as sexual chattel. Women are still basically viewed as sexual chattel‐‐socially, legally,
culturally, and in practice. Rape and prostitution are central contemporary female
experiences; women as a class are seen as belonging to men as a class and are
systematically kept subservient to men; married women in most instances have lost
sexual and reproductive control of their own bodies, which is what it means to be
sexual chattel.
The principle that whatever can be stolen can be sold applies not only to women as
such, but also to the sexuality of women. The sexuality of women has been stolen
outright, appropriated by men‐‐conquered, possessed, taken, violated; women have
been systematically and absolutely denied the right to sexual self‐determination and
to sexual integrity; and because the sexuality of women has been stolen, this sexuality
itself, it‐‐as distinguished from an individual woman as a sentient being‐‐it can be
sold. It can be represented pictorially and sold; the idea or suggestion of it can be sold;
representations of it in words can be sold; signs and gestures that denote it can be
sold. Men can take this sexuality‐‐steal it, rape it‐‐and men can pimp it.
We do not know when in history pornography as such first appeared. We do know
that it is a product of culture, specifically male‐supremacist culture, and that it comes
after both rape and prostitution. Pornography can only develop in a society that is
viciously male‐supremacist, one in which rape and prostitution are not only well‐
established but systematically practiced and ideologically endorsed. Feminists are
often asked whether pornography causes rape. The fact is that rape and prostitution
caused and continue to cause pornography. Politically, culturally, socially, sexually,
and economically, rape and prostitution generated pornography; and pornography
depends for its continued existence on the rape and prostitution of women.
The word pornography comes from the ancient Greek porne and graphos: it means
"the graphic depiction of whores." Porne means "whore," specifically the lowest class
of whore, which in ancient Greece was the brothel slut available to all male citizens.
There were distinct classes of prostitutes in ancient Greece: the porne was the sexual
cow. She was, simply and clearly and absolutely, a sexual slave. Graphos means
"writing, etching, or drawing."
The whores called porneia were captive in brothels, which were designated as such by
huge phalluses painted on or constructed near the door. They were not allowed out,
were never educated, were barely dressed, and in general were miserably treated;
they were the sexual garbage of Greek society. Wives were kept in nearly absolute
isolation, allowed the company of slaves and young children only. High‐class
prostitutes, a class distinct from the porneia and from wives both, had the only
freedom of movement accorded women, and were the only educated women.
Two very significant words originated in the ancient Greece many of us revere:
democracy and pornography. Democracy from its beginnings excluded all women and
some men. Pornography from its beginnings justified and promoted this exclusion of
all women by presenting the sexuality of all women as the sexuality of the brothel slut.
The brothel slut and the sexuality of the brothel slut had been stolen and sold‐‐raped
and prostituted; and the rape and prostitution of that captive and degraded being with
her captive and degraded sexuality is precisely the sexual content of pornography. In
pornography, the will of the chattel whore is synonymous with her function: she is
purely for sex and her function is defined as her nature and her will. The isolation of
wives was based on the conviction that women were so sexually voracious on male
88
terms that wives could not be let out‐‐or they would naturally turn whorish. The
chattel whore was the natural woman, the woman without the civilizing discipline of
marriage. The chattel whore, of course, as we know, was the product of the civilizing
discipline of slavery, but men did not then and do not now see it that way.
Pornography illustrated and expressed this valuation of women and women's
sexuality, and that is why it was named pornography‐‐"the graphic depiction of
whores." Depicting women as whores and the sexuality of women as sluttish is what
pornography does. Its job in the politically coercive and cruel system of male
supremacy is to justify and perpetuate the rape and prostitution from which it
springs. This is its function, which makes it incompatible with any notion of freedom,
unless one sees freedom as the right of men to rape and prostitute women.
Pornography as a genre says that the stealing and buying and selling of women are not
acts of force or abuse because women want to be raped and prostituted because that
is the nature of women and the nature of female sexuality. Gloria Steinem has said that
culture is successful politics. As a cultural phenomenon, pornography is the political
triumph of rape and prostitution over all female rebellion and resistance.
A piece of Greek pornography may have been a drawing on a vase or an etching. No
live model was required to make it; no specific sexual act had to be committed in
order for it to exist. Rape, prostitution, battery, pornography, and other sex‐based
abuse could be conceptualized as separate phenomena. In real life, of course, they
were all mixed together: a woman was beaten, then raped; raped, then beaten, then
prostituted; prostituted, then beaten, then raped; and so on. As far back as we know,
whorehouses have provided live sex shows in which, necessarily, pornography and
prostitution were one and the same thing. We know that the world's foremost
pornographer, the Marquis de Sade, tortured, raped, imprisoned, beat, and bought
women and girls. We know that influential male thinkers and artists who enthused
about rape or prostitution or battery had, in many cases, raped or bought or battered
women or girls and were also users and often devotees of pornography. We know that
when the technical means of graphic depiction were limited to writing, etching, and
drawing, pornography was mostly an indulgence of upper‐class men, who were
literate and who had money to spend on the almost always expensive etchings,
drawings, and writings. We know that pornography flourished as an upper‐class male
pleasure when the power of upper‐class men knew virtually no limitation, certainly
with regard to women: in feudal societies, for instance. But in societies that did not
find much to oppose in the rape and prostitution of women, there were certainly no
inquiries, no investigations, no political or philosophical or scientific searches, into the
role pornography played in acts of forced sex or battery. When pornography was in
fact writing, etching, or drawing, it was possible to consider it something exclusively
cultural, something on paper not in life, and even partly esthetic or intellectual. Such a
view was not accurate, but it was possible. Since the invention of the camera, any such
view of pornography is completely despicable and corrupt. Those are real women
being tied and hung, gutted and trounced on, whipped and pissed on, gang‐banged
and hit, penetrated by dangerous objects and by animals. It is important to note that
men have not found it necessary‐‐not legally, not morally, not sexually‐‐to make
distinctions between drawing and writing on the one hand and the use of live women
on the other. Where is the visceral outcry, the famous humanist outcry, against the
tying and hanging and chaining and bruising and beating of women? Where is the
visceral recognition, the humanist recognition, that it is impossible and inconceivable
to tolerate‐‐let alone to sanction or to apologize for‐‐the tying and hanging and
chaining and bruising and beating of women? I am saying what no one should have to
say, which is simply that one does not do to human beings what is done to women in
pornography. And why are these things done to women in pornography? The reasons
men give are these: entertainment, fun, expression, sex, sexual pleasure, and because
the women want it.
Instead of any so‐called humanist outcry against the inhumanity of the use of women
in pornography‐‐an outcry that we might expect if dogs or cats were being treated the
89
Now, some people are afraid that the world will be turned into a nuclear charnel
house; and so they fight the nuclear industries and lobbies; and they do not spend
significant amounts of their time debating whether the nuclear industries have the
right to threaten human life or not. Some people fear that the world is turning, place
by place, into a concentration camp; and so they fight for those who are hounded,
persecuted, tortured, and they do not suggest that the rights of those who persecute
supersede the rights of the persecuted in importance‐‐unless, of course, the
90
persecuted are only women and the torture is called "sex." Some feminists see the
world turning into a whorehouse‐‐how frivolous we always are‐‐a whorehouse, in
French maison d' abattage, which literally means "house of slaughter." Whorehouses
have been concentration camps for women. Women have been kept in them like caged
animals to do slave labor, sex labor, labor appropriate to the nature, function, and
sexuality of the chattel whore and her kind. The spread of pornography that uses live
women, real women, is the spread of the whorehouse, the concentration camp for
women, the house of sexual slaughter. Now I ask you: what are we going to do?
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Copyright © 1981 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
91
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part III
TAKE BACK THE DAY
I have thought a great deal about how a feminist, like myself, addresses an audience
primarily of political men who say that they are antisexist. And I thought a lot about
whether there should be a qualitative difference in the kind of speech I address to you.
And then I found myself incapable of pretending that I really believe that that
qualitative difference exists. I have watched the men's movement for many years. I am
close with some of the people who participate in it. I can't come here as a friend even
though I might very much want to. What I would like to do is to scream: and in that
scream I would have the screams of the raped, and the sobs of the battered; and even
worse, in the center of that scream I would have the deafening sound of women's
silence, that silence into which we are born because we are women and in which most
of us die.
And if there would be a plea or a question or a human address in that scream, it would
be this: why are you so slow? Why are you so slow to understand the simplest things;
not the complicated ideological things. You understand those. The simple things. The
cliches. Simply that women are human to precisely the degree and quality that you
are.
And also: that we do not have time. We women. We don't have forever. Some of us
don't have another week or another day to take time for you to discuss whatever it is
that will enable you to go out into those streets and do something. We are very close
92
to death. All women are. And we are very close to rape and we are very close to
beating. And we are inside a system of humiliation from which there is no escape for
us. We use statistics not to try to quantify the injuries, but to convince the world that
those injuries even exist. Those statistics are not abstractions. It is easy to say, "Ah, the
statistics, somebody writes them up one way and somebody writes them up another
way." That's true. But I hear about the rapes one by one by one by one by one, which is
also how they happen. Those statistics are not abstract to me. Every three minutes a
woman is being raped. Every eighteen seconds a woman is being beaten. There is
nothing abstract about it. It is happening right now as I am speaking.
And it is happening for a simple reason. There is nothing complex and difficult about
the reason. Men are doing it, because of the kind of power that men have over women.
That power is real, concrete, exercised from one body to another body, exercised by
someone who feels he has a right to exercise it, exercised in public and exercised in
private. It is the sum and substance of women's oppression.
It is not done 5000 miles away or 3000 miles away. It is done here and it is done now
and it is done by the people in this room as well as by other contemporaries: our
friends, our neighbors, people that we know. Women don't have to go to school to
learn about power. We just have to be women, walking down the street or trying to
get the housework done after having given one's body in marriage and then having no
rights over it.
The power exercised by men day to day in life is power that is institutionalized. It is
protected by law. It is protected by religion and religious practice. It is protected by
universities, which are strongholds of male supremacy. It is protected by a police
force. It is protected by those whom Shelley called "the unacknowledged legislators of
the world": the poets, the artists. Against that power, we have silence.
It is an extraordinary thing to try to understand and confront why it is that men
believe‐‐and men do believe‐‐that they have the right to rape. Men may not believe it
when asked. Everybody raise your hand who believes you have the right to rape. Not
too many hands will go up. It's in life that men believe they have the right to force sex,
which they don't call rape. And it is an extraordinary thing to try to understand that
men really believe that they have the right to hit and to hurt. And it is an equally
extraordinary thing to try to understand that men really believe that they have the
right to buy a woman's body for the purpose of having sex: that that is a right. And it is
very amazing to try to understand that men believe that the seven‐billion‐dollar‐a‐
year industry that provides men with cunts is something that men have a right to.
That is the way the power of men is manifest in real life. That is what theory about
male supremacy means. It means you can rape. It means you can hit. It means you can
hurt. It means you can buy and sell women. It means that there is a class of people
there to provide you with what you need. You stay richer than they are, so that they
have to sell you sex. Not just on street corners, but in the workplace. That's another
right that you can presume to have: sexual access to any woman in your environment,
when you want. Now, the men's movement suggests that men don't want the kind of
power I have just described. I've actually heard explicit whole sentences to that effect.
And yet, everything is a reason not to do something about changing the fact that you
do have that power.
Hiding behind guilt, that's my favorite. I love that one. Oh, it's horrible, yes, and I'm so
sorry. You have the time to feel guilty. We don't have the time for you to feel guilty.
Your guilt is a form of acquiescence in what continues to occur. Your guilt helps keep
things the way they are.
I have heard in the last several years a great deal about the suffering of men over
sexism. Of course, I have heard a great deal about the suffering of men all my life.
Needless to say, I have read Hamlet. I have read King Lear. I am an educated woman. I
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know that men suffer. This is a new wrinkle. Implicit in the idea that this is a different
kind of suffering is the claim, I think, that in part you are actually suffering because of
something that you know happens to someone else. That would indeed be new.
But mostly your guilt, your suffering, reduces to: gee, we really feel so bad. Everything
makes men feel so bad: what you do, what you don't do, what you want to do, what
you don't want to want to do but are going to do anyway. I think most of your distress
is: gee, we really feel so bad. And I'm sorry that you feel so bad‐‐so uselessly and
stupidly bad‐‐because there is a way in which this really is your tragedy. And I don't
mean because you can't cry. And I don't mean because there is no real intimacy in
your lives. And I don't mean because the armor that you have to live with as men is
stultifying: and I don't doubt that it is. But I don't mean any of that.
I mean that there is a relationship between the way that women are raped and your
socialization to rape and the war machine that grinds you up and spits you out: the
war machine that you go through just like that woman went through Larry Flynt's
meat grinder on the cover of Hustler. You damn well better believe that you're
involved in this tragedy and that it's your tragedy too. Because you're turned into little
soldier boys from the day that you are born and everything that you learn about how
to avoid the humanity of women becomes part of the militarism of the country in
which you live and the world in which you live. It is also part of the economy that you
frequently claim to protest.
And the problem is that you think it's out there: and it's not out there. It's in you. The
pimps and the warmongers speak for you. Rape and war are not so different. And
what the pimps and the warmongers do is that they make you so proud of being men
who can get it up and give it hard. And they take that acculturated sexuality and they
put you in little uniforms and they send you out to kill and to die. Now, I am not going
to suggest to you that I think that's more important than what you do to women,
because I don't.
But I think that if you want to look at what this system does to you, then that is where
you should start looking: the sexual politics of aggression; the sexual politics of
militarism. I think that men are very afraid of other men. That is something that you
sometimes try to address in your small groups, as if if you changed your attitudes
towards each other, you wouldn't be afraid of each other.
But as long as your sexuality has to do with aggression and your sense of entitlement
to humanity has to do with being superior to other people, and there is so much
contempt and hostility in your attitudes towards women and children, how could you
not be afraid of each other? I think that you rightly perceive‐‐without being willing to
face it politically‐‐that men are very dangerous: because you are.
The solution of the men's movement to make men less dangerous to each other by
changing the way you touch and feel each other is not a solution. It's a recreational
break.
These conferences are also concerned with homophobia. Homophobia is very
important: it is very important to the way male supremacy works. In my opinion, the
prohibitions against male homosexuality exist in order to protect male power. Do it to
her. That is to say: as long as men rape, it is very important that men be directed to
rape women. As long as sex is full of hostility and expresses both power over and
contempt for the other person, it is very important that men not be declassed,
stigmatized as female, used similarly. The power of men as a class depends on keeping
men sexually inviolate and women sexually used by men. Homophobia helps maintain
that class power: it also helps keep you as individuals safe from each other, safe from
rape. If you want to do something about homophobia, you are going to have to do
something about the fact that men rape, and that forced sex is not incidental to male
sexuality but is in practice paradigmatic.
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Some of you are very concerned about the rise of the Right in this country, as if that is
something separate from the issues of feminism or the men's movement. There is a
cartoon I saw that brought it all together nicely. It was a big picture of Ronald Reagan
as a cowboy with a big hat and a gun. And it said: "A gun in every holster; a pregnant
woman in every home. Make America a man again." Those are the politics of the Right.
If you are afraid of the ascendancy of fascism in this country‐‐and you would be very
foolish not to be right now‐‐then you had better understand that the root issue here
has to do with male supremacy and the control of women; sexual access to women;
women as reproductive slaves; private ownership of women. That is the program of
the Right. That is the morality they talk about. That is what they mean. That is what
they want. And the only opposition to them that matters is an opposition to men
owning women.
What's involved in doing something about all of this? The men's movement seems to
stay stuck on two points. The first is that men don't really feel very good about
themselves. How could you? The second is that men come to me or to other feminists
and say: "What you're saying about men isn't true. It isn't true of me. I don't feel that
way. I'm opposed to all of this."
And I say: don't tell me. Tell the pornographers. Tell the pimps. Tell the warmakers.
Tell the rape apologists and the rape celebrationists and the pro‐rape ideologues. Tell
the novelists who think that rape is wonderful. Tell Larry Flynt. Tell Hugh Hefner.
There's no point in telling me. I'm only a woman. There's nothing I can do about it.
These men presume to speak for you. They are in the public arena saying that they
represent you. If they don't, then you had better let them know.
Then there is the private world of misogyny: what you know about each other; what
you say in private life; the exploitation that you see in the private sphere; the
relationships called love, based on exploitation. It's not enough to find some traveling
feminist on the road and go up to her and say: "Gee, I hate it."
Say it to your friends who are doing it. And there are streets out there on which you
can say these things loud and dear, so as to affect the actual institutions that maintain
these abuses. You don't like pornography? I wish I could believe it's true. I will believe
it when I see you on the streets. I will believe it when I see an organized political
opposition. I will believe it when pimps go out of business because there are no more
male consumers.
You want to organize men. You don't have to search for issues. The issues are part of
the fabric of your everyday lives.
I want to talk to you about equality, what equality is and what it means. It isn't just an
idea. It's not some insipid word that ends up being bullshit. It doesn't have anything at
all to do with all those statements like: "Oh, that happens to men too." I name an abuse
and I hear: "Oh, it happens to men too." That is not the equality we are struggling for.
We could change our strategy and say: well, okay, we want equality; we'll stick
something up the ass of a man every three minutes.
You've never heard that from the feminist movement, because for us equality has real
dignity and importance‐‐it's not some dumb word that can be twisted and made to
look stupid as if it had no real meaning.
As a way of practicing equality, some vague idea about giving up power is useless.
Some men have vague thoughts about a future in which men are going to give up
power or an individual man is going to give up some kind of privilege that he has. That
is not what equality means either.
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Equality is a practice. It is an action. It is a way of life. It is a social practice. It is an
economic practice. It is a sexual practice. It can't exist in a vacuum. You can't have it in
your home if, when the people leave the home, he is in a world of his supremacy based
on the existence of his cock and she is in a world of humiliation and degradation
because she is perceived to be inferior and because her sexuality is a curse.
This is not to say that the attempt to practice equality in the home doesn't matter. It
matters, but it is not enough. If you love equality, if you believe in it, if it is the way you
want to live‐‐not just men and women together in a home, but men and men together
in a home and women and women together in a home‐‐if equality is what you want
and what you care about, then you have to fight for the institutions that will make it
socially real.
It is not just a matter of your attitude. You can't think it and make it exist. You can't try
sometimes, when it works to your advantage, and throw it out the rest of the time.
Equality is a discipline. It is a way of life. It is a political necessity to create equality in
institutions. And another thing about equality is that it cannot coexist with rape. It
cannot. And it cannot coexist with pornography or with prostitution or with the
economic degradation of women on any level, in any way. It cannot coexist, because
implicit in all those things is the inferiority of women.
I want to see this men's movement make a commitment to ending rape because that is
the only meaningful commitment to equality. It is astonishing that in all our worlds of
feminism and antisexism we never talk seriously about ending rape. Ending it.
Stopping it. No more. No more rape. In the back of our minds, are we holding on to its
inevitability as the last preserve of the biological? Do we think that it is always going
to exist no matter what we do? All of our political actions are lies if we don't make a
commitment to ending the practice of rape. This commitment has to be political. It has
to be serious. It has to be systematic. It has to be public. It can't be self‐indulgent.
The things the men's movement has wanted are things worth having. Intimacy is
worth having. Tenderness is worth having. Cooperation is worth having. A real
emotional life is worth having. But you can't have them in a world with rape. Ending
homophobia is worth doing. But you can't do it in a world with rape. Rape stands in
the way of each and every one of those things you say you want. And by rape you
know what I mean. A judge does not have to walk into this room and say that
according to statute such and such these are the elements of proof. We're talking
about any kind of coerced sex, including sex coerced by poverty.
You can't have equality or tenderness or intimacy as long as there is rape, because
rape means terror. It means that part of the population lives in a state of terror and
pretends‐‐to please and pacify you‐‐that it doesn't. So there is no honesty. How can
there be? Can you imagine what it is like to live as a woman day in and day out with
the threat of rape? Or what it is like to live with the reality? I want to see you use those
legendary bodies and that legendary strength and that legendary courage and the
tenderness that you say you have in behalf of women; and that means against the
rapists, against the pimps, and against the pornographers. It means something more
than a personal renunciation. It means a systematic, political, active, public attack. And
there has been very little of that.
I came here today because I don't believe that rape is inevitable or natural. If I did, I
would have no reason to be here. If I did, my political practice would be different than
it is. Have you ever or with the economic degradation of women on any level, in any
way. It cannot coexist, because implicit in all those things is the inferiority of women. I
want to see this men's movement make a commitment to ending rape because that is
the only meaningful commitment to equality. It is astonishing that in all our worlds of
feminism and antisexism we never talk seriously about ending rape. Ending it.
Stopping it. No more. No more rape. In the back of our minds, are we holding on to its
inevitability as the last preserve of the biological? Do we think that it is always going
96
to exist no matter what we do? All of our political actions are lies if we don't make a
commitment to ending the practice of rape. This commitment has to be political. It has
to be serious. It has to be systematic. It has to be public. It can't be self‐indulgent. The
things the men's movement has wanted are things worth having. Intimacy is worth
having. Tenderness is worth having. Cooperation is worth having. A real emotional life
is worth having. But you can't have them in a world with rape. Ending homophobia is
worth doing. But you can't do it in a world with rape. Rape stands in the way of each
and every one of those things you say you want. And by rape you know what I mean. A
judge does not have to walk into this room and say that according to statute such and
such these are the elements of proof. We're talking about any kind of coerced sex,
including sex coerced by poverty. You can't have equality or tenderness or intimacy as
long as there is rape, because rape means terror. It means that part of the population
lives in a state of terror and pretends‐‐to please and pacify you‐‐that it doesn't. So
there is no honesty. How can there be ? Can you imagine what it is like to live as a
woman day in and day out with the threat of rape? Or what it is like to live with the
reality? I want to see you use those legendary bodies and that legendary strength and
that legendary courage and the tenderness that you say you have in behalf of women;
and that means against the rapists, against the pimps, and against the pornographers.
It means something more than a personal renunciation. It means a systematic,
political, active, public attack. And there has been very little of that.
I came here today because I don't believe that rape is inevitable or natural. If I did, I
would have no reason to be here. If I did, my political practice would be different than
it is. Have you ever wondered why we are not just in armed combat against you? It's
not because there's a shortage of kitchen knives in this country. It is because we
believe in your humanity, against all the evidence.
We do not want to do the work of helping you to believe in your humanity. We cannot
do it anymore. We have always tried. We have been repaid with systematic
exploitation and systematic abuse. You are going to have to do this yourselves from
now on and you know it.
The shame of men in front of women is, I think, an appropriate response both to what
men do do and to what men do not do. I think you should be ashamed. But what you
do with that shame is to use it as an excuse to keep doing what you want and to keep
not doing anything else; and you've got to stop. You've got to stop. Your psychology
doesn't matter. How much you hurt doesn't matter in the end any more than how
much we hurt matters. If we sat around and only talked about how much rape hurt us,
do you think there would have been one of the changes that you have seen in this
country in the last fifteen years? There wouldn't have been.
It is true that we had to talk to each other. How else, after all, were we supposed to
find out that each of us was not the only woman in the world not asking for it to whom
rape or battery had ever happened? We couldn't read it in the newspapers, not then.
We couldn't find a book about it. But you do know and now the question is what you
are going to do; and so your shame and your guilt are very much beside the point.
They don't matter to us at all, in any way. They're not good enough. They don't do
anything.
As a feminist, I carry the rape of all the women I've talked to over the past ten years
personally with me. As a woman, I carry my own rape with me. Do you remember
pictures that you've seen of European cities during the plague, when there were
wheelbarrows that would go along and people would just pick up corpses and throw
them in? Well, that is what it is like knowing about rape. Piles and piles and piles of
bodies that have whole lives and human names and human faces.
I speak for many feminists, not only myself, when I tell you that I am tired of what I
know and sad beyond any words I have about what has already been done to women
up to this point, now, up to 2:24 p.m. on this day, here in this place.
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And I want one day of respite, one day off, one day in which no new bodies are piled
up, one day in which no new agony is added to the old, and I am asking you to give it
to me. And how could I ask you for less‐‐it is so little. And how could you offer me less:
it is so little. Even in wars, there are days of truce. Go and organize a truce. Stop your
side for one day. I want a twenty‐four‐hour truce during which there is no rape.
I dare you to try it. I demand that you try it. I don't mind begging you to try it. What
else could you possibly be here to do? What else could this movement possibly mean?
What else could matter so much?
And on that day, that day of truce, that day when not one woman is raped, we will
begin the real practice of equality, because we can't begin it before that day. Before
that day it means nothing because it is nothing: it is not real; it is not true. But on that
day it becomes real. And then, instead of rape we will for the first time in our lives‐‐
both men and women‐‐begin to experience freedom. If you have a conception of
freedom that includes the existence of rape, you are wrong. You cannot change what
you say you want to change. For myself, I want to experience just one day of real
freedom before I die. I leave you here to do that for me and for the women whom you
say you love.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"I Want a Twenty‐Four Hour‐Truce During Which There Is No Rape," originally
published under the title "Talking to Men About Rape," in Out!, Vol. 2, No. 6, April
1984; then under the current title in M., No. 13, Fall 1984. Copyright © 1984 by
Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
98
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part I
TAKE BACK THE NIGHT
A Take Back the Night March goes right to our emotional core. We women are
especially supposed to be afraid of the night. The night promises harm to women. For
a woman to walk on the street at night is not only to risk abuse, but also‐‐according to
the values of male domination‐‐to ask for it. The woman who transgresses the
boundaries of night is an outlaw who breaks an elementary rule of civilized behavior:
a decent woman does not go out‐‐certainly not alone, certainly not only with other
women‐‐at night. A woman out in the night, not on a leash, is thought to be a slut or an
uppity bitch who does not know her place. The policemen of the night‐‐rapists and
other prowling men‐‐have the right to enforce the laws of the night: to stalk the
female and to punish her. We have all been chased, and many of us have been caught.
A woman who knows the rules of civilized society knows that she must hide from the
night. But even when the woman, like a good girl, locks herself up and in, night
threatens to intrude. Outside are the predators who will crawl in the windows, climb
down drainpipes, pick the locks, descend from skylights, to bring the night with them.
These predators are romanticized in, for instance, vampire movies. The predators
become mist and curl through barely visible cracks. They bring with them sex and
death. Their victims recoil, resist sex, resist death, until, overcome by the thrill of it all,
they spread their legs and bare their necks and fall in love. Once the victim has fully
submitted, the night holds no more terror, because the victim is dead. She is very
lovely, very feminine, and very dead. This is the essence of so‐called romance, which is
rape embellished with meaningful looks.
Night is the time of romance. Men, like their adored vampires, go a‐courting. Men,
like vampires, hunt. Night licenses so‐called romance and romance boils down to rape:
forced entry into the domicile which is sometimes the home, always the body and
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what some call the soul. The female is solitary and/or sleeping. The male drinks from
her until he is sated or until she is dead. The traditional flowers of courtship are the
traditional flowers of the grave, delivered to the victim before the kill. The cadaver is
dressed up and made up and laid down and ritually violated and consecrated to an
eternity of being used. All distinctions of will and personality are obliterated and we
are supposed to believe that the night, not the rapist, does the obliterating.
Men use the night to erase us. It was Casanova, whom men reckon an authority,
who wrote that "when the lamp is taken away, all women are alike." 1 The
annihilation of a woman's personality, individuality, will, character, is prerequisite to
male sexuality, and so the night is the sacred time of male sexual celebration because
it is dark and in the dark it is easier not to see: not to see who she is. Male sexuality,
drunk on its intrinsic contempt for all life, but especially for women's lives, can run
wild, hunt down random victims, use the dark for cover, find in the dark solace,
sanction, and sanctuary.
Night is magical for men. They look for prostitutes and pick‐ups at night. They do
their so‐called lovemaking at night. They get drunk and roam the streets in packs at
night. They fuck their wives at night. They have their fraternity parties at night. They
commit their so‐called seductions at night. They dress up in white sheets and burn
crosses at night. The infamous Crystal Night, when German Nazis firebombed and
vandalized and broke the windows of Jewish shops and homes throughout Germany‐‐
the Crystal Night, named after the broken glass that covered Germany when the night
had ended‐‐the Crystal Night, when the Nazis beat up or killed all the Jews they could
find, all the Jews who had not locked themselves in securely enough‐‐the Crystal Night
that foreshadowed the slaughter to come‐‐is the emblematic night. The values of the
day become the obsessions of the night. Any hated group fears the night, because in
the night all the despised are treated as women are treated: as prey, targeted to be
beaten or murdered or sexually violated. We fear the night because men become more
dangerous in the night.
In the United States, with its distinctly racist character, the very fear of the dark is
manipulated, often subliminally, into fear of black, of black men in particular, so that
the traditional association between rape and black men that is our national heritage is
fortified. In this context, the imagery of black night suggests that black is inherently
dangerous. In this context, the association of night, black men, and rape becomes an
article of faith. Night, the time of sex, becomes also the time of race‐‐racial fear and
racial hatred. The black male, in the South hunted at night to be castrated and/or
lynched, becomes in the racist United States the carrier of danger, the carrier of rape.
The use of a racially despised type of male as a scapegoat, a symbolic figure
embodying the sexuality of all men, is a common male‐supremacist strategy. Hitler did
the same to the Jewish male. In the urban United States, the prostitute population is
disproportionately made up of black women, streetwalkers who inhabit the night,
prototypical female figures, again scapegoats, symbols carrying the burden of male‐
defined female sexuality, of woman as commodity. And so, among the women, night is
the time of sex and also of race: racial exploitation and sexual exploitation are fused,
indivisible. Night and black: sex and race: the black men are blamed for what all men
do; the black women are used as all women are used, but they are singularly and
intensely punished by law and social mores; and to untangle this cruel knot, so much a
part of each and every night, we will have to take back the night so that it cannot be
used to destroy us by race or by sex.
Night means, for all women, a choice: danger or confinement. Confinement is most
often dangerous too‐‐battered women are confined, a woman raped in marriage is
likely to be raped in her own home. But in confinement, we are promised a lessening
of danger, and in confinement we try to avoid danger. The herstory of women has
been one of confinement: physical limitation, binding, movement forbidden, action
punished. Now, again, everywhere we turn, the feet of women are bound. A woman
tied up is the literal emblem of our condition, and everywhere we turn, we see our
100
condition celebrated: women in bondage, tied and bound. Actor George Hamilton, one
of the new Count Draculae, asserts that "[e]very woman fantasizes about a dark
stranger who manacles her. Women don't have fantasies about marching with
Vanessa Redgrave." 2 He doesn't seem to realize that we do have fantasies about
Vanessa Redgrave marching with us. The erotic celebration of women in bondage is
the religion of our time; and sacred literature and devotional films, like the bound
foot, are everywhere. The significance of bondage is that it forbids freedom of
movement. Hannah Arendt wrote that "[o]f all the specific liberties which may come
into our minds when we hear the word 'freedom,' freedom of movement is historically
the oldest and also the most elementary. Being able to depart for where we will is the
prototypal gesture of being free, as limitation of freedom of movement has from time
immemorial been the precondition for enslavement. Freedom of movement is also the
indispensable condition for action, and it is in action that men primarily experience
freedom in the world." 3 The truth is that men do experience freedom of movement
and freedom in action and that women do not. We must recognize that freedom of
movement is a precondition for freedom of anything else. It comes before freedom of
speech in importance because without it freedom of speech cannot in fact exist. So
when we women struggle for freedom, we must begin at the beginning and fight for
freedom of movement, which we have not had and do not now have. In reality, we are
not allowed out after dark. In some parts of the world, women are not allowed out at
all but we, in this exemplary democracy, are permitted to totter around, half crippled,
during the day, and for this, of course, we must be grateful. Especially we must be
grateful because jobs and safety depend on the expression of gratitude through
cheerful conformity, sweet passivity, and submission artfully designed to meet the
particular tastes of the males we must please. We must be grateful‐‐unless we are
prepared to resist confinement‐‐to resist being locked in and tied up‐‐to resist being
bound and gagged and used and kept and kept in and pinned down and conquered
and taken and possessed and decked out like toy dolls that have to be wound up to
move at all. We must be grateful‐‐unless we are prepared to resist the images of
women tied and bound and humiliated and used. We must be grateful unless we are
prepared to demand‐‐no, to take‐‐freedom of movement for ourselves because we
know it to be a precondition for every other freedom that we must want if we want
freedom at all. We must be grateful‐‐unless we are willing to say with the Three
Marias of Portugal: "Enough./It is time to cry: Enough. And to form a barricade with
our bodies." 4
I think that we have been grateful for the small favors of men long enough. I think
that we are sick to death of being grateful. lt is as if we are forced to play Russian
roulette; each night, a gun is placed against our temples. Each day, we are strangely
grateful to be alive. Each day we forget that one night it will be our turn, the random
will no longer be random but specific and personal, it will be me or it will be you or it
will be someone that we love perhaps more than we love ourselves. Each day we
forget that we barter everything we have and get next to nothing in return. Each day
we make do, and each night we become captive or outlaw‐‐likely to be hurt either
way. It is time to cry "Enough," but it is not enough to cry "Enough." We must use our
bodies to say "Enough"‐‐we must form a barricade with our bodies, but the barricade
must move as the ocean moves and be formidable as the ocean is formidable. We must
use our collective strength and passion and endurance to take back this night and
every night so that life will be worth living and so that human dignity will be a reality.
What we do here tonight is that simple, that difficult, and that important.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"The Night and Danger," copyright © 1979 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
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LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part II
WORDS
Nervous Interview
1978
Copyright © 1978, 1988, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
In 1978 I wrote a whole bunch of short articles. I desperately needed money and wanted
to be able to publish them for money. Of these articles, Nervous Interview is probably the
most obscure in its concerns and certainly in its form and yet it was the only one that
was published at all, not for money. Norman Mailer managed to publish lots of
interviews with himself, none of which made much sense, all of which were taken
seriously by literati of various stripes. So this is half parody of him and his chosen form
and half parody of myself and my chosen movement.
She was edgy. Ambivalent would be too polite a word. She came at one, then
withdrew. It wasn't a tease, it wasn't coy. Her enemies said Paranoid. She said,
Commonsense. In the age of the Glass House, everyone a stone thrower,
Commonsense. But the pressure had been mounting. Account for yourself, explain.
Ever since that fateful day when she had juxtaposed the two words, "Limp Penis," she
had been forced to hide or explain. She didn't count those who wanted apologies.
Being a prudent person, she had hidden. An ex‐friend had just written her, in
accusation, saying that she did not understand "the chemistry of love." Nor, she was
willing to admit, the physics or mathematics (or even simple arithmetic) of love. She
only understood its laws, the stuff of literature and sexual politics, not science. Now,
after nearly two years of absence/exile she was returning to New York. Feeling like a
sacrifice. Wondering when the priests would come at her. Determined to defy the
gods.
Q: It seems strange that anyone so aggressive in her writing should be so reclusive, so
hostile to a public life.
A: I'm shy, that's all. And cold and aloof.
Q: A lot of men in this town think you're a killer.
A: I'm too shy to kill. I think they should be more afraid of each other, less afraid of me.
Q: Why don't you give interviews?
A: Because they're so false. Someone asks a question‐‐very posed and formal, or very
fumbling and sincere. Then someone tries to respond in kind. Cult of fame and
personality and all that. It's all wrong.
Q: So why this? Why now?
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A: I couldn't sleep. Very edgy. Nervous nightmares about New York. Going home.
Cesspool and paradise. You see, I've lived many places. I keep leaving them. I keep
returning to New York but I can't stay put. But that's what I want most. To stay still. So
I'm restless and irritated.
Q: People are surprised when they meet you. That you're nice.
A: I think that's strange. Why shouldn't I be nice?
Q: It's not a quality that one associates with radical feminists.
A: Well, see, right there, that's distortion. Radical feminists are always nice. Provoked
to the point of madness, but remaining, at heart, nice.
Q: I could name you a lot of feminists who aren't nice. You yourself have probably had
fights with just about everyone I could name. Isn't this a terrible hypocrisy on your
part‐‐and silly too‐‐to say that radical feminists are nice?
A: At a distance or very close, nice is true. At any midpoint, it seems false. Also, you
see, we love each other. It's a very impersonal love in many cases. But it is a fierce
love. You have to love women who are brave enough to do things so big in a world
where women are supposed to be so small.
Q: Isn't this just another kind of myth building?
A: No, I think it's a very neutral description. Women who fight fierce battles, as all
radical feminists do, encounter so much hostility and conflict in the regular
transactions of work and daily life that they become very complex, even if they started
out simple. One must learn to protect oneself. This means, inevitably, that one
exaggerates some parts of one's personality, some qualities. Or they become
exaggerated in the process of trying to survive and to continue to work. So when one
sees that in another woman, one loves her for it‐‐even if one does not like the
particular defenses she has worked out for herself. That doesn't mean that one wants
to be intimate with her. Just that one loves her for daring to be so ambitious. For
daring to continue to associate herself with women as a feminist, no matter what the
cost, no matter what walls she has to build to keep on doing what's important to her.
Q: What alienates you most from other women?
A: Failures of courage or integrity. Those ever‐present human failures. I'm in the
midst of the mess, just like everyone else. I expect too much from women. I get bitterly
disappointed when women are flawed in stupid ways. As I myself am. And then I
resent women who are bitterly disappointed in me because I'm flawed. It's the old
double standard, newly cast. I expect nothing from men‐‐or, more accurately, I rarely
expect much‐‐but I expect everything from women I admire. Women expect
everything from me. Then when we find that we are just ourselves, no matter what
our aspirations or accomplishments, we grieve, we cry, we mourn, we fight, and
especially, we blame, we resent. Our wrong expectations lead to these difficulties. For
me, wrong expectations make me sometimes alienated, sometimes isolated.
Q: People think you are very hostile to men.
A: I am.
Q: Doesn't that worry you?
A: From what you said, it worries them.
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Q: I mean, any Freudian would have a field day with your work. Penis envy, penis
hatred, penis obsession, some might say.
A: Men are the source of that, in their literature, culture, behavior. I could never have
invented it. Who was more penis obsessed than Freud? Except maybe Reich. But then,
what a competition that would be. Choose the most penis obsessed man in history.
What is so remarkable is that men in general, really with so few exceptions, are so
penis obsessed. I mean, if anyone should be sure of self‐worth in a penis‐oriented
society, it should be the one who has the penis. But one per individual doesn't seem to
be enough. I wonder how many penises per man would calm them down. Listen, we
could start a whole new surgical field here.
Q: The Women's Movement seems to be more conciliatory towards men than you are,
especially these days. There is a definite note of reconciliation, or at least not hurling
accusations. What do you think of that?
A: I think that women have to pretend to like men to survive. Feminists rebelled, and
stopped pretending. Now I worry that feminists are capitulating.
Q: Isn't there something quite pathological in always looking at sex in male terms? Say
you describe male attitudes towards sex accurately. Don't you accept their terms
when you analyze everything using their terms?
A: Their terms are reality because they control reality. So what terms should we use to
understand reality? All we can do is face it or try to hide from it.
Q: Are there men you admire?
A: Yes.
Q: Who?
A: I'd rather not say.
Q: There are a lot of rumors about your lesbianism. No one quite seems to know what
you do with whom.
A: Good.
Q: Can you explain why you are so opposed to pornography?
A: I find it strange that it requires an explanation. The men have made quite an
industry of pictures, moving and still, that depict the torture of women. I am a woman.
I don't like to see the virtual worship of sadism against women because I am a woman,
and it's me. It has happened to me. It's going to happen to me. I have to fight an
industry that encourages men to act out their aggression on women‐‐their "fantasies,"
as those aspirations are so euphemistically named. And I hate it that everywhere I
turn, people seem to accept without question this false notion of freedom. Freedom to
do what to whom? Freedom to torture me? That's not freedom for me. I hate the
romanticization of brutality towards women wherever I find it, not just in
pornography, but in artsy fartsy movies, in artsy fartsy books, by sexologists and
philosophes. It doesn't matter where it is. l simply refuse to pretend that it doesn't
have anything to do with me. And that leads to a terrible recognition: if pornography
is part of male freedom, then that freedom is not reconcilable with my freedom. If his
freedom is to torture, then in those terms my freedom must be to be tortured. That's
insane.
Q: A lot of women say they like it.
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A: Women have two choices: lie or die. Feminists are trying to open the options up a
bit.
Q: Can I ask you about your personal life?
A: No.
Q: If the personal is political, as feminists say, why aren't you more willing to talk
about your personal life?
A: Because a personal life can only be had in privacy. Once strangers intrude into it, it
isn't personal anymore. It takes on the quality of a public drama. People follow it as if
they were watching a play. You are the product, they are the consumers. Every single
friendship and event takes on a quality of display. You have to think about the
consequences not just of your acts vis‐a‐vis other individuals but in terms of media,
millions of strange observers. I find it very ugly. I think that the press far exceeds its
authentic right to know in pursuing the private lives of individuals, especially people
like myself, who are neither public employees nor performers. And if one has to be
always aware of public consequences of private acts, it's very hard to be either
spontaneous or honest with other people.
Q: If you could sleep with anyone in history, who would it be?
A: That's easy. George Sand.
Q: She was pretty involved with men.
A: I would have saved her from all that.
Q: Is there any man, I mean, there must be at least one.
A: Well, ok, yes. Ugh. Rimbaud. Disaster. In the old tradition, Glorious Disaster.
Q: That seems to give some credence to the rumor that you are particularly involved
with gay men.
A: It should give credence to the rumor that I am particularly involved with dead
artists.
Q: Returning to New York, do you have any special hopes or dreams ?
A: Yeah. I wish that Bella were King.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Nervous Interview," first published in Chrysalis, No. 10, May 1980.
Copyright © 1978 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
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From New Statesman & Society (London, England) 21 April 1995
Copyright © 1995 by
Reprinted by permission of Michael Moorcock and Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
[British novelist] Michael Moorcock talks to feminist activist, theorist and author Andrea
Dworkin, and finds her keen to sort out a few false rumours
Michael Moorcock: You were born in Camden, New Jersey, in 1946, had an admired
father, went to a progressive school, led the familiar bohemian life of the 1960's, were
active in protest politics, were arrested and received unexpectedly brutal treatment‐‐
but not as brutal as being a battered wife, stranded in Amsterdam with your
monstrous husband, a political radical. Pretty traumatic stuff, Yet you remain, I think,
fundamentally an optimist.
Andrea Dworkin: Optimism is what you do, how you live. I write, which is a
quintessential act of optimism. It sometimes means the triumph of faith over
experience, a belief in communication, in community, in change, and, for me, in beauty.
The power and beauty of language. I act with other women to create social change:
activism is optimism. I've always believed in art and politics as keys to transformation.
Emotional authenticity and, if you will, social progress towards fairness and equality.
I was happy as a kid, although my mother was sick with heart disease, and my
younger brother and I were often parcelled out to various family members, separated
from each other and my parents. I grew up very fast and very early in all ways. That
means I was independent, I did what I wanted. I learned to have a private life when I
was very young, and also at different times I had to take care of my brother and
mother. I lived a lot on the streets with my friends. It was a big part of my life. My
family was poor and all these circumstances meant that I didn't have a stable or
middle‐class upbringing.
My father was‐‐and is‐‐very special, even back then noticeably different from other
fathers: extremely gentle and caring, respecting women and children, listening to us,
responding intellectually and emotionally. He worked in what was considered here a
woman's job, as a teacher, and he worked at the post office; so I didn't get to see him
much. But he was the great heart in our family. It would be hard to overstate how
much he had to do with teaching me about human rights and human dignity, also how
to talk and how to think.
The progressive school was Bennington, which I went to on a scholarship. I went to
neighbourhood schools until college. I didn't think much of them because they were
intellectually constricting, demanded conformity, especially for girls. My political life
began long before I was arrested for protesting against the Vietnam war. I refused to
sing Christmas carols in elementary school and was isolated and punished for it‐‐as
well as having "kike" written on my drawings on the bulletin board. In sixth grade, I
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couldn't decide whether to be a lawyer or a writer. I wanted to change the abortion
laws . . .
Michael Moorcock: Your first book was "Woman Hating" in 1974. To make some sort
of living from your work, you took to public speaking. This led to "Our Blood", a
collection of eloquent and finely written speeches, published in 1976. Where do you
come from politically?
Andrea Dworkin: Both my parents were horrified by US racism, certainly by de jure
segregation, but also by all aspects of discrimination‐‐black poverty, urban ghettos,
menial labour, bad education, the lack of respect whites had for blacks. My father was
pro‐labour; he wanted teachers to be unionised. He refused a management job at the
post office. My mother was committed to planned parenthood, to legal birth control (it
was criminal then) and to legal abortion. We had immigrant family members who
were survivors of the Holocaust, though most of my mother's and father's families had
been killed. So I grew up taking hate and extermination seriously. I read all the time,
as much as I could. My mother often had to write me notes so that I could have certain
books from the library. After the high school board purged the library of all "socialist"
and "indecent" books, I found this cute little book they'd missed called Guerilla
Warfare by Che Guevara. I read it a million times. I'd plan attacks on the local
shopping mall. I got a lot of practice in strategising real rebellion. It may be why I
refuse to think that rebellion against the oppressors of women should be less real, less
material, less serious.
Michael Moorcock: You've been described as a radical visionary rather than a practical
politician. Do you enjoy politics?
I've always considered writing sacred. I've come to consider the rights of women,
including a right to dignity, sacred. This is what I care about. I don't want to give up
what I care about.
Michael Moorcock: There's enormous substance and original insight in your work. Yet
a book like "Right‐Wing Women", a superb analysis of the kind of women presently
very prominent in politics, is out of print in the US. Why?
Andrea Dworkin: My novel Ice and Fire has never appeared in paperback here. For
years, most of my work was officially out of print or simply unfindable. From when the
civil‐rights law was passed in Minneapolis until 1990, after I found a new publisher,
Pornography could only be bought in northern California, via exceptionally
resourceful distributors. There was a long period in the mid‐1980's when it was easier
to get virtually any book by me in English in Nigeria than in the US. Without
belabouring any of this, I think these are the reasons: 1) In the US the pornography
industry and the publishing industry see themselves as twin entities engaged in
exercising and protecting the same rights in the same way. I stand against the
pornography industry; the publishing industry sees me as an enemy. 2) My work is
radical. A lot of people, especially the already comfortable, don't like it. Men especially
object. Women don't want to be associated with work that brings out unambiguous
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hostility in men. 3) The left refuses to change, and in order to organise for the equality
of women, the left must change. Even to consider, for example, the analysis in Right‐
Wing Women means reconceptualising what it would take to organise women
politically.
Michael Moorcock: Having worked for porn publishers and knowing the trade pretty
well, I felt your 1981 "Pornography: men possessing women" offered clear insights
into what made me uneasy about porn. Like you, I am an anti‐censorship activist, but I
didn't like what porn "said". Did you begin with the view that porn is effective
propaganda against women?
Andrea Dworkin: Like many women, I think, my life was different from my
understanding. I didn't come to feminism until I was in my mid‐20's. It's hard for
younger women now to understand that women my age didn't have feminism as a
movement or an analytical tool. I understood Vietnam right away. I understood
apartheid. I knew prisons were bad and cruel, but I didn't understand why the male
doctors in the Women's House of Detention essentially sexually assaulted me, or even
that they did. I knew they ripped up my vagina with a steel instrument and told dirty
jokes about women while they did it. I knew they enjoyed causing me purposeful pain.
But there was no public, political conception of rape or sexual assault. Rape rose to
being a political issue only when it involved false accusations made by white women
against black men.
I prostituted on the streets for several years. I had no political understanding of that,
nor even of my own homelessness or poverty. I was battered‐‐genuinely tortured‐‐
when I was married, but I thought I was the only woman in the world this ever
happened to. I had no political understanding that I was being beaten because I was a
woman, or that this man thought I belonged to him, inside out. I came to pornography,
which I had both read and used, just as I came to fairy‐tales: to try to understand what
each said about being a woman. There was the princess, the wicked queen or witch;
there was O, there was the Dominatrix. I had somehow learned all that, become all of
them; and figured I'd better unlearn some of this shit fast or I was going to be dead
soon but not soon enough.
I once heard a pimp say he could turn any woman out but no one could make her stay
on the streets. But what happens when you find the inside worse than the outside?
What happens when the marital bed with your revolutionary lover/husband is worse
than any two‐second fuck in any alley? I was a believer in sexual liberation, but more
important I had believed in the unqualified goodness of sex, its sensuousness, its
intensity, its generosity. I've always loved being alive. I've no interest in suicide, never
have had. The battering destroyed me. I had to decide whether I wanted to live or die.
I was broken and ashamed and empty. I looked at pornography to try to understand
what had happened to me. And I found a lot of information, about power and the
mechanisms by which the subordination of women is sexualised. I want you to
understand that I didn't learn an ideology. For me, it's been a living journey. I began to
examine the use of force in sex, as well as the kind of sadism I'd experienced in prison.
I had so many questions, why do men think they own women? Oh, well, they do; here
are the laws that say so; here's how the pornography says so. Why do men think
women are dirty? Why is overt violence against women simply ignored, or
disbelieved, or blamed on the woman?
I read all I could and still found the richest source of information on women's lives
was women, like me, who wanted freedom and were willing to fight for it. But a big
part of the fight was facing facts; and facts had a lot to do with what men had done to
us, how men used us with or without our own complicity. In pornography I found a
map, a geography of male dominance in the sexual realm, with sex clearly defined as
dominance and submission, not as equality or reciprocity.
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"Pornographers have repeatedly published the 'all sex is rape' slander, and it's now
been taken up by others like Time"
Michael Moorcock: After "Right‐Wing Women" and "Ice and Fire" you wrote
"Intercourse". Another book which helped me clarify confusions about my own sexual
relationships. You argue that attitudes to conventional sexual intercourse enshrine
and perpetuate sexual inequality. Several reviewers accused you of saying that all
intercourse was rape. I haven't found a hint of that anywhere in the book. Is that what
you are saying?
Andrea Dworkin: No, I wasn't saying that and I didn't say that, then or ever. There is a
long section in Right‐Wing Women on intercourse in marriage. My point was that as
long as the law allows statutory exemption for a husband from rape charges, no
married woman has legal protection from rape. I also argued, based on a reading of
our laws, that marriage mandated intercourse‐‐it was compulsory, part of the
marriage contract. Under the circumstances, I said, it was impossible to view sexual
intercourse in marriage as the free act of a free woman. I said that when we look at
sexual liberation and the law, we need to look not only at which sexual acts are
forbidden, but which are compelled.
The whole issue of intercourse as this culture's penultimate expression of male
dominance became more and more interesting to me. In Intercourse I decided to
approach the subject as a social practice, material reality. This may be my history, but
I think the social explanation of the "all sex is rape" slander is different and probably
simple. Most men and a good number of women experience sexual pleasure in
inequality. Since the paradigm for sex has been one of conquest, possession, and
violation, I think many men believe they need an unfair advantage, which at its
extreme would be called rape. I don't think they need it. I think both intercourse and
sexual pleasure can and will survive equality.
It's important to say, too, that the pornographers, especially Playboy, have published
the "all sex is rape" slander repeatedly over the years, and it's been taken up by others
like Time who, when challenged, cannot cite a source in my work.
Michael Moorcock: What do you say to committed feminists who disagree with your
approach to pornography and say porn is merely one manifestation among many of a
problem with deeper roots?
Andrea Dworkin: I say solve the problem you think is more urgent or goes deeper.
Pornography is so important, I think, because of how it touches on every aspect of
women's lower status: economic degradation, dehumanisation, woman hating, sexual
domination, systematic sexual abuse. If someone thinks she can get women economic
equality, for instance, without dealing in some way with the sexual devaluation of
women as such, I say she's wrong; but I also say work on it, try, organise; I will be
there for her, as a resource, carrying picket signs, making speeches, signing petitions,
supporting lawsuits for economic equality. But if she thinks the way to advance
women is to organise against those of us who are organising against sexual
exploitation and abuse, then I say I don't respect that; it's horizontal hostility, not
feminism. Women willing to let other women do the so‐called sex work, be the
prostitutes, while they lead respectable professional lives in law or in the academy,
frankly, make me sick. I concentrate my energy, however, on uniting with women who
want to fight sexual exploitation, not on arguing with women who defend it.
Michael Moorcock: You have been wildly and destructively misquoted. I've been told
that you hate all men, believe in biological determinism, write pornography while
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condemning it, have been censored under the very "laws" you introduced in Canada
and so on. I know these allegations have no foundation, but they're commonly
repeated. Do you know their source?
Andrea Dworkin: Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler and lobbying groups for pornographers.
Some of the lobbying groups call themselves anti‐censorship, but they spend so much
time maligning MacKinnon and myself that it is hard to take them seriously. And it
seems to be only defending pornography that brings them out. I would define
illiteracy as the basic speech problem in the US, but I don't see any effort to deal with
it as a political emergency with constitutionally based remedies, such as lawsuits
against cities and states on behalf of illiterate populations characterised by race and
class, purposefully excluded by public policy from learning how to read and write.
Fighting MacKinnon and me is equivalent to going to Club Med rather than doing real
work.
Michael Moorcock: What's your position on free speech?
Andrea Dworkin: I don't think the British understand US law. Here, burning a cross on
a black person's lawn was recently protected as free speech by the Supreme Court. It's
obviously a big subject, but the First Amendment, which keeps Congress from making
laws that punish speech, doesn't say, for instance, that I have a right to say what I
want, let alone that I have a right to say it on NBC or CBS. After I have expressed
myself, the government isn't supposed to punish me. But women and people of colour,
especially African‐Americans, have been excluded from any rights of speech for most
of our history. In the US it costs money to have access to the means of speech. If you're
a woman, sexual assault can stop you from speaking; so can almost constant
intimidation and threat. The First Amendment was designed to protect white, land‐
owning men from the power of the state. This was followed by the Second
Amendment, which says, ". . . and we have guns". Women and most blacks were
chattels, without any speech rights of any kind. So the First Amendment protects the
speech of Thomas Jefferson, but has Sally Hemmings ever said a word anyone knows
about? My own experience is that speech is not free; it costs a lot.
Michael Moorcock: What do you think about the current shift to the right in US
politics?
Andrea Dworkin: Here, in blaming and shaming the oppressed, the powerless, the left
colludes with the right. There's no reason to look to the left for justice, so people look
to the right for order. It's pretty simple. The victory of the right also expresses the
rage of white men against women and people of colour who are seen to be eroding the
white man's authority. The pain of destroying male rule won't be worse than the pain
of living with it.
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110
Mercy
By Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1990, 1991 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
Excerpt from Chapter Three
In January 1965 (Age 18)
When I was a child they made us hide under our desks, crawl under them on our
knees and keep our heads down and cover our ears with our elbows and keep our
hands clasped behind our heads. I use to pray to God not to have it hurt when the
bomb came. They said it was practice for when the Russians bombed us so we would
live after it and I was as scared as anyone else and I did what they said, although I
wondered why the Russians hated us so much and I was thinking there must be a
Russian child like me, scared to die. You can't help being scared when you are so little
and all the adults say the same thing. You have to believe them. You had to stay there
for a long time and be quiet and your shoulders would hurt because you had to stay
under your desk which was tiny even compared to how little you were and you didn't
know what the bomb was yet so you thought they were telling the truth and the
Russians wanted to hurt you but if you stayed absolutely still and quiet on your knees
and covered your ears underneath your desk the Russians couldn't. I wondered if your
skin just burned off but you stayed on your knees, dead. Everyone had nightmares but
the adults didn't care because it kept you obedient and that was what they wanted;
they liked keeping you scared and making you hide all the time from the bomb under
your desk. Adults told terrible lies, not regular lies; ridiculous, stupid lies that made
you have to hate them. They would say anything to make you do what they wanted
and they would make you afraid of anything. No one ever told so many lies before,
probably. When the Bay of Pigs came, all the girls at school talked together in the halls
and in the lunchrooms and said the same thing: we didn't want to die virgins. No one
said anyone else was lying because we thought we were all probably going to die that
day and there wasn't any point in saying someone wasn't a virgin and you couldn't
know, really, because boys talked dirty, and no one said they weren't because then
you would be low‐life, a dirty girl, and no one would talk to you again and you would
have to die alone and if the bomb didn't come you might as well be dead. Girls were on
the verge of saying it but no one dared. Of course now the adults were saying
everything was fine and no bomb was coming and there was no danger; we didn't
have to stand in the halls, not that day, the one day it was clear atomic death was right
there, in New Jersey. But we knew and everyone thought the same thing and said the
same thing and it was the only thought we had to say how sad we were to die and
everyone giggled and was almost afraid to say it but everyone had been thinking the
same thing all night and wanted to say it in the morning before we died. It was like a
record we were making for ourselves, a history of us, how we had lived and been
cheated because we had to die virgins. We said to each other that it's not fair we have
to die now, today; we didn't get to do anything. We said it to each other and everyone
knew it was true and then when we lived and the bomb didn't come we never said
anything about it again but everyone hurried. We hurried like no one had ever hurried
in the history of the world. Our mothers lived in dream time; no bomb; old age; do it
the first time after marriage, one man or you'll be cheap; time for them droned on. Bay
of Pigs meant no more time. They don't care about why girls do things but we know
things and we do things; we're not just animals who don't mind dying. The houses
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where I lived were brick; the streets were cement, gray; and I used to think about the
three pigs and the bad wolf blowing down their houses but not the brick one, how the
brick one was strong and didn't fall down; and I would try to think if the brick ones
would fall down when the bomb came. They looked like blood already; blood‐stained
walls; blood against the gray cement; and they were already broken; the bricks were
torn and crumbling as if they were soft clay and the cement was broken and cracked;
and I would watch the houses and think maybe it was like with the three pigs and the
big bad wolf couldn't blow them down, the big bad bomb. I thought maybe we had a
chance but if we lived in some other kind of house we wouldn't have a chance. I tried
to think of the bomb hitting and the brick turned into blood and dust, red dust
covering the cement, wet with real blood, but the cement would be dust too, gray dust,
red dust on gray dust, just dust and sky, everything gone, the ground just level
everywhere there was. I could see it in my mind, with me sitting in the dust, playing
with it, but I wouldn't be there, it would be red dust on gray dust and nothing else and
I wouldn't even be a speck. I thought it would be beautiful, real pure, not ugly and
poor like it was now, but so sad, a million years of nothing, and tidal waves of wind
would come and kill the quiet of the dust, kill it. I went away to New York City for
freedom and it meant I went away from the red dust, a picture bigger than the edges
of my mind, it was a red landscape of nothing that was in me and that I put on
everything I saw like it was burned on my eyes, and I always saw Camden that way; in
my inner‐mind it was the landscape of where I lived. It didn't matter that I went to
Point Zero. It would just be faster and I hadn't been hiding there under the desk afraid.
I hate being afraid. I hadn't grown up there waiting for it to happen and making
pictures of it in my mind seeing the terrible dust, the awful nothing, and I hadn't died
there during the Bay of Pigs. The red dust was Camden. You can't forgive them when
you're a child and they make you afraid. So you go away from where you were afraid.
Some stay; some go; it's a big difference, leaving the humiliations of childhood, the
morbid fear. We didn't have much to say to each other, the ones that left and the ones
that stayed. Children get shamed by fear but you can't tell the adults that; they don't
care. They make children into dead things like they are. If there's something left alive
in you, you run. You run from the poor little child on her knees; fear burned the skin
off all right; she's still on her knees, dead and raw and tender. New York's nothing, a
piece of cake; you never get afraid like that again; not ever.
Excerpt from Chapter Four
In February 1965 (Age 18)
If you try to say some words it is likely people don't understand them anyway. I don't
think people in houses understand anything about the word cold. I don't think they
understand the word wet. I don't think you could explain cold to them but if you did
other words would push it out of their minds in a minute. That's what they use words
for, to bury things. People learn long words to show off but if you can't say what cold
is so people understand what use is more syllables? I could never explain anything
and I was empty inside where the words go but it was an emptiness that caused
vertigo, I fought against it and tried to keep standing upright. I never knew what to
call most things but things I knew, cold or wet, didn't mean much. You could say you
were cold and people nodded or smiled. Cold. I tremble with fear when I hear it. They
know what it means on the surface and how to use it in a sentence but they don't
know what it is, don't care, couldn't remember if you told them. They'd forget it in a
minute. Cold. Or rape. You could never find out what it was from one of them or say it
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to mean anything or to be anything. You could never say it so it was true. You could
never say it to someone so they would help you or make anything better or even help
you a little or try to help you. You could never say it, not so it was anything. People
laughed or said something dirty. Or if you said someone did it you were just a liar
straight out; or it was you, dirty animal, who pulled them on you to hurt you. Or if you
said you were it, raped, were it, which you never could say, but if you said it, then they
put shame on you and never looked at you again. I think so. And it was just an awful
word anyway, some awful word. I didn't know what it meant either or what it was, not
really, not like cold; but it was worse than cold, I knew that. It was being trapped in
night, frozen stuck in it, not the nights people who live in houses sleep through but the
nights people who live on the streets stay awake through, those nights, the long nights
with every second ticking like a time bomb and your heart hears it. It was night, the
long night, and despair and being abandoned by all humankind, alone on an empty
planet, colder than cold, alive and frozen in despair, alone on earth with no one, no
words and no one and nothing; cold to frozen but cursed by being alive and nowhere
near dead; stuck frozen in nowhere; no one with no words; alone in the vagabond's
night, not the burgher's; in night, trapped alive in it, in despair, abandoned, colder
than cold, frozen alive, right there, freeze flash, forever and never let loose; the sun
had died so the night and the cold would never end. God won't let you loose from it
though. You don't get to die. Instead you have to stay alive and raped but it doesn't
exist even though God made it to begin with or it couldn't happen and He saw it too
but He is gone now that it's over and you're left there no matter where you go or how
much time passes even if you get old or how much you forget even if you burn holes in
your brain. You stay smashed right there like a fly splattered over a screen, swatted;
but it doesn't exist so you can't think about it because it isn't there and didn't happen
and couldn't happen and is only an awful word and isn't even a word that anyone can
say and it isn't ever true; so you are splattered up against a night that will go on
forever except nothing happened, it will go on forever and it isn't anything in any way
at all. It don't matter anyway and I can't remember things anyway, all sorts of things
get lost, I can't remember most of what happened to me from day to day and I don't
know names for it anyway to say or who to say it to and I live in a silence I carry that's
bigger than my shadow or any dark falling over me, it's a heavy thing on my back and
over my head and it pours out over me down to the ground. Words aren't so easy
anymore or they never were and it was a lie that they seemed so.
Excerpt from Chapter Nine
In October 1972 (Age 27)
I can't even close my eyes now frankly but I think it's because I'm this whatever it is,
you can have sophisticated words for it but the fact is you can be sleeping inside with
everything locked and they get in and do it to you no matter how bad it hurts. In
magazines they say women's got allure, or so they call it, but it's more like being some
dumb wriggling thing that God holds out before them on a stick with a string, a fisher
of men. The allure's there even if you got open sores on you; I know. The formal
writing problem, frankly, is that the bait can't write the story. The bait ain't even
barely alive. There's a weird German tradition that the fish turned the tables and
rewrote the story to punish the fisherman but you know it's a lie and it's some writer
of fiction being what became known as a modernist but before that was called
outright a smartass; and the fish still ain't bait unless it's eviscerated and bleeding. I
just can't risk it now but if I was a man I could close my eyes, I'm sure; at night, I'd
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close them, I'm sure. I don't think my hands would shake. I don't think so; or not so
much; or not all the time; or not without reason; there's no reason now anyone can
see. My breasts wouldn't bleed as if God put a sign on me; blessing or curse, it draws
flies. Tears of blood fall from them; they weep blood for me, because I'm whatever it
is: the girl, as they say politely; the girl. You're supposed to make things up for books
but I am afraid to make things up because in life everything evaporates, it's gone in
mist, just disappears, there's no sign left, except on you, and you are a fucking invisible
ghost, they look right through you, you can have bruises so bad the skin's pulled off
you and they don't see nothing; you bet women had the vapors, still fucking do, it
means it all goes away in the air, whatever happened, whatever he did and however
he did it, and you're left feeling sick and weak and no one's going to say why; it's just
women, they faint all the time, they're sick all the time, fragile things, delicate things,
delicate like the best punching bags you ever seen. They say it's lies even if they just
did it, or maybe especially then. I don't know really. There's nothing to it, no one ever
heard of it before or ever saw it or not here or not now; in all history it never
happened, or if it happened it was the Nazis, the exact, particular Nazis in Germany in
the thirties and forties, the literal Nazis in uniform; when they were out of uniform
they were just guys, you know, they loved their families, they paid off their whores,
just regular guys. No one else ever did anything, certainly no one now in this fine
world we have here; certainly not the things I think happened, although I don't know
what to call them in any serious way. You just crawl into a cave of silence and die; why
are there no great women artists? Some people got nerve. Blood on cement, which is
all we got in my experience, ain't esthetic, although I think boys some day will do very
well with it; they'll put it in museums and get a fine price. Won't be their blood. It
would be some cunt's they whispered to the night before; a girl; and then it'd be art,
you see; or you could put it on walls, make murals, be political, a democratic art
outside the museums for the people, Diego Rivera without any conscience whatsoever
instead of the very tenuous one he had with respect to women, and then it'd be
extremely major for all the radicals who would discover the expressive value of
someone else's blood and I want to tell you they'd stop making paint but such things
do not happen and such things cannot occur, any more than the rape so‐called can
happen or occur or the being beaten so bad can happen or occur and there are no
words for what cannot happen or occur and if you think something happened or
occurred and there are no words for it you are at a dead end. There's nothing where
they force you; there's nothing where you hurt so much; there's nothing where it
matters, there's nothing like it anywhere. So it doesn't feel right to make things up, as
you must do to write fiction, to lie, to elaborate, to elongate, to exaggerate, to distort,
to get tangled up in moderations or modifications or deviations or compromises of
mixing this with that or combining this one with that one because the problem is
finding words for the truth, especially if no one will believe it, and they will not. I can't
make things up because I wouldn't know after a while what's blood, what's ink. I
barely know any words for what happened to me yesterday, which doesn't make
tomorrow something I can conceive of in my mind; I mean words I say to myself in my
own head; not social words you use to explain to someone else. I barely know
anything and if I deviate I am lost; I have to be literal, if I can remember, which mostly
I cannot. No one will acknowledge that some things happen and probably at this point
in time there is no way to say they do in a broad sweep; you describe the man forcing
you but you can't say he forced you. If I was a man I could probably say it; I could say I
did it and everyone would think I made it up even though I'd just be remembering
what I did last night or twenty minutes ago or once, long ago, but it probably wouldn't
matter. The rapist has words, even though there's no rapist, he just keeps inventing
rape; in his mind; sure. He remembers, even though it never happened; it's fine fiction
when he writes it down. Whereas my mind is getting worn away; it's being eroded,
experience keeps washing over it and there's no sea wall of words to keep it intact, to
keep it from being washed away, carried out to sea, layer by layer, fine grains washed
away, a thin surface washed away, then some more, washed away. I am fairly worn
away in my mind, washed out to sea. It probably doesn't matter anyway. People lead
their little lives. There's not much dignity to go around. There's lies in abundance, and
silence for girls who don't tell them. I don't want to tell them. A lie's for when he's on
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top of you and you got to survive him being there until he goes; Malcolm X tried to
stop saying a certain lie, and maybe I should change from Andrea because it's a lie. It's
just that it's a precious thing from my mother that she tried to give me; she didn't
want it to be such an awful lie, I don't think. So I have to be the writer she tried to be ‐‐
Andrea; not‐cunt ‐‐ only I have to do it so it ain't a lie. I ain't fabricating stories. I'm
making a different kind of story. I'm writing as truthful as the man with his fingers, if
only I can remember and say; but I ain't on his side. I'm on some different side. I'm
telling the truth but from a different angle. I'm the one he done it to. The bait's talking,
honey, if she can find the words and stay even barely alive, or even just keep the blood
running; it can't dry up, it can't rot. The bait's spilling the beans. The bait's going to
transcend the material conditions of her situation, fuck you very much, Mr. Marx. The
bait's going way past Marx. The bait's taking her eviscerated, bleeding self and she
ain't putting it back together, darling, because, frankly, she don't know how; the bait's
a realist, babe, the bait's no fool, she's just going to bleed all over you and you are
going to have to find the words to describe the stain, a stain as big as her real life, boy;
a big, nasty stain; a stain all over you, all the blood you ever spilled; that's the esthetic
dimension, through art she replicates the others you done it to, gets the stain to
incorporate them too. It's coming right back on you, sink or swim; fucking drown your
head in it; give in, darling; go down. That's the plan, in formal terms. The bait's got a
theory; the bait's finding a practice, working it out; the bait's going to write it down
and she don't have to use words, she'll make signs, in blood, she's good at bleeding,
boys, the vein's open, boys, the bait's got plenty, each month more and more without
dying for a certain long period of her life, she can lose it or use it, she works in broad
strokes, she makes big gestures, big signs; oh and honey there's so much bait around
that there's going to be a bloodbath in the old town tonight, when the new art gets its
start. You are going to be sitting in it; the new novel; participation, it's called; I'm
smearing it all over you. It ain't going to be made up; it ain't going to be a lie; and you
are going to pay attention, directly, even though it's by a girl, because this time it's on
you. If I find a word, I'll use it; but I ain't waiting, darling, I already waited too long. If
you was raised a boy you don't know how to get blood off, you're shocked, surprised,
in Vietnam when you see it for the first time and I been bleeding since I was nine, I'm
used to putting my hands in it and I live. You don't give us no words for what's true so
now there's signs, a new civilization just starting now: her name's not‐cunt and she's
just got to express herself, say some this and that, use what's there, take what's hers:
her blood's hers; your blood's hers. Here's the difference between us, sweet ass: I'm
using blood you already spilled; mine; hers; cunt's. I ain't so dirty as to take yours. I
don't confuse this new manifesto with being Artaud; he was on the other side. There
are sides. If he spills my blood, it's art. If I put mine on him, it's deeply not nice or good
or, as they say, interesting; it's not interesting. There's a certain ‐‐ shall we
understate? ‐‐ distaste. It's bad manners but not rude in an artistically valid sense. It's
just not being the right kind of girl. It's deranged but not in the Rimbaud sense. It's
just not being Marjorie Morningstar, which is the height to which you may aspire,
failed artist but eventually fine homemaker. It's loony, yes, it's got some hate in it
somewhere, but it ain't revolutionary like Sade who spilled blood with style; perhaps
they think a girl can't have style but since a girl can't really have anything else I think I
can pull it off; me and the other bait; there's many styles of allure around. Huey
Newton's my friend and I send ten percent of any money I have to the Black Panthers
instead of paying taxes because they're still bombing the fucking Vietnamese, if you
can believe it. He sends me poems and letters of encouragement. I write him letters of
encouragement. I'm afraid to show him any of my pages I wrote because perhaps he's
not entirely cognizant of the problems, esthetic and political, I face. I look for signs in
the press for if he's decent to women but there's not too much to see; except you have
to feel some distrust. He's leading the revolution right now and I think the bait's got to
have a place in it. I am saying to him that women too got to be whole; and old people
cared for; and children educated and fed; and women not raped; I say, not raped; I say
it to him, not raped. He's saying the same thing back to me in his letters, except for the
women part. He is very Mao in his poem style, because it helps him to say what he
knows and gives him authority, I can see that, it makes his simple language look
strong and purposeful, not as if he's not too educated. It's brilliant for that whereas I
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am more lost; I can't cover up that I don't have words. I can't tell if raped is a word he
knows or not; if he thinks I am stupid to use it or not; if he thinks it exists or not;
because we are polite and formal and encouraging to each other and he doesn't say. I
am working my part out. He is taking care of the big, overall picture, the big needs, the
great thrust forward. I am in a fine fit of rebellion and melancholy and I think there's a
lot that's possible so I am in a passion of revolutionary fire with a new esthetic boiling
in me, except for my terrible times. The new esthetic started out in ignorance and
ignominy, in sadness, in forgetting; it pushed past sadness into an overt rebellion ‐‐
tear this down, tear this apart ‐‐ and it went on to create: it said, we'll learn to write
without words and if it happened we will find a way to say so and if it happened to us
it happened. For instance, if it happened to me it happened; but I don't have enough
confidence for that, really, because maybe I'm wrong, or maybe it's not true, or how do
you say it, but if it happened to us, to us, you know, the ones of us that's the bait, then
it happened. It happened. And if it happened, it happened. We will say so. We will find
a way to say so. We will take the blood that was spilled and smear it in public ways so
it's art and politics and science; the fisherman won't like the book so what's new; he'll
say it ain't art or he'll say it's bullshit; but here's the startling part; the bait's got a
secret system of communication, not because it's hidden but because the fisherman's
fucking stupid; so arrogant; so sure of forever and a day; so sure he don't listen and he
don't look and he says it ain't anything and he thinks that means it ain't anything
whereas what it means is that we finally can invent a new alphabet first, big letters,
proud, new letters from which will come new words for old things, real things, and the
bait says what they are and what they mean, and then we get new novels in which the
goal is to tell the truth deep truth. So make it all up, the whole new thing, to be able to
say what's there; because they are keeping it hidden now. You're not supposed to
write something down that happened; you're supposed to invent. We'll write down
what happened and invent the personhood of who it happened to; we'll make a
language for her so we can tell a story for her in which she will see what happened
and know for sure it happened and it mattered; and the boys will have to confront a
new esthetic that tells them to go suck eggs I am for this idea; energized by it. It's clear
that if you need the fisherman to read the book ‐‐ his critical appreciation as it were ‐‐
this new art ain't for you. If he's got what he did to you written on him or close enough
to him, rude enough near him, is he different, will he know? I say he'll have to know;
it's the brilliance of the medium ‐‐ he's it, the vehicle of political and cultural
transcendence as it were It's a new, forthright communication ‐‐ they took the words
but they left your arm, your hand, so far at least; it could change, but for now; he's the
living canvas; he can refuse to understand but he cannot avoid knowing; it's your
blood, he spilled it, you've used it on him It's a simplicity Artaud failed, frankly, to
achieve. We'll make it new; epater the fuckers. Then he can be human or not; he's got
a choice, which is more than he ever gave; he can put on the uniform, honest, literal
Nazi, or not. The clue is to see what you don't have as the starting place and you look
at it straight and you say what does it give me, not what does it take; you say what do I
have and what don't I have and am I making certain presumptions about what I need
that are in fact their presumptions, so much garbage in my way, and if I got rid of the
garbage what then would I see and could I use it and how; and when. I got hope. I got
faith. I see it falling. I see it ending. I see it bent over and hitting the ground. And,
what's even better is that because the fisherman ain't going to listen as if his life
depended on it we got a system of secret communication so foolproof no scoundrel
could imagine it, so perfect, so pure; the less we are, the more we have; the less we
matter, the more chance we get; the less they care, the more freedom is ours; the less,
the more, you see, is the basic principle, it's like psychological jujitsu except applied to
politics through a shocking esthetic; you use their fucking ignorance against them;
ignorance is a synonym in such a situation for arrogance and arrogance is tonnage and
in jujitsu you use your opponent's weight against him and you do it if you're weak or
poor too, because it's all you have; and if someone doesn't know you're human they're
a Goddamn fool and they got a load of ignorance to tip them over with. You ain't got
literature but you got a chance; a chance; you understand ‐‐ a chance; you got a chance
because the bait's going to get it, and there's going to be a lot of wriggling things
jumping off God's stick. I live in this real fine, sturdy tenement building made out of
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old stone. They used to have immigrants sleeping in the hallways for a few pennies a
night so all the toilets are out there in the halls. They had them stacked at night; men
sleeping on top of each other and women selling it or not having a choice; tenement
prostitution they call it in books, how the men piled in the halls to sleep but the
women had to keep putting out for money for food. They did it standing up. Now you
walk through the hall hoping there's no motherfucker with a knife waiting for you,
especially in the toilets, and if you have to pee, you are scared, and if you have to shit,
it is fully frightening. I go with a knife in my hand always and I sleep with a knife
under my pillow, always. I have not had a shit not carrying a knife since I came here. I
got a bank account. I am doing typing for stupid people. I don't like to make margins
but they want margins. I think it's better if each line's different, if it flows like a poem,
if it's uneven and surprising and esthetically nice. But they want it like it's for soldiers
or zombies, everything lined up, left and right, with hyphens breaking words open in
just the right places, which I don't know where they are. I type, I steal but less now,
really as little as possible though I will go to waitress hell for stealing tips, I know that,
I will be a prisoner in a circle of hell and they will put the faces of all the waitresses
around me and all their shabby, hard lives that I made worse, but stealing tips is easy
and I am good at it as I have been since childhood and when I have any money in my
pocket I do truly leave great chunks of it and when I am older and rich I will be
profligate and if I ever go broke in my old days it will be from making it up to every
waitress alive in the world then, but this generation's getting fucked unavoidably.
Someday I will write a great book with the lines moving like waves in the sea, flowing
as much as I want them. I'm Andrea is what I will find a deep way to express in honor
of my mama who thought it up; a visionary, though the vision couldn't withstand what
the man did to me early; or later, the man, in the political sense.
Excerpt from Chapter Eleven
April 30, 1974 (Age 27)
I am writing a plan for revenge, a justice plan, a justice poem, a justice map, a
geography of justice; I am martial in my heart and military in my mind; I think in
strategy and in poems, a daughter of Guevara and Whitman, ready to take to the hills
with a cosmic vision of what's crawling around down on the ground; a daughter with
an overview; the big view; a daughter with a new practice of righteous rage, against
what ain't named and ain't spoken so it can't be prosecuted except by the one it was
done to who knows it, knows him; I'm inventing a new practice of random self‐
defense; I take their habits and characteristics seriously, as enemy, and I plan to
outsmart them and win; they want to stay anonymous, monster shadows, brutes, king
pricks, they want to strike like lightning, any time, any place, they want to be sadistic
ghosts in the dark with penises that slice us open, they want us dumb and mute and
vacant, robbed of words, nothing has a name, not anything they do to us, there's
nothing because we're nothing; then they must mean they want us to strike them
down, indiscriminate, in the night; we require a sign language of rebellion; it's the only
chance they left us. You may find me one who ain't guilty but you can't find me two. I
have a vision, far into the future, a plan for an army for justice, a girls' army,
subversive, on the ground, down and dirty, no uniforms, no rank, no orders from on
high, a martial spirit, a cadre of honor, an army of girls spreading out over the terrain,
I see them moving through the streets, thick formations of them in anarchy and
freedom on cement. I keep practicing horse position and sit‐ups and I kick good; I can
kick to the knee and I can kick to the cock but I can't kick to the solar plexus and I can't
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kick his fucking head off but I can compensate with my intelligence and with my right
thinking if I can isolate it, in other words, rescue it from the nightmares; liberate it;
deep liberation. I practice on my wall to get my kick higher, never touching the wall,
Zen karate, a new dimension in control and a new level of aggression, a new arena of
attack as if I am walking up the wall without touching it; and I will do the same to
them; Zen killing. My fist ain't good enough but my thighs needless to say are superb,
possibly even sublime, it's been noted many times. Many a man's died his little death
there and I made the mistake of not burying him when he was exactly ripe for it, not
putting him, whole, under the ground, but I soaked up his soul, I took it like they
always fear, I stole his essence to in me, it's protein, I got his molecules; and I never
died. It is more than relevant; it is the point. I never died. I am not dead. If you use us
up and use us up and use us up but don't kill use we ain't dead, boys; a word to the
wise; peace now, or there's a mean lot of killing coming. I am torn up in many places
and I am a moving mountain of pain, I have tears body and soul, I am marked and
scarred and black‐and‐blue inside and out, I got torn muscles in my throat and blood
that dried there that won't ever dislodge and rips in my vagina the size of fists and
fissures in my anus like rivers and holes in my heart, a sad heart; but I ain't dead, I
never died, which means, boys, I can march, I want to walk to God on you, stretch you
out under me, a pathway to heaven. And I am real; Andrea one, two, three, there's
more than one, I am reliably informed; the raped; Andrea, named for courage, a new
incarnation of virility, in the old days called manhood and I'm what happens when it's
fucked; we go by other names, Sally, Jane, whatever; but I had a prophet for a mama
and she named not just a daughter but a breed, who the girl is when the worm turns;
put Thomas Jefferson in my place, horse position on his back with a mob of erect
rapists coming and going at will, at their pleasure; and ask what a more perfect union
is; or would be; from his point of view; then. Put anyone human where I been and
make a plan; for freedom. I will fill you with remorse because you fucked me to
ground meat and because you buy it and you sell it and the hole in my heart is
commerce to you; lover, husband, boychick, brother, friend, political radical, boy
comrade; I can't fucking tell you all apart. You're pouncing things that push it in, lush
with insult or austere with pain; I don't got no radio in my stomach like the crazy ones
who get messages to kill and can't turn it off or dislodge it although you stuck enough
in me, they say they hear voices and they kill, they say they are getting orders and they
kill, and the psychiatrists come in the newspapers and call them long bad names and
go to court and say they didn't know what they were doing; but they knew; because
everyone knows. The psychiatrists miss it all but especially that there's information
everywhere; the radio, the voices, are metaphors used by poets who dance rather than
write it down, poet‐killers; action poems; there's energy that buzzes, a coherent
language of noise and static you can learn to read, you don't need to be subliterate on
this plane, just receive, receive; there's waves you can see, you can take a fucking light
beam and parse it for information or you can decode the information in the aura of
light around a person or a thing; everything's coded; everything's whole; it's all right
there, including the future, you can just pull it out, it's just more information, a buzz, a
vibration, a radiance, even a smell in the air; and we are all one, sweetheart, which
means that if I'm you I got your secrets including your dirty little rape secrets and
your dirty little what you stick it in secrets, you can just pull the information out of the
air as to who is evil and what is going on, how it works and what must be done; you
can learn to see it and you can learn to hear it because you are flowing in an ocean of
information and the information gets amplified by pedestrian events, for instance, you
learn at karate school that they pin you down at both ends, they got different
shoulders from you, which you didn't know, and they made yours useless like bound
feet, which you didn't know; and they nail you, they plug you, the penis goes right
through you on one end and screws you down, fixes you fast to some hard surface, and
the shoulders are like a ton of metal dumped on you to keep you flat, it's information
on the literal level, the pedestrian plane, a reminder of mechanical reality or a new
lesson in it because girls don't learn mechanics or anything else that will help on the
physical plane to rebel or get free so you got to read the cosmic information in the air,
the molecular information, which could even come from other planets if you think
about it, it could be moving towards you on light from far away, and you also got to be
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a student of reality as it is commonly understood. They fill your head with political
theory because it's useless; it's dreams you can't have; of dignity that ain't yours; of
freedom that ain't intended on any level for you; you take it to heart; they take you to
bed; heartbreak hotel, the place where the dialectic abandons reality, leaving her
barefoot and pregnant, raped and barefoot; these are the dreams that break your
heart, the difference between what you wanted from Camus and what he would have
given you; I always wanted to have a cup of coffee with him, on the boulevard; and
how these men love whores; the thinkers, the truck drivers, the students, the cops;
how they love you turned out, shivering in the cold, already undressed enough; no,
they don't all rape; they all buy. I am an apprentice: sorcerer or assassin or vandal or
vigilante; or avenger; I am in formation as the new one who will emerge; I am in a
cocoon; but at night, being a girl, I just stroll; I am a girl who walks the streets at night,
back to first principles, how I grew up, where I lived, my home, cement, gray,
stretching out a thousand miles flat, a plain of loneliness and despair; my world; my
bed; my place on earth; I will populate the dark forever, of course, night is my country,
I belong here, I can't get free, I was condemned, exiled from daylight because survival
required facing the dark; I am a citizen of the night, with a passport, a mouth used
enough, it's vulgar to say but inside it changes, the skin gets raw and red and it
blisters, it gets small, tight, white blisters, liquidy blisters, it gets tough and brown, it
gets leathery, it sags in loose red places and there are black‐and‐blue marks, and your
tongue never touches the roof of your mouth, instead there's a layer of slime, sticky
slime, a white, viscous slime, a moving cement that never hardens and never
disappears, a near mortar of awful white stuff, mucous and slime; you got a mouth
crawling on top with slime; as if it's worms in you, spermy little worm things all laid
out side by side all in a line lining the roof of your mouth; a protein shield, if you want
to put the best construction on it, because you don't want his shit shooting to the top
of your brain anyway, going through the roof of your mouth to your head, you don't
want his molecules absorbed in your brain, planted there so his molecular reality
grows in some hemisphere of your brain, you don't want him as weeds in your head,
with his D.N.A. rolling all over behind your eyes; and of course you try to keep him as
high in your mouth as you can, as close to the front, as little in; always give as little as
you can; not just on principle, as in, give as little of anything as you can; but you give
as little of yourself as you can in a literal sense, not as an abstract concept of self but as
little of your mouth as you can; except for the one who rammed it down to the bottom,
into your chest or your lungs or however far he got, he shattered muscles as if they
was glass, splintered them as if they was bone, you could feel a smashed larynx
swimming in blood, like a dead animal, all bleeding and cut open, I got a sexy voice
now, something hoarse and missing, an absence, a bare vibration; but he wasn't a
trick, he was a cute boy, true love and real romance, remember him I instruct myself
because it's hard, rape's hard, remembering's hard, they have to break so much
there's no deep deep enough to bury it in, they leave you with crushed bones, diced
nerves, live nerves, sliced nerves as if someone took a knife to the nerve endings
themselves, not so they are cut dead but so they are being sliced each minute of
forever, and they don't go dead, there's not half a second of numbness or paralysis, the
nerves are open and alive and being hit by the air, exposed, and the knife is cutting
into them thread by thread, they're stringy and the knife's pulling them apart, and you
got an acute pain and a loud scream, high decibels, ringing in your ears, a torture
ringing in your ears, and it don't let you sleep and you don't get forgetfulness, your
eyes cry blood and you got open sores, the lips of your labia get boils, big boils; you
got a vagina with long, deep tears, an ass that rips open with blood every time you
shit, because it's the penis again, oversized, pulling out after having torn its way in;
and then you will remember rape; these are the elements of memory, constant, true,
and perpetual pain; otherwise you will forget ‐‐ we are a legion of zombies ‐‐ because
it burns out a piece of your brain, it's the scorched earth policy for the sweetmeat in
your head, the rape recipe, braise, sear, burn bare, there's a sudden conflagration on
the surface of your brain, a piece of one hemisphere or the other is burned bare, blank,
and you lose whatever's there; just gone; whatever; so rape's a two‐pronged attack, on
your body, in you, on your brain, in you; on freedom, on memory; you might as well
bury yourself in the backyard, or throw yourself in a trash can, you're like some dumb
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cat or dog that got hit by a car, run over and died; only they let the shells of dead girls
walk around because hell it makes no difference to them if what they stick it in is
living or dead; what's left, darling, is fine, according to the formula, a girl frail and
female, a skeleton with a fleshy pudendum, ready to serve, these girls are ghosts, did
you see, did you notice, where are they, why ain't they here, present, on earth, why
can't you find them even if you look for them in the light, how come they don't know
anything or do anything, how come they ain't anything, how come they are shaking
and flitting around and apologizing and begging and afraid and drugged and stupid
even if they are smart; how come they are comatose even when they're awake? He
pushes it in, she pushes it out, a dead spot in the brain marks the spot, there's a teeny
little cemetery in her brain, lots of torched spots, sutee; we bleed both ends, literal,
little strokes every time there's a rape, time gone, hours or days or weeks, words gone,
self gone, memory wiped out, severely impaired; I cannot remember ‐‐ how do you
exist? The skills, the tricks; tie your shoes; wrap ropes around your heart, or was it
your wrists; or was it ankles; neck; I'd make a list if I could remember; I'd memorize
the list if someone else would write it down; or I try, I scribble big letters, confused,
misspelled, on the page; or I look at the words, meaningless, and draw a blank; I make
a list, misspelled words signifying I don't remember what; or I draw a picture, I use
crayons, of what? I try to say what I try to remember; the skills, the tricks, language,
yesterday. There are little rape strokes, erased places in the brain, eruptions of blood,
explosions, like geysers, it's flooded, places on the brain, blood's acidic, did you ever
sit in a pool of your own blood, it wears the skin off you, chafes, irritates, the skin
peels off; so too in the brain, the skin peels off; I've been there, a poor, dear, quiet
thing, naked like a baby, in a river of blood, mine, curled up; fetal, as if my mama took
me back. There's wounds and you sit in the blood. Why can't I remember? I am a
stroke victim, a shadow in the night, invisible in the night, a ghostly thing, in the night,
amnesiac, wandering, in the night, not out to whore, just what's left, the remains, on
the stroll; taking a walk, pastoral, romantic, an innocent walk, lost in memories, lost in
fog, lost in dark; having forgotten; but I got muscles packed with memory; hard, thick,
solid, from the positions reenacted, down on my knees, down on my back; I got
memories packed in my bones, because my brain don't make distinctions no more;
can't tell him from him from him; I have an intuitive dread; of him and him and him;
there's a heightened anxiety; I'm a nervous girl, Victorian nerves, strain, a delicate
constitution in the sense that my brain is frail, pale; but my muscles is packed, it's
adrenaline, from fear; there's a counterproductive side to creating too much fear, it's a
meta‐amphetamine, it's meta‐speed, it's meta‐coke, it's more testosterone than thou, I
got a body packed with rage, you ever seen rage all stored up like a treasure in the
body of a woman? I don't need no full capacity brain, as you so eloquently have
insisted; I got sunstrokes in my head, enough daylight to carry me through any
darkness, I am lit up from inside, a bursting sun; brain light I am a citizen of the night,
on a stroll, no dark places keep secrets from me, I am drawn to them by a secret
radiance, the light that emanates from the human heart, some poor bum, a poor man,
poor fucking drunk somewhere in the shadows hiding his poor drunk heart in the
dark, but I find him, I see the pure light of his pure heart, I find him, some asshole, a
vagrant, clutching his bottle, and I like them big, I like them hairy, their skin's red and
bulbous, all swelled from drinking, they're mean, they'd kill you for the fucking bottle
they're clutching to them, sometimes they got it buried under them, and they're curled
up on cardboard or newspapers on the street, all secure in the shadows, manly men,
behind garbage cans, hidden in the dark; but the light in them reaches out to the light
in me, my brothers, myself, I pick on men at least twice my size, I like them with fine
shoulders, wide, real men, I like them six feet or more, I like them vicious, I pick them
big and mean, the danger psyches me up but what I appreciate is their surprise, which
is absolute, their astonishment, which invigorates me; how easy it is to make them eat
shit; they will always underestimate me, always, from which I enunciate the political
principle, Always pick on men at least twice your size. This is the value of practice as
opposed to theory; they're so easy; so arrogant; so used to the world always being the
way they thought it was. The small ones are harder. The small ones have to learn to
fight early and take nothing for granted, the small, wiry ones you cannot surprise;
when I am a master I will take on the small, wiry ones; or assign them to someone
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else, maybe someone who can step on them, a real tall girl who would get something
out of it by just treating them like bugs; but now I take the big ones, and I fucking
smash their faces in; I kick them; I hit them; I kick them blind; I like smashing their
faces in with one kick, I like dancing on their chests, their rheumy old chests, with my
toes, big, swinging kicks, and I like one big one between the legs, for the sake of form
and symbolism, to pay my respects to content as such, action informed by the
imperatives of literature. Sometimes they got knives or bottles, they're fast, they're
good, but they are fucking drunk and all sprawled out, and I like smashing the bottles
into their fucking faces and I like taking the knives, for my collection; I like knives. I
find them drunk and lying down and I hurt them and I run; and I fucking don't care
about fair; discuss fair at the U.N.; vote on it; from which I enunciate another political
principle, It is obscene for a girl to think about fair.
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LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part II
WORDS
Loving Books: Male/Female/Feminist
1985
Copyright © 1985, 1988, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
After many years of barely being able to publish in magazines at all, the women at Hot
Wire, a magazine about music, asked me to write something about my identity as a
writer. Thematically, this follows up on some of what I wrote in "Nervous Interview."
With male writers, people want to know who they are. With women, stereotypes are
simply applied. The invitation from Hot Wire gave me an exceptionally short chance to
say something myself about my own identity and development.
I live a strange life, but often the strangest thing about it is that I still love books and
have faith in them and get courage from them as I did when I was young, hopeful, and
innocent. The innocence was particularly about what it takes to endure as a writer‐‐
simply to survive, if one is rigorous, unsentimental, radical, extreme, and tells the
truth. The books I loved when I was younger were by wild men: Dostoevsky, Rimbaud,
Allen Ginsberg among the living, Baudelaire, Whitman, the undecorous. I read Freud
and Darwin as great visionaries, their work culled from the fantastic, complex
imagination. My own values as a writer were set back then; and work by women
(except for Gone with the Wind and the Nancy Drew books1) intruded much later. In
eighth grade science class, my best girlfriend and I (lovers too) were both writing
novels as antidote to the boredom of learning by rote‐‐and these novels had women as
heroes who had great ambitions. They were named after Belle Starr and Amelia
Earhart: strange names, women who were not usual, not grounded, not boring.
I have never wanted to be less than a great writer; and I have never been afraid of
failing, the reason being that I would rather fail at that than succeed at anything else.
This ambition is deeply rooted in male identification: and many of the characteristics
that I value most in myself as a person and as a writer are. When young, I never
thought about being homosexual or bisexual or heterosexual: only about being like
Rimbaud. Artiste in the soon‐to‐be‐dead mode was my sexual orientation, my gender
identity, the most intense way of living: dying early the inevitable end of doing
everything with absolute passion. I was devoted to Sappho, her existence obscuring
the gender specificity of my true devotion. When I read books, I was the writer, not
the Lady. I was incorrigible: no matter what happened to me, no matter what price I
paid for being in this woman's body, for being used like a woman, treated like a
woman, I was the writer, not the Lady. Sexual annihilation, not esthetic burn‐out with
a magnificent literature left behind, was the real dead‐end for women too dense to
comprehend.
Feminism provided a way for me to understand my own life: why being free was not
just a matter of living without self‐imposed or social or sexual limits. My so‐called
freedom on many occasions nearly cost me my life, but there was neither tragedy nor
romance in this: neither Dostoevsky nor Rimbaud had ever ended up being sexually
used and cleaning toilets.
122
Sexual Politics was about the writing and sex I had adored; with big doses of
lesbianism too. I learned from this book what they were doing to me: see, said Millett,
here he does this and this and this to her. I wasn't the writer, after all. I was the her. I
had plenty of open wounds on my body, and I began to feel them hurt. Had I been the
user, not the used, my sensitivity probably would have approximated Henry Miller's.
This is not pleasant to face; so I don't. Someday I must.
I have learned tremendously from women writers as an adult; I have learned that
great writing from women is genuinely‐‐not romantically‐‐despised, and that the
books are written out of an open vein; I have learned about women's lives. My
ambitions as a writer still go back, too far, into my obsessions with the men; but what
I learned from them, I need every day of my writing life‐‐I am not afraid of
confrontation or risk, also not of arrogance or error‐‐I am happy not to even be able to
follow the rules of polite discourse, because I learned to hate them so early‐‐I love
what is raw and eloquent in writing but not feminine. I have learned to appreciate the
great subtlety and strength of women who write within the boundaries of a feminine
writing ethic: but I do not accept it for myself.
What I affirm here is that while I did not learn writing from women, I have learned
virtually everything important about what it means to be a woman from women
writers: and I have also learned much about male power from them, once I cared
enough about women as such to realize that male power was the theme my own life
had led me to. I know male power inside out, with knowledge of it gained by this
female body. I dare to confront it in my writing because of the audacity I learned from
male writers. I learned to confront it in life from living feminists, writers and activists
both, who lived political lives not bounded by either female frailty or male
ruthlessness; instead animated by the luminous self‐respect and militant compassion I
still hope to achieve.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Loving Books: Male/Female/Feminist," first published in Hot Wire, Vol. 1, No. 3, July
1985. Copyright © 1985 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
123
When I was 29, in the spring of 1974, I walked out of a poetry reading in Greenwich
Village because it had turned hateful toward women (a benefit for War Resisters
League no less). Outside on the sidewalk I ran into Andrea, then 27, who had walked
out for the same reason. We began to talk, then talk deeply‐‐and our conversation has
continued until today.
Andrea and I had been introduced earlier by a mutual friend, a theater director, at a
meeting of the then‐fledgling Gay Academic Union. Her first impression of me, she has
told me, was as a rather dim blond beach bum. We were an unlikely match.
That spring Andrea's first book, Woman Hating, was published. One day she visited
me at my Upper West Side apartment, thrilled to have received her first author's
copies. She gave me one, and I read it immediately, enthralled and laughing out loud
with joy. I especially remember where Andrea writes that "'man' and 'woman' are
fictions, caricatures, cultural constructs" and that "we are . . . a multisexed species." As
I described it 15 years later in my own first book, "that liberating recognition saved
my life."
Who can explain how anyone recognizes that they have fallen in love and that life
apart is simply unthinkable? All I know is that's what happened to me. Our
conversations seemed to want to go on forever‐‐so we decided to live together. In
August 1993 we celebrated our 19th anniversary‐‐with orchestra seats to Angels in
America.
We never make a big deal about our personal relationship‐‐in fact we are always quite
private, even among our closest friends. Without a private life, one does not have a
private life. I have used autobiographical material in my writing‐‐both obviously and
obliquely‐‐and so has Andrea. But often in respect of Andrea's privacy or ours, I make
decisions I might otherwise not if I lived alone.
Once we agreed to give a joint interview to the New York Times Style page‐‐surely not
the smartest thing we have ever done. Its editor refused to allow the writer to identify
us as gay and lesbian, as we had asked. The article appeared on Women's Equality Day
1985; the photo and excerpts later showed up in pornography magazines. Once
Andrea was defrauded by a woman into giving an interview that touched on our
private life and that then appeared sensationalized in Penthouse. So I state only the
simplest facts publicly: yes, Andrea and I live together and love each other and we are
each other's life partner, and yes we are both out.
Andrea has taught me a great deal about the meaning of home. She writes frequently
and eloquently about women who feel homeless or are potentially homeless because
they lack a man's earning power, or a lover or husband abuses them, or there seems
no choice but to exchange sex for a place to sleep. I have come to understand that
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home means something to Andrea that many women long for but can rarely take for
granted.
I grew up not having to think about home that way at all. I can easily fall asleep
whenever I am tired (I do not have Andrea's memories of trembling in a downtown
storefront with a knife beside her bed to fend off an intruder). I can generally sleep
soundly through the night, except to pee, with no bad dreams (I do not have Andrea's
nightmares of being violently awakened by an abusive man coming home drunk and
wanting something). Living with Andrea has taught me most of all that the world I
grew up in and live in as a man is a world that most women can only dream of. And so
home has to be the place where that dream is true.
Andrea has completed nine of her ten major works while we have shared home.
Andrea has steadfastly improved and grown in stature as a writer during this life
together‐‐and I am proud that living with me has been a help, not a hindrance.
Over time, "home" has been seven different places, including an apartment in
Northhampton, Massachusetts, where we scraped by on food stamps; a mold‐growing
bunker on a buggy island in the Florida Keys; and a rat‐ridden, fumy walk‐up on
Manhattan's Lower East Side. We are now fortunate to own our own house, a
Victorian brownstone in Brooklyn, filled with warm colors and woodwork and walls
full of books. We feel almost blissfully happy here‐‐partly because it is our snug
harbor against the storm, but also because Andrea and I have completely different
writing rhythms: She sleeps by day and works all night long, a teapot and our cats for
company. I do my best work first thing in the morning, coffee cup by coffee cup, after a
night's sleep. We found exactly the house to accommodate our syncopation: work,
sleep, meals together, ever more conversation.
Another difference between our writing methods is that I tend to talk a great deal
about whatever I am working on: Andrea is usually the first person to hear the idea‐‐
often because it originates in one of our conversations‐‐and she is the one person I
show all successive drafts. I tend to chatter on, full of enthusiasm (however
occasionally overinflated) about each session's output. Andrea's way is to show me
what she has done once she has really done it.
While Andrea is working on something new, our talk tends not to be about her
evolving text so much as the emotions that have come up in the process: her visceral
reactions to the primary sources she used writing Pornography; her still‐raw
memories of multiple rape while writing Mercy; and these days, as she researches her
next book, the meaning of the Holocaust.
Andrea's writing has been deeply influenced by other novelists and writers of serious
nonfiction; she reads the greats and succès d'estimes voraciously; she shops in
bookstores the way an addict buys drugs. I come from an avant‐garde playwriting
background complicated by 15 years in commercial publishing: I apprenticed as a
comma‐wonk at a national men's lifestyle magazine then took my copy‐editing skills
elsewhere, becoming managing editor of three national women's magazines. So at a
certain point I decided‐‐in the self‐righteous manner of a publishing‐industry serf‐‐
that I should teach Andrea Dworkin the correct use of "which" and "that." And I did.
Several years ago she was invited to join the American Heritage Dictionary's Usage
Panel‐‐for which she fills in periodic questionnaires with antiauthoritarian aplomb.
And she and I have a deal: I get to see the questionnaires, but only after she has
answered them. They fascinate me. Andrea's ear for language is of course laissez faire
and acutely attuned to real‐life human speech (we both abhor the ingrown prose of
academics)‐‐but she still assiduously adheres to the distinction between "which" and
"that."
Andrea's work and mine are sometimes "about" the same themes, but expressed in
very different ways. The complex cultural and interpersonal meaning of male‐male
125
intercourse, for instance, is a subject we have both explored‐‐Andrea most profoundly
in Intercourse where she parsed that intimate intersection of literature, life, and law. I
am rather in awe of the intellection in that book, and I crib ideas from it shamelessly.
But I am more likely to treat of assfucking more puckishly‐‐in rhymed quatrains and
limericks, for instance, as in my book debunking "manhood."
In the early days Andrea and I talked endlessly about the double standard, and we still
do, because it is a constant theme of her life, not mine. Had I lived with another man, I
doubt I would ever know so much about it. I have often wondered: Is there a living
male writer and political dissident whose work is comparable to Andrea's in terms of
his contribution both to letters and to international human‐rights discourse? does he
have the same trouble getting published? is he similarly ridiculed and reviled?
I try not to think about all the slanders and attacks on Andrea that are regularly
printed in Playboy, other pornography magazines and journals of opinion funded by
sex‐industry revenue, such as the Village Voice. I try not to; but the truth is, it
sometimes really hurts. When Hustler vilified Andrea with cartoons that were anti‐
Semitic and sexually explicit, she brought a libel suit against the publisher. Andrea's
and Larry Flynt's lawyers deposed me, and I found I could not get through the
interview without breaking down in sobs.
It also sometimes gets to me when women smear Andrea‐‐vengefully, spitefully,
misogynistically‐‐women academics, women journalists, even self‐styled feminist
ones. When I first began to identify as a radical feminist nearly 20 years ago, one of the
hardest things for me to accept was that male supremacy gives so many people rotten
characters‐‐both male and female. I had to find a core feminist faith for myself that did
not stand or fall based on any individual woman's character. I had to find for myself an
inner conviction about sex and fairness and gender and civil equality that could
withstand onslaughts even in the name of so‐called feminism‐‐pro‐pornography, pro‐
prostitution, pro‐sadomasochism "feminism," for instance.
I believe that I have found such a conviction‐‐a coherent and cogent political vision‐‐
that depends neither upon women's perfectibility nor mine. I am grateful to Andrea
Dworkin that her life and work have taught it to me. And I am grateful to Andrea for
the love that has shown me how it can come true.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
John Stoltenberg is author of Refusing to Be a Man (Penguin USA/Meridian, 1990) and
The End of Manhood: A Book for Men of Conscience (Penguin USA/Plume, 1994).
126
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE INTRODUCTION. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
By Andrea Dworkin
INTRODUCTION
Copyright © 1988, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
I used to work as an assistant to the late poet Muriel Rukeyser. I typed okay, but I was
no respecter of margins and I didn't like using capital letters, so I wasn't too useful in
preparing business letters. I couldn't file because I could never understand why
something should be under one heading and not under another, equally apt in my
view. When I went to deliver packages, usually manuscripts, for Muriel, or to pick
them up, I usually got into a political fight, or ardent discussion, with whoever
answered the door. When I went to the library to do research for her, I would get all
the material on her chosen subject, survey it all, decide it was too boring and she
couldn't have had this in mind at all, and go back with nothing. I was the worst
assistant in the history of the world. But Muriel kept me on because she believed in
me as a writer. No matter how much I fucked up, I had a job, a little change in my
pocket, a warm place to go, lunch and dinner, for as long as I could stand it. She had
already decided to stand it: she believed in doing whatever was necessary to keep a
writer of talent (in her estimation) going. I don't think she ever would have fired me.
She had made great sacrifices in her life for both politics and writing, but none, I
suspect, had quite the comic quality of her insistent support for me. Out of mercy (and
guilt), I eventually quit.
Muriel gave me my first book party, to celebrate the publication of Woman Hating;
and I thought that was it‐‐I was a writer (sort of like being an archangel) forever.
Everything she had tried to tell me was lost on me. She had tried to make me
understand that, for a writer, endurance mattered more than anything‐‐not talent, not
luck; endurance. One had to keep writing, not to make a brilliant or distinguished or
gorgeous first try, but to keep going, to last over hard time. Endurance, she would say,
was the difference between writers who mattered and writers who didn't. She had
had rough years. I hope someday her story will be told. It is a heroic story. She knew
the cost of keeping at writing in the face of poverty, ostracism, and especially
trivialization. She knew how much worse it was to be a woman. She knew that one
had to survive many desolations and injuries‐‐one would be both bloodied and
bowed; but one had to keep writing anyway‐‐through it, despite it, because of it,
around it, in it, under it goddam. I was twenty‐six, twenty‐seven. I had been through a
lot in life, but in writing I was an innocent, a kind of ecstatic idiot. For me, writing was
pure, magic, the essence of both integrity and power, uncorrupted by anything mean
or mundane. Books were luminous, sacred. Writers were heroes of conscience,
intensity, sincerity. I had no idea what it meant to endure over time. I had no idea how
hard it was to do.
Now, at forty‐one, the truth is that I am still a fool for writing. I love it. I believe in it. I
do know now how hard it is to keep going. It is perhaps understatement to say that I
have never been a prudent writer. In a sense, I am more reckless now than when I
started out because I know what everything costs and it doesn't matter. I have paid a
lot to write what I believe to be true. On one level, I suffer terribly from the disdain
that much of my work has met. On another, deeper level, I don't give a fuck. It is this
indifference to pain‐‐which is real‐‐that enables one to keep going. One develops a
warrior's discipline or one stops. Pain becomes irrelevant. Being a writer isn't easy or
even very civilized. It is not a bourgeois indulgence. It is not a natural outcome of good
manners mixed with intelligence and filtered through language. It is primitive and it is
127
passionate. Writers get underneath the agreed‐on amenities, the lies a society
depends on to maintain the status quo, by becoming ruthless, pursuing the truth in the
face of intimidation, not by being compliant or solicitous. No society likes it and no
society says thank you. We think that contemporary western democracies are
different but we are wrong. The society will mobilize to destroy the writer who
opposes or threatens its favorite cruelties: in this case, the dominance of men over
women. I have been asked a lot, by interviewers and by women I meet when I travel to
speak, what courage is, or how to be courageous. Often, I think that courage is a kind
of stupidity, an incapacity, a terrifying insensitivity to pain and fear. Writers need this
kind of courage. The macho men romanticize it. I think it is a partial death of the soul.
These are essays and speeches, an occasional interview or book review, written from
1976 to 1987. l wrote them to communicate and to survive: as a writer and as a
woman; for me, the two are one. I wrote them because I care about fairness and
justice for women. I wrote them because I believe in bearing witness, and I have seen
a lot. I wrote them because people are being hurt and the injury has to stop. I wrote
them because I believe in writing, in its power to right wrongs, to change how people
see and think, to change how and what people know, to change how and why people
act. I wrote them out of the conviction, Quaker in its origin, that one must speak truth
to power. This is the basic premise for all my work as a feminist: activism or writing. I
wrote these pieces because I believe that women must wage a war against silence:
against socially coerced silence; against politically preordained silence; against
economically choreographed silence; against the silence created by the pain and
despair of sexual abuse and second‐class status. And I wrote these essays, gave these
speeches, because I believe in people: that we can disavow cruelty and embrace the
simple compassion of social equality. I don't know why I believe these things; only
that I do believe them and act on them.
Every piece in this book is part of my own war against the silence of women. Only four
pieces were published in mainstream magazines with decent, not wonderful,
circulations: three were published in Ms., the last one in 1983, and one was published
in Mother Jones a decade ago. Most of the essays and speeches were published in tiny,
ephemeral newspapers, most of which are no longer publishing. Three of these pieces
were eventually published in the widely distributed anthology Take Back the Night.
Seven of these pieces have never been published at all; four have been published in
English but have never been published in the United States; one, "Letter from a War
Zone", has been published in German and in Norwegian but never in English; and two
(one on "Wuthering Heights" and one on "Voyage in the Dark") were written for this
collection. None of these pieces, despite repeated efforts over years, were published in
The Nation, The New Republic, The Progressive, The Village Voice, Inquiry, left‐liberal
periodicals that pretend to be freewheeling forums for radical debate and all of which
have published vicious articles with nasty, purposeful misrepresentations of what I
believe or advocate. Some of my pieces were written in the aftermath of such attacks‐‐
most were written in the social environment created by them‐‐but I have never been
given any right of response. And none of these pieces, despite repeated efforts over
years, have been published in the magazines that presume to intellectual
independence: for instance, The Atlantic or Harper's. And I have never been able to
publish anything on the op‐ed page of The New York Times, even though I have been
attacked by name and my politics and my work have been denounced editorially so
many times over the last decade that I am dizzy from it. And I have never been able to
publish in, say, Esquire or Vogue, two magazines that publish essays on political
issues, including pornography, and also pay writers real money. I have been able to
travel in the United States and Canada to speak. If the work in this book has had any
influence, that is the main reason.
These essays and speeches present a political point of view, an analysis, information,
arguments, that are censored out of the Amerikan press by the Amerikan press to
protect the pornographers and to punish me for getting way out of line. I am, of
course, a politically dissident writer but by virtue of gender I am a second‐class
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politically dissident writer. That means that I can be erased, maligned, ridiculed in
violent and abusive language, and kept from speaking in my own voice by people
pretending to stand for freedom of speech. It also means that every misogynist
stereotype can be invoked to justify the exclusion, the financial punishment, the
contempt, the forced exile from published debate. The fact is that these essays and
speeches speak for and to vast numbers of women condemned to silence by this same
misogyny, this same sadistic self‐righteousness, this same callous disregard for human
rights and human dignity. I do know, of course, that I am not supposed to keep on
writing. One is supposed to disappear as a writer. I have not. I hope that I will not. I
know that some other people share the same hope; and I take this opportunity to
thank them for the help they have given me over this decade of trying‐‐as I said
earlier‐‐to communicate and to survive, as a writer and as a woman; the two are one
for me.
Andrea Dworkin
New York City
November 1987
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Copyright © 1988, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
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LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part IV
THE NEW TERRORISM
actually say that‐‐cameras, after all, hadn't been invented yet; but they interpret their
constitution to protect their fun. They have laws and judges that call the women
hanging from the trees "free speech." There are films in which women are urinated on,
defecated on, cut, maimed, and scholars and politicians call them "free speech." The
politicians, of course, deplore them. There are photographs in which women's breasts
are slammed in sprung rat traps‐‐in which things (including knives, guns, glass) are
stuffed in our vaginas‐‐in which we are gang‐banged, beaten, tortured‐‐and journalists
and intellectuals say: Well, there is a lot of violence against women but . . . But what,
prick? But we run this country, cunt.
If you are going to hurt a woman in the United States, be sure to take a photograph.
This will confirm that the injury you did to her expressed a point‐of‐view, sacrosanct
in a free society. Hey, you have a right not to like women in a democracy, man. In the
very unlikely event that the victim can nail you for committing a crime of violence
against her, your photograph is still constitutionally protected, since it communicates
so eloquently. The woman, her brutalization, the pain, the humiliation, her smile‐‐
because you did force her to smile, didn't you?‐‐can be sold forever to millions of
normal men (them again) who‐‐so the happy theory goes‐‐are having a "cathartic"
experience all over her. It's the same with snuff films, by the way. You can torture and
disembowel a woman, ejaculate on her dismembered uterus, and even if they do put
you away someday for murder (a rather simple‐minded euphemism), the film is
legally speech.
In the early days, feminism was primitive. If something hurt women, feminists were
against it, not for it. In 1970, radical feminists forcibly occupied the offices of the
ostensibly radical Grove Press because Grove published pornography marketed as
sexual liberation and exploited its female employees. Grove's publisher, an eminent
boy‐revolutionary, considered the hostile demonstration CIA‐inspired. His pristine
radicalism did not stop him from calling the very brutal New York City police and
having the women physically dragged out and locked up for trespassing on his private
property. Also in 1970, radical feminists seized Rat, an underground rag that devoted
itself, in the name of revolution, to pornography and male chauvinism equally, the
only attention gender got on the radical left. The pornographers, who think
strategically and actually do know what they are doing, were quick to react. "These
chicks are our natural enemy," wrote Hugh Hefner in a secret memo leaked to
feminists by secretaries at Playboy. "It is time we do battle with them... What I want is
a devastating piece that takes the militant feminists apart." What he got were huge,
raucous demonstrations at Playboy Clubs in big cities.
Activism against pornography continued, organized locally, ignored by the media but
an intrinsic part of the feminist resistance to rape. Groups called Women Against
Violence Against Women formed independently in many cities. Pornography was
understood by feminists (without any known exception) as woman‐hating, violent,
rapist. Robin Morgan pinpointed pornography as the theory, rape as the practice.
Susan Brownmiller, later a founder of the immensely influential Women Against
Pornography, saw pornography as woman‐hating propaganda that promoted rape.
These insights were not banal to feminists who were beginning to comprehend the
gynocidal and terrorist implications of rape for all women. These were emerging
political insights, not learned‐by‐rote slogans.
Sometime in 1975, newspapers in Chicago and New York City revealed the existence
of snuff films. Police detectives, trying to track down distribution networks, said that
prostitutes, probably in Central America, were being tortured, slowly dismembered,
then killed, for the camera . Prints of the films were being sold by organized crime to
private pornography collectors in the United States.
In February 1976, a day or two before Susan B. Anthony's birthday, a snazzy, first‐run
movie house in Times Square showed what purported to be a real snuff film. The
marquee towered above the vast Times Square area, the word Snuff several feet high
in neon, next to the title the words "made in South America where life is cheap." In the
ads that blanketed the subways, a woman's body was cut in half.
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We felt despair, rage, pain, grief. We picketed every night. It rained every night. We
marched round and round in small circles. We watched men take women in on dates.
We watched the women come out, physically sick, and still go home with the men. We
leafleted. We screamed out of control on street corners. There was some vandalism:
not enough to close it down. We tried to get the police to close it down. We tried to get
the District Attorney to close it down. You have no idea what respect those guys have
for free speech.
The pimp who distributed the film would come to watch the picket line and laugh at
us. Men who went in laughed at us. Men who walked by laughed at us. Columnists in
newspapers laughed at us. The American Civil Liberties Union ridiculed us through
various spokesmen (in those days, they used men). The police did more than laugh at
us. They formed a barricade with their bodies, guns, and nightsticks‐‐to protect the
film from women. One threw me in front of an oncoming car. Three protesters were
arrested and locked up for using obscene language to the theatre manager. Under the
United States Constitution, obscene language is not speech. Understand: it is not that
obscene language is unprotected speech; it is not considered speech at all. The
protesters, talking, used obscene language that was not speech; the maiming in the
snuff film, the knife eviscerating the woman, was speech. All this we had to learn.
We learned a lot, of course. Life may be cheap, but knowledge never is. We learned
that the police protect property and that pornography is property. We learned that
the civil liberties people didn't give a damn, my dear: a woman's murder, filmed to
bring on orgasm, was speech, and they didn't even mind (these were the days before
they learned that they had to say it was bad to hurt women). The ACLU did not have a
crisis of conscience. The District Attorney went so far as to find a woman he claimed
was "the actress" in the film to show she was alive. He held a press conference. He said
that the only law the film broke was the law against fraud. He virtually challenged us
to try to get the pimps on fraud, while making clear that if the film had been real, no
United States law would have been broken because the murder would have occurred
elsewhere. So we learned that. During the time Snuff showed in New York City, the
bodies of several women, hacked to pieces, were found in the East River and several
prostitutes were decapitated. We also learned that.
When we started protesting Snuff, so‐called feminist lawyers, many still leftists at
heart, were on our side: no woman could sit this one out. We watched the radical boy
lawyers pressure, threaten, ridicule, insult, and intimidate them; and they did
abandon us. They went home. They never came back. We saw them learn to love free
speech above women. Having hardened their radical little hearts to Snuff, what could
ever make them put women first again?
There were great events. In November 1978, the first feminist conference on
pornography was held in San Francisco. It culminated in the country's first Take Back
the Night March: well over 3000 women shut down San Francisco's pornography
district for one night. In October 1979, over 5000 women and men marched on Times
Square. One documentary of the march shows a man who had come to Times Square
to buy sex looking at the sea of women extending twenty city blocks and saying,
bewildered and dismayed: "I can't find one fucking woman." In 1980, Linda Marchiano
published Ordeal. World‐famous as Linda Lovelace, the porn‐queen extraordinaire of
Deep Throat, Marchiano revealed that she had been forced into prostitution and
pornography by brute terrorism. Gang‐raped, beaten, kept in sexual slavery by her
pimp/husband (who had legal rights over her as her husband), forced to have
intercourse with a dog for a film, subjected to a sustained sadism rarely found by
Amnesty International with regard to political prisoners, she dared to survive, escape,
and expose the men who had sexually used her (including Playboy's Hugh Hefner and
Screw's Al Goldstein). The world of normal men (the consumers) did not believe her;
they believed Deep Throat. Feminists did believe her. Today Marchiano is a strong
feminist fighting pornography.
In 1980, when I read Ordeal, I understood from it that every civil right protected by
law in this country had been broken on Linda's prostituted body. I began to see gang
rape, marital rape and battery, prostitution, and other forms of sexual abuse as civil
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rights violations which, in pornography, were systematic and intrinsic (the
pornography could not exist without them). The pornographers, it was clear, violated
the civil rights of women much as the Ku Klux Klan in this country had violated the
civil rights of blacks. The pornographers were domestic terrorists determined to
enforce, through violence, an inferior status on people born female. The second‐class
status of women itself was constructed through sexual abuse; and the name of the
whole system of female subordination was pornography‐‐men's orgasm and sexual
pleasure synonymous with women's sexually explicit inequality. Either we were
human, equal, citizens, in which case the pornographers could not do to us what they
did with impunity and, frankly, constitutional protection; or we were inferior, not
protected as equal persons by law, and so the pimps could brutalize us, the normal
men could have a good time, the pimps and their lawyers and the normal men could
call it free speech, and we could live in hell. Either the pornographers and the
pornography did violate the civil rights of women, or women had no rights of equality.
I asked Catharine A. MacKinnon, who had pioneered sexual harassment litigation, if
we could mount a civil rights suit in Linda's behalf. Kitty worked with me, Gloria
Steinem (an early and brave champion of Linda), and several lawyers for well over a
year to construct a civil rights suit. It could not, finally, be brought, because the statute
of limitations on every atrocity committed against Linda had expired; and there was
no law against showing or profiting from the films she was coerced into making. Kitty
and I were despondent; Gloria said our day would come. It did‐‐in Minneapolis on
December 30, 1983, when the City Council passed the first human rights legislation
ever to recognize pornography as a violation of the civil rights of all women. In
Minneapolis, a politically progressive city, pornography had been attacked as a class
issue for many years. Politicians cynically zoned adult bookstores into poor and black
areas of the city. Violence against the already disenfranchised women and children
increased massively; and the neighborhoods experienced economic devastation as
legitimate businesses moved elsewhere. The civil rights legislation was passed in
Minneapolis because poor people, people of color (especially Native Americans and
blacks), and feminists demanded justice.
But first, understand this. Since 1970, but especially after Snuff, feminist
confrontations with pornographers had been head‐on: militant, aggressive,
dangerous, defiant. We had thousands of demonstrations. Some were inside theatres
where, for instance, feminists in the audience would scream like hell when a woman
was being hurt on the screen. Feminists were physically dragged from the theatres by
police who found the celluloid screams to be speech and the feminist screams to be
disturbing the peace. Banners were unfurled in front of ongoing films. Blood was
poured on magazines and sex paraphernalia designed to hurt women. Civil
disobedience, sit‐ins, destruction of magazines and property, photographing
consumers, as well as picketing, leafletting, letter‐writing, and debating in public
forums, have all been engaged in over all these years without respite. Women have
been arrested repeatedly: the police protecting, always, the pornographers. In one
jury trial, three women, charged with two felonies and one misdemeanor for pouring
blood over pornography, said that they were acting to prevent a greater harm‐‐rape;
they also said that the blood was already there, they were just making it visible. They
were acquitted when the jury heard testimony about the actual use of pornography in
rape and incest from the victims: a raped woman; an incestuously abused teenager.
So understand this too: feminism works; at least primitive feminism works. We used
militant activism to defy and to try to destroy the men who exist to hurt women, that
is, the pimps who make pornography. We wanted to destroy‐‐not just put some polite
limits on but destroy‐‐their power to hurt us; and millions of women, each alone at
first, one at a time, began to remember, or understand, or find words for how she
herself had been hurt by pornography, what had happened to her because of it. Before
feminists took on the pornographers, each woman, as always, had thought that only
she had been abused in, with, or because of pornography. Each woman lived in
isolation, fear, shame. Terror creates silence. Each woman had lived in unbreachable
silence. Each woman had been deeply hurt by the rape, the incest, the battery; but
something more had happened too, and there was no name for it and no description of
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it. Once the role of pornography in creating sexual abuse was exposed‐‐rape by rape,
beating by beating, victim by victim‐‐our understanding of the nature of sexual abuse
itself changed. To talk about rape alone, or battery alone, or incest alone, was not to
talk about the totality of how the women had been violated. Rape or wife‐beating or
prostitution or incest were not discrete or free‐standing phenomena. We had thought:
some men rape; some men batter; some men fuck little girls. We had accepted an inert
model of male sexuality: men have fetishes; the women must always be blond, for
instance; the act that brings on orgasm must always be the same. But abuse created by
pornography was different: the abuse was multifaceted, complex; the violations of
each individual woman were many and interconnected; the sadism was exceptionally
dynamic. We found that when pornography created sexual abuse, men learned any
new tricks the pornographers had to teach. We learned that anything that hurt or
humiliated women could be sex for men who used pornography; and male sexual
practice would change dramatically to accommodate violations and degradations
promoted by the pornography. We found that sexual abuses in a woman's life were
intricately and complexly connected when pornography was a factor: pornography
was used to accomplish incest and then the child would be used to make
pornography; the pornography‐consuming husband would not just beat his wife but
would tie her, hang her, torture her, force her into prostitution, and film her for
pornography; pornography used in gang rape meant that the gang rape was enacted
according to an already existing script, the sadism of the gang rape enhanced by the
contributions of the pornographers. The forced filming of forced sex became a new
sexual violation of women. In sexual terms, pornography created for women and
children concentration camp conditions. This is not hyperbole.
One psychologist told the Minneapolis City Council about three cases involving
pornography used as "recipe books": "Presently or recently I have worked with clients
who have been sodomized by broom handles, forced to have sex with over 20 dogs in
the back seat of their car, tied up and then electrocuted on their genitals. These are
children [all] in the ages of 14 to 18 . . . where the perpetrator has read the manuals
and manuscripts at night and used these as recipe books by day or had the
pornography present at the time of the sexual violence."
A social worker who works exclusively with adolescent female prostitutes testified: "I
can say almost categorically never have I had a client who has not been exposed to
prostitution through pornography. . . For some young women that means that they are
shown pornography, either films, videotapes, or pictures as this is how you do it,
almost as a training manual in how to perform acts of prostitution. . . . In addition, out
on the street when a young woman is [working], many of her tricks or customers will
come up to her with little pieces of paper, pictures that were torn from a magazine
and say, I want this. . . . it is like a mail order catalogue of sex acts, and that is what she
is expected to perform. . . . Another aspect that plays a big part in my work . . . is that
on many occasions my clients are multi, many rape victims. These rapes are often
either taped or have photographs taken of the event. The young woman when she
tries to escape [is blackmailed]."
A former prostitute, testifying on behalf of a group of former prostitutes afraid of
exposure, confirmed: "[W]e were all introduced to prostitution through pornography,
there were no exceptions in our group, and we were all under 18." Everything done to
women in pornography was done to these young prostitutes by the normal men. To
them the prostitutes were synonymous with the pornography but so were all women,
including wives and daughters. The abuses of prostitutes were not qualitatively
different from the abuses of other women. Out of a compendium of pain, this is one
incident: "[A] woman met a man in a hotel room in the 8th Ward. When she got there
she was tied up while sitting on a chair nude. She was gagged and left alone in the
dark for what she believed to be an hour. The man returned with two other men. They
burned her with cigarettes and attached nipple clips to her breasts. They had many S
and M magazines with them and showed her many pictures of women appearing to
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consent, enjoy, and encourage this abuse. She was held for 12 hours, continuously
raped and beaten. She was paid $50 or about $2.33 per hour."
Racist violation is actively promoted in pornography; and the abuse has
pornography's distinctive dynamic‐‐an annihilating sadism, the brutality and
contempt taken wholesale from the pornography itself. The pornographic video game
"Custer's Revenge" generated many gang rapes of Native American women. In the
game, men try to capture a "squaw," tie her to a tree, and rape her. In the sexually
explicit game, the penis goes in and out, in and out. One victim of the "game" said:
"When I was first asked to testify I resisted some because the memories are so painful
and so recent. I am here because of my four‐year‐old daughter and other Indian
children. . . . I was attacked by two white men and from the beginning they let me
know they hated my people . . . And they let me know that the rape of a 'squaw' by
white men was practically honored by white society. In fact, it had been made into a
video game called 'Custer's Last Stand' [sic]. They held me down and as one was
running the tip of his knife across my face and throat he said, 'Do you want to play
Custer's Last Stand ? It's great, you lose but you don't care, do you? You like a little
pain, don't you, squaw?' They both laughed and then he said, 'There is a lot of cock in
Custer's Last Stand. You should be grateful, squaw, that All‐American boys like us
want you. Maybe we will tie you to a tree and start a fire around you."'
The same sadistic intensity and arrogance is evident in this pornography‐generated
gang rape of a thirteen‐year‐old girl. Three deer hunters, in the woods, looking at
pornography magazines, looked up and saw the blond child. "There's a live one," one
said. The three hunters chased the child, gang‐raped her, pistol‐whipped her breasts,
all the while calling her names from the pornography magazines scattered at their
campsite‐‐Golden Girl, Little Godiva, and so on." All three of them had hunting rifles.
They, two men held their guns at my head and the first man hit my breast with his
rifle and they continued to laugh. And then the first man raped me and when he was
finished they started making jokes about how I was a virgin . . . The second man then
raped me . . . The third man forced his penis into my mouth and told me to do it and I
didn't know how to do it. I did not know what I was supposed to be doing. . . . one of
the men pulled the trigger on his gun so I tried harder. Then when he had an erection,
he raped me. They continued to make jokes about how lucky they were to have found
me when they did and they made jokes about being a virgin. They started . . . kicking
me and told me that if I wanted more, I could come back the next day . . . I didn't tell
anyone that I was raped until I was 20 years old." These men, like the men who gang‐
raped the Native American woman, had fun; they were playing a game.
I am quoting from some representative but still relatively simple cases. Once the role
of pornography in the abuse is exposed, we no longer have just rape or gang rape or
child abuse or prostitution. We have, instead, sustained and intricate sadism with no
inherent or predictable limits on the kinds or degrees of brutality that will be used on
women or girls. We have torture; we have killer‐hostility.
Pornography‐saturated abuse is specific and recognizable because it is Nazism on
women's bodies: the hostility and sadism it generates are carnivorous. Interviewing
200 working prostitutes in San Francisco, Mimi H. Silbert and Ayala M. Pines
discovered astonishing patterns of hostility related to pornography. No questions
were asked about pornography. But so much information was given casually by the
women about the role of pornography in assaults on them that Silbert and Pines
published the data they had stumbled on. Of the 200 women, 193 had been raped as
adults and 178 had been sexually assaulted as children. That is 371 cases of sexual
assault on a population of 200 women. Twenty‐four percent of those who had been
raped mentioned that the rapist made specific references to pornography during the
rape: "the assailant referred to pornographic materials he had seen or read and then
insisted that the victims not only enjoyed the rape but also the extreme violence."
When a victim, in some cases, told the rapist that she was a prostitute and would
perform whatever sex act he wanted (to dissuade him from using violence), in all
cases the rapists responded in these ways: "(1) their language became more abusive,
(2) they became significantly more violent, beating and punching the women
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excessively, often using weapons they had shown the women, (3) they mentioned
having seen prostitutes in pornographic films, the majority of them mentioning
specific pornographic literature, and (4) after completing the forced vaginal
penetration, they continued to assault the women sexually in ways they claimed they
had seen prostitutes enjoy in the pornographic literature they cited." Examples
include forced anal penetration with a gun, beatings all over the body with a gun,
breaking bones, holding a loaded pistol at the woman's vagina "insisting this was the
way she had died in the film he had seen."
Studies show that between sixty‐five and seventy‐five percent of women in
pornography were sexually abused as children, often incestuously, many put into
pornography as children. One woman, for instance, endured this: "I'm an incest
survivor, ex‐pornography model and ex‐prostitute. My incest story begins before pre‐
school and ends many years later‐‐this was with my father. I was also molested by an
uncle and a minister . . . my father forced me to perform sexual acts with men at a stag
party when I was a teenager. I am from a 'nice' middle‐class family . . . My father is an
$80000 a year corporate executive, lay minister, and alcoholic . . . My father was my
pimp in pornography. There were 3 occasions from ages 9‐16 when he forced me to
be a pornography model. . . in Nebraska, so, yes, it does happen here." This woman is
now a feminist fighting pornography. She listens to men mostly debate whether or not
there is any social harm connected to pornography. People want experts. We have
experts. Society says we have to prove harm. We have proved harm. What we have to
prove is that women are human enough for harm to matter. As one liberal so‐called
feminist said recently: "What's the harm of pornography? A paper cut?" This woman
was a Commissioner on the so‐called Meese Commission. * She had spent a year of her
life looking at the brutalization of women in pornography and hearing the life‐stories
of pornography‐abused women. Women were not very human to her.
In pain and in privacy, women began to face, then to tell, the truth, first to themselves,
then to others. Now, women have testified before governmental bodies, in public
meetings, on radio, on television, in workshops at conventions of liberal feminists who
find all this so messy, so declasse, so unfortunate. Especially, the liberal feminists hate
it that this mess of pornography‐‐having to do something about these abuses of
women‐‐might interfere with their quite comfortable political alliances with all those
normal men, the consumers‐‐ who also happen to be, well, friends. They don't want
the stink of this kind of sexual abuse‐‐the down‐and‐dirty kind for fun and profit‐‐to
rub off on them. Feminism to them means getting success, not fighting oppression.
Here we are: weep for us. Society, with the acquiescence of too many liberal‐left
feminists, says that pornographers must not be stopped because the freedom of
everyone depends on the freedom of the pornographers to exercise speech. The
woman gagged and hanging remains the speech they exercise. In liberal‐left lingo,
stopping them is called censorship.
The civil rights law‐‐a modest approach, since it is not the barrel of a gun‐‐was passed
twice in Minneapolis, vetoed twice there by the mayor. In Indianapolis, a more
conservative city (where even liberal feminists are registered Republicans), a
narrower version was adopted: narrower means that only very violent pornography
was covered by the law. In Indianapolis, pornography was defined as the graphic,
sexually explicit subordination of women in pictures and/or words that also included
rape, pain, humiliation, penetration by objects or animals, or dismemberment. Men,
children, and transsexuals used in these ways could also use this law. The law made
pornographers legally and economically responsible for the harm they did to women.
Makers of pornography, exhibitors, sellers, and distributors could be sued for
trafficking in pornography. Anyone coerced into pornography could hold the makers,
sellers, distributors, or exhibitors liable for profiting from the coercion and could have
the coerced product removed from the marketplace. Anyone forced to watch
pornography in their home, place of work or education, or in public, could sue
whoever forces them and any institution that sanctions the force (for instance, a
university or an employer). Anyone physically assaulted or injured because of a
specific piece of pornography could sue the pornographer for money damages and get
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the pornography off the shelves. Under this law, pornography is correctly understood
and recognized as a practice of sex discrimination. Pornography's impact on the status
of women is to keep all women second‐class: targets of aggression and civilly inferior.
The United States courts have declared the Indianapolis civil rights law
unconstitutional. A Federal Appeals Court said that pornography did all the harm to
women we said it did‐‐causing us both physical injury and civil inferiority‐‐but its
success in hurting us only proved its power as speech. Therefore, it is protected
speech. Compared with the pimps, women have no rights.
The good news is that the pornographers are in real trouble, and that we made the
trouble. Playboy and Penthouse are both in deep financial trouble. Playboy has been
losing subscribers, and thus its advertising base, for years; both Playboy and
Penthouse have lost thousands of retail outlets for their wares in the last few years.
We have cost them their legitimacy.
The bad news is that we are in trouble. There is much violence against us,
pornography‐inspired. They make us, our bodies, pornography in their magazines,
and tell the normal men to get us good. We are followed, attacked, threatened. Bullets
were shot into one feminist antipornography center. Feminists have been harassed
out of their homes, forced to move. And the pornographers have found a bunch of girls
(as the women call themselves) to work for them: not the chickenshit liberals, but real
collaborators who have organized specifically to oppose the civil rights legislation and
to protect the pornographers from our political activism‐‐pornography should not be
a feminist issue, these so‐called feminists say. They say: Pornography is misogynist
but . . . The but in this case is that it derepresses us. The victims of pornography can
testify, and have, that when men get derepressed, women get hurt. These women say
they are feminists. Some have worked for the defeated Equal Rights Amendment or
for abortion rights or for equal pay or for lesbian and gay rights. But these days, they
organize to stop us from stopping the pornographers.
Most of the women who say they are feminists but work to protect pornography are
lawyers or academics: lawyers like the ones who walked away from Snuff; academics
who think prostitution is romantic, an unrepressed female sexuality. But whoever
they are, whatever they think they are doing, the outstanding fact about them is that
they are ignoring the women who have been hurt in order to help the pimps who do
the hurting. They are collaborators, not feminists.
The pornographers may well destroy us. The violence against us‐‐in the pornography,
in the general media, among men‐‐is escalating rapidly and dangerously. Sometimes
our despair is horrible. We haven't given in yet. There is a resistance here, a real one. I
can't tell you how brave and brilliant the resisters are. Or how powerless and hurt.
Surely it is clear: the most powerless women, the most exploited women, are the
women fighting the pornographers. Our more privileged sisters prefer not to take
sides. It's a nasty fight, all right. Feminism is dying here because so many women who
say they are feminists are collaborators or cowards. Feminism is magnificent and
militant here because the most powerless women are putting their lives on the line to
confront the most powerful men for the sake of all women. Be proud of us for fighting.
Be proud of us for getting so far. Help us if you can. The pornographers will have to
stop us. We will not give in. They know that and now so do you.
Love,
Andrea Dworkin
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
137
"Letter From a War Zone," first published in German in Emma, Vol. 6, No. 2, February
1987; also in Norwegian in Klassekampen, 1987. Copyright © 1986 by Andrea
Dworkin. All rights reserved.
138
Intercourse
Chapter 7
Occupation/Collaboration
by Andrea Dworkin. Copyright © 1987 by Andrea Dworkin. rights reserved.
Oh, God, who does not exist, you hate women, otherwise you'd have made them different.
And Jesus, who snubbed your mother, you hate them more. Roaming around all that time
with a bunch of men, fishing; and sermonsonthemount. Abandoning women. I thought
of all the women who had it, and didn't even know when the big moment was, and others
saying their rosary with the beads held over the side of the bed, and others saying, "Stop,
stop, you dirty old dog," and others yelling desperately to be jacked right up to their
middles, and it often leading to nothing, and them getting up out of bed and riding a
poor door knob and kissing the wooden face of a door and urging with foul language,
then crying, wiping the knob, and it all adding up to nothing either.
‐‐EDNA O'BRIEN, Girls in Their Married Bliss
This is nihilism; or this is truth. He has to push in past boundaries. There is the outline of a
body, distinct, separate, its integrity an illusion, a tragic deception, because unseen there is a
slit between the legs, and he has to push into it. There is never a real privacy of the body that
can coexist with intercourse: with being entered. The vagina itself is muscled and the
muscles have to be pushed apart. The thrusting is persistent invasion. She is opened up, split
down the center. She is occupied‐‐physically, internally, in her privacy.
A human being has a body that is inviolate; and when it is violated, it is abused. A woman has
a body that is penetrated in intercourse: permeable, its corporeal solidness a lie. The discourse of
male truth‐‐literature, science, philosophy, pornography‐‐calls that penetration violation. This it
does with some consistency and some confidence. Violation is a synonym for intercourse. At the
same time, the penetration is taken to be a use, not an abuse; a normal use; it is appropriate to
enter her, to push into ("violate") the boundaries of her body. She is human, of course, but by a
standard that does not include physical privacy. She is, in fact, human by a standard that precludes
physical privacy, since to keep a man out altogether and for a lifetime is deviant in the extreme, a
psychopathology, a repudiation of the way in which she is expected to manifest her humanity.
There is a deep recognition in culture and in experience that intercourse is both the normal
use of a woman, her human potentiality affirmed by it, and a violative abuse, her privacy
irredeemably compromised, her selfhood changed in a way that is irrevocable, unrecoverable. And
it is recognized that the use and abuse are not distinct phenomena but somehow a synthesized
reality: both are true at the same time as if they were one harmonious truth instead of mutually
exclusive contradictions. Intercourse in reality is a use and an abuse simultaneously, experienced
and described as such, the act parlayed into the illuminated heights of religious duty and the dark
recesses of morbid and dirty brutality. She, a human being, is supposed to have a privacy that is
absolute; except that she, a woman, has a hole between her legs that men can, must, do enter. This
hole, her hole, is synonymous with entry. A man has an anus that can be entered, but his anus is
not synonymous with entry. A woman has an anus that can be entered, but her anus is not
synonymous with entry. The slit between her legs, so simple, so hidden‐‐ frankly, so innocent‐‐ for
instance, to the child who looks with a mirror to see if it could be true‐‐is there an entrance to her
body down there? and something big comes into it? (how?) and something as big as a baby comes
out of it? (how?) and doesn't that hurt?‐‐that slit which means entry into her‐‐ intercourse‐‐
appears to be the key to women's lower human status. By definition, as the God who does not exist
made her, she is intended to have a lesser privacy, a lesser integrity of the body, a lesser sense of
self, since her body can be physically occupied and in the occupation taken over. By definition, as
the God who does not exist made her, this lesser privacy, this lesser integrity, this lesser self,
establishes her lesser significance: not just in the world of social policy but in the world of bare,
true, real existence. She is defined by how she is made, that hole, which is synonymous with entry;
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and intercourse, the act fundamental to existence, has consequences to her being that may be
intrinsic, not socially imposed.
There is no analogue anywhere among subordinated groups of people to this experience of
being made for intercourse: for penetration, entry, occupation. There is no analogue in occupied
countries or in dominated races or in imprisoned dissidents or in colonialized cultures or in the
submission of children to adults or in the atrocities that have marked the twentieth century
ranging from Auschwitz to the Gulag. There is nothing exactly the same, and this is not because the
political invasion and significance of intercourse is banal up against these other hierarchies and
brutalities. Intercourse is a particular reality for women as an inferior class; and it has in it, as part
of it, violation of boundaries, taking over, occupation, destruction of privacy, all of which are
construed to be normal and also fundamental to continuing human existence. There is nothing that
happens to any other civilly inferior people that is the same in its meaning and in its effect even
when those people are forced into sexual availability, heterosexual or homosexual; while subject
people, for instance, may be forced to have intercourse with those who dominate them, the God
who does not exist did not make human existence, broadly speaking, dependent on their
compliance. The political meaning of intercourse for women is the fundamental question of
feminism and freedom: can an occupied people‐‐physically occupied inside, internally invaded‐‐be
free; can those with a metaphysically compromised privacy have self‐determination; can those
without a biologically based physical integrity have self‐respect?
There are many explanations, of course, that try to be kind. Women are different but equal.
Social policy is different from private sexual behavior. The staggering civil inequalities between
men and women are simple, clear injustices unrelated to the natural, healthy act of intercourse.
There is nothing implicit in intercourse that mandates male dominance in society. Each individual
must be free to choose‐‐and so we expand tolerance for those women who do not want to be
fucked by men. Sex is between individuals, and social relations are between classes, and so we
preserve the privacy of the former while insisting on the equality of the latter. Women flourish as
distinct, brilliant individuals of worth in the feminine condition, including in intercourse, and have
distinct, valuable qualities. For men and women, fucking is freedom; and for men and women,
fucking is the same, especially if the woman chooses both the man and the act. Intercourse is a
private act engaged in by individuals and has no implicit social significance. Repression, as
opposed to having intercourse, leads to authoritarian social policies, including those of male
dominance. Intercourse does not have a metaphysical impact on women, although, of course,
particular experiences with individual men might well have a psychological impact. Intercourse is
not a political condition or event or circumstance because it is natural. Intercourse is not
occupation or invasion or loss of privacy because it is natural. Intercourse does not violate the
integrity of the body because it is natural. Intercourse is fun, not oppression. Intercourse is
pleasure, not an expression or confirmation of a state of being that is either ontological or social.
Intercourse is because the God who does not exist made it; he did it right, not wrong; and he does
not hate women even if women hate him. Liberals refuse categorically to inquire into even a
possibility that there is a relationship between intercourse per se and the low status of women.
Conservatives use what appears to be God's work to justify a social and moral hierarchy in which
women are lesser than men. Radicalism on the meaning of intercourse‐‐its political meaning to
women, its impact on our very being itself‐‐ is tragedy or suicide. "The revolutionary," writes
Octavio Paz paraphrasing Ortega y Gasset, "is always a radical, that is, he [sic] is trying to correct
the uses themselves rather than the mere abuses . . ." 1 With intercourse, the use is already imbued
with the excitement, the derangement, of the abuse; and abuse is only recognized as such socially if
the intercourse is performed so recklessly or so violently or so stupidly that the man himself has
actually signed a confession through the manner in which he has committed the act. What
intercourse is for women and what it does to women's identity, privacy, self‐respect, self‐
determination, and integrity are forbidden questions; and yet how can a radical or any woman
who wants freedom not ask precisely these questions? The quality of the sensation or the need for
a man or the desire for love: these are not answers to questions of freedom; they are diversions
into complicity and ignorance.
Some facts are known.
Most women do not experience orgasm from intercourse itself. When Shere Hite, in her
groundbreaking study, asked women to report their own sexual experiences in detail and depth,
she discovered that only three in ten women regularly experience orgasm from intercourse. The
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women's self‐reports are not ideological. They want men, love, sex, intercourse; they want orgasm;
but for most women, seven out of ten, intercourse does not cause orgasm. The women want, even
strive for, orgasm from intercourse but are unable to achieve it. Hite, the strongest feminist and
most honorable philosopher among sex researchers, emphasizes that women can and must take
responsibility for authentic sexual pleasure: "the ability to orgasm when we want, to be in charge
of our stimulation, represents owning our own bodies, being strong, free, and autonomous human
beings." 2
Intercourse occurs in a context of a power relation that is pervasive and incontrovertible.
The context in which the act takes place, whatever the meaning of the act in and of itself, is one in
which men have social, economic, political, and physical power over women. Some men do not
have all those kinds of power over all women; but all men have some kinds of power over all
women; and most men have controlling power over what they call their women‐‐the women they
fuck. The power is predetermined by gender, by being male.
Intercourse as an act often expresses the power men have over women. Without being what
the society recognizes as rape, it is what the society‐‐ when pushed to admit it‐‐recognizes as
dominance.
Intercourse often expresses hostility or anger as well as dominance.
Intercourse is frequently performed compulsively; and intercourse frequently requires as a
precondition for male performance the objectification of the female partner. She has to look a
certain way, be a certain type‐‐even conform to preordained behaviors and scripts‐‐for the man to
want to have intercourse and also for the man to be able to have intercourse. The woman cannot
exist before or during the act as a fully realized, existentially alive individual.
Despite all efforts to socialize women to want intercourse‐‐ e.g., women's magazines to
pornography to Dynasty; incredible rewards and punishments to get women to conform and put
out‐‐women still want a more diffuse and tender sensuality that involves the whole body and a
polymorphous tenderness.
There are efforts to reform the circumstances that surround intercourse, the circumstances
that at least apparently contribute to its disreputable (in terms of rights and justice) legend and
legacy. These reforms include: more deference to female sensuality prior to the act; less verbal
assault as part of sexual expressiveness toward women; some lip service to female initiation of sex
and female choice during lovemaking; less romanticizing of rape, at least as an articulated social
goal. Those who are political activists working toward the equality of women have other
contextual reforms they want to make: economic equity; women elected to political office; strong,
self‐respecting role models for girls; emphasis on physical strength and self‐defense, athletic
excellence and endurance; rape laws that work; strategies for decreasing violence against women.
These contextual reforms would then provide for the possibility that intercourse could be
experienced in a world of social equality for the sexes. These reforms do not in any way address
the question of whether intercourse itself can be an expression of sexual equality.
Life can be better for women‐‐economic and political conditions improved‐‐ and at the same
time the status of women can remain resistant, indeed impervious, to change: so far in history this
is precisely the paradigm for social change as it relates to the condition of women. Reforms are
made, important ones; but the status of women relative to men does not change. Women are still
less significant, have less privacy, less integrity, less self‐ determination. This means that women
have less freedom. Freedom is not an abstraction, nor is a little of it enough. A little more of it is not
enough either. Having less, being less, impoverished in freedom and rights, women then inevitably
have less self‐respect: less self‐respect than men have and less self‐respect than any human being
needs to live a brave and honest life. Intercourse as domination battens on that awful absence of
self‐respect. It expands to fill the near vacuum. The uses of women, now, in intercourse‐‐ not the
abuses to the extent that they can be separated out‐‐are absolutely permeated by the reality of
male power over women. We are poorer than men in money and so we have to barter sex or sell it
outright (which is why they keep us poorer in money). We are poorer than men in psychological
well‐being because for us self‐esteem depends on the approval‐‐frequently expressed through
sexual desire‐‐of those who have and exercise power over us. Male power may be arrogant or
elegant; it can be churlish or refined: but we exist as persons to the extent that men in power
recognize us. When they need some service or want some sensation, they recognize us somewhat,
with a sliver of consciousness; and when it is over, we go back to ignominy, anonymous, generic
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womanhood. Because of their power over us, they are able to strike our hearts dead with contempt
or condescension. We need their money; intercourse is frequently how we get it. We need their
approval to be able to survive inside our own skins; intercourse is frequently how we get it. They
force us to be compliant, turn us into parasites, then hate us for not letting go. Intercourse is
frequently how we hold on: fuck me. How to separate the act of intercourse from the social reality
of male power is not clear, especially because it is male power that constructs both the meaning
and the current practice of intercourse as such. But it is clear that reforms do not change women's
status relative to men, or have not yet. It is clear that reforms do not change the intractability of
women's civil inferiority. Is intercourse itself then a basis of or a key to women's continuing social
and sexual inequality? Intercourse may not cause women's orgasm or even have much of a
correlation with it‐‐indeed, we rarely find intercourse and orgasm in the same place at the same
time‐‐but intercourse and women's inequality are like Siamese twins, always in the same place at
the same time pissing in the same pot.
Women have wanted intercourse to work and have submitted‐‐with regret or with
enthusiasm, real or faked‐‐even though or even when it does not. The reasons have often been foul,
filled with the spiteful but carefully hidden malice of the powerless. Women have needed what can
be gotten through intercourse: the economic and psychological survival; access to male power
through access to the male who has it; having some hold‐‐psychological, sexual, or economic‐‐on
the ones who act, who decide, who matter. There has been a deep, consistent, yet of course muted
objection to what Anais Nin has called "[t]he hunter, the rapist, the one for whom sexuality is a
thrust, nothing more."3 Women have also wanted intercourse to work in this sense: women have
wanted intercourse to be, for women, an experience of equality and passion, sensuality and
intimacy. Women have a vision of love that includes men as human too; and women want the
human in men, including in the act of intercourse. Even without the dignity of equal power, women
have believed in the redeeming potential of love. There has been‐‐despite the cruelty of
exploitation and forced sex‐‐a consistent vision for women of a sexuality based on a harmony that
is both sensual and possible. In the words of sex reformer Ellen Key:
She will no longer be captured like a fortress or hunted like a quarry; nor will she like a
placid lake await the stream that seeks its way to her embrace. A stream herself, she will
go her own way to meet the other stream. 4
A stream herself, she would move over the earth, sensual and equal; especially, she will go
her own way.
Shere Hite has suggested an intercourse in which "thrusting would not be considered as
necessary as it now is. . . [There might be] more a mutual lying together in pleasure, penis‐in‐
vagina, vagina‐covering‐penis, with female orgasm providing much of the stimulation necessary
for male orgasm." 5
These visions of a humane sensuality based in equality are in the aspirations of women; and
even the nightmare of sexual inferiority does not seem to kill them. They are not searching
analyses into the nature of intercourse; instead they are deep, humane dreams that repudiate the
rapist as the final arbiter of reality. They are an underground resistance to both inferiority and
brutality, visions that sustain life and further endurance.
They also do not amount to much in real life with real men. There is, instead, the cold
fucking, duty‐bound or promiscuous; the romantic obsession in which eventual abandonment
turns the vagina into the wound Freud claimed it was; intimacy with men who dread women, coital
dread‐‐as Kafka wrote in his diary, "coitus as punishment for the happiness of being together." 6
Fear, too, has a special power to change experience and compromise any possibility of
freedom. A stream does not know fear. A woman does. Especially women know fear of men and of
forced intercourse. Consent in this world of fear is so passive that the woman consenting could be
dead and sometimes is. "Yeah," said one man who killed a woman so that he could fuck her after
she was dead, "I sexually assaulted her after she was dead. I always see them girls laid out in the
pictures with their eyes closed and I just had to do it. I dreamed about it for so long that I just had
to do it." 7 A Nebraska appeals court did not think that the murder "was especially heinous,
atrocious, cruel, or manifested exceptional depravity by ordinary standards of morality and
intelligence," and in particular they found "no evidence the acts were performed for the
satisfaction of inflicting either mental or physical pain or that pain existed for any prolonged
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period of time." 8 Are you afraid now? How can fear and freedom coexist for women in
intercourse?
The role of fear in destroying the integrity of men is easy to articulate, to understand, hard to
overstate. Men are supposed to conquer fear in order to experience freedom. Men are humiliated
by fear, not only in their masculinity but in their rights and freedoms. Men are diminished by fear;
compromised irrevocably by it because freedom is diminished by it. "Fear had entered his life,"
novelist Iris Murdoch wrote,
and would now be with him forever. How easy it was for the violent to win. Fear was
irresistible, fear was king, he had never really known this before when he had lived free
and without it. Even unreasoning fear could cripple a man forever. . . . How well he
understood how dictators flourished. The little grain of fear in each life was enough to
keep millions quiet. 9
Hemingway, using harder prose, wrote the same in book after book. But women are
supposed to treasure the little grain of fear‐‐rub up against it‐‐ eroticize it, want it, get excited by it;
and the fear could and does keep millions quiet: millions of women; being fucked and silent;
upright and silent; waiting and silent; rolled over on and silent; pursued and silent; killed, fucked,
and silent. The silence is taken to be appropriate. The fear is not perceived as compromising or
destroying freedom. The dictators do flourish: fuck and flourish.
Out of fear and inequality, women hide, use disguises, trying to pass for indigenous peoples
who have a right to be there, even though we cannot pass. Appropriating Octavio Paz's description
of the behavior of Mexicans in Los Angeles‐‐which he might not like: "they feel ashamed of their
origin . . . they act like persons who are wearing disguises, who are afraid of a stranger's look
because it could strip them and leave them stark naked." 10 Women hide, use disguises, because
fear has compromised freedom; and when a woman has intercourse‐‐ not hiding, dropping the
disguise‐‐she has no freedom because her very being has been contaminated by fear: a grain, a
tidal wave, memory or anticipation.
The fear is fear of power and fear of pain: the child looks at the slit with a mirror and
wonders how it can be, how will she be able to stand the pain. The culture romanticizes the rapist
dimension of the first time: he will force his way in and hurt her. The event itself is supposed to be
so distinct, so entirely unlike any other experience or category of sensation, that there is no
conception that intercourse can be part of sex, including the first time, instead of sex itself.
There is no slow opening up, no slow, gradual entry; no days and months of sensuality prior
to entry and no nights and hours after entry. Those who learn to eroticize powerlessness will learn
to eroticize the entry itself: the pushing in, the thrusting, the fact of entry with whatever force or
urgency the act requires or the man enjoys. There is virtually no protest about entry as such from
women; virtually no satire from men. A fairly formidable character in Don DeLillo's White Noise,
the wife, agrees to read pornography to her husband but she has one condition:
"I will read," she said. "But I don't want you to choose anything that has men inside
women, quotequote, or men entering women. 'I entered her.' 'He entered me.' We're not
lobbies or elevators. 'I wanted him inside me,' as if he could crawl completely in, sign the
register, sleep, eat, so forth. I don't care what these people do as long as they don't enter
or get entered."
"Agreed."
"'I entered her and began to thrust."'
"I'm in total agreement," I said.
"'Enter me, enter me, yes, yes."
"Silly usage, absolutely."
"'Insert yourself, Rex, I want you inside me, entering hard, entering deep, yes, now, oh.'"
11
Her protests make him hard. The stupidity of the "he entered her" motif makes her laugh,
not kindly. She hates it.
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We are not, of course, supposed to be lobbies or elevators. Instead, we are supposed to be
wombs, maternal ones; and the men are trying to get back in away from all the noise and grief of
being adult men with power and responsibility. The stakes for men are high, as Norman 0. Brown
makes clear in prose unusually understated for him:
Coitus successfully performed is incest, a return to the maternal womb; and the
punishment appropriate to this crime, castration. What happens to the penis is
coronation, followed by decapitation. 12
This is high drama for a prosaic act of commonplace entry. Nothing is at risk for her, the
entered; whereas he commits incest, is crowned king, and has his thing cut off. She might like to
return to the maternal womb too‐‐because life outside it is not easy for her either‐‐but she has to
be it, for husbands, lovers, adulterous neighbors, as well as her own children, boys especially.
Women rarely dare, as we say, draw a line: certainly not at the point of entry into our own bodies,
sometimes by those we barely know. Certainly they did not come from there, not originally, not
from this womb belonging to this woman who is being fucked now. And so we have once again the
generic meaning of intercourse‐‐he has to climb back into some womb, maternal enough; he has to
enter it and survive even coronation and decapitation. She is made for that; and what can it matter
to him that in entering her, he is entering this one, real, unique individual.
And what is entry for her? Entry is the first acceptance in her body that she is generic, not
individual; that she is one of a many that is antagonistic to the individual interpretation she might
have of her own worth, purpose, or intention. Entered, she accepts her subservience to his
psychological purpose if nothing else; she accepts being confused with his mother and his Aunt
Mary and the little girl with whom he used to play "Doctor." Entered, she finds herself
depersonalized into a function and worth less to him than he is worth to himself: because he broke
through, pushed in, entered. Without him there, she is supposed to feel empty, though there is no
vacuum there, not physiologically. Entered, she finds herself accused of regicide at the end. The
king dead, the muscles of the vagina contract again, suggesting that this will never be easy, never
be solved. Lovely Freud, of course, having discovered projection but always missing the point,
wrote to Jung: "In private I have always thought of Adonis as the penis; the woman's joy when the
god she had thought dead rises again is too transparent!" 13 Something, indeed, is too transparent;
women's joy tends to be opaque.
Entered, she has mostly given something up: to Adonis, the king, the coronation, the
decapitation for which she is then blamed; she has given up a dividing line between her and him.
Entered, she then finds out what it is to be occupied: and sometimes the appropriate imagery is of
evil and war, the great spreading evil of how soldiers enter and contaminate. In the words of
Marguerite Duras, "evil is there, at the gates, against the skin." 14 It spreads, like war, everywhere:
"breaking in everywhere, stealing, imprisoning, always there, merged and mingled . . . a prey to the
intoxicating passion of occupying that delightful territory, a child's body, the bodies of those less
strong, of conquered peoples." 15 She is describing an older brother she hates here ("I see wartime
and the reign of my elder brother as one" 16). She is not describing her lover, an older man fucking
an adolescent girl. But it is from the sex that she takes the texture of wartime invasion and
occupation, the visceral reality of occupation: evil up against the skin‐‐at the point of entry, just
touching the slit; then it breaks in and at the same time it surrounds everything, and those with
power use the conquered who are weaker, inhabit them as territory.
Physically, the woman in intercourse is a space inhabited, a literal territory occupied
literally: occupied even if there has been no resistance, no force; even if the occupied person said
yes please, yes hurry, yes more. Having a line at the point of entry into your body that cannot be
crossed is different from not having any such line; and being occupied in your body is different
from not being occupied in your body. It is human to experience these differences whether or not
one cares to bring the consequences of them into consciousness. Humans, including women,
construct meaning. That means that when something happens to us, when we have experiences,
we try to find in them some reason for them, some significance that they have to us or for us.
Humans find meaning in poverty and tyranny and the atrocities of history; those who have
suffered most still construct meaning; and those who know nothing take their ignorance as if it
were a precious, rare clay and they too construct meaning. In this way, humans assert that we have
worth; what has happened to us matters; our time here on earth is not entirely filled with random
events and spurious pain. On the contrary, we can understand some things if we try hard to learn
empathy; we can seek freedom and honor and dignity; that we care about meaning gives us a
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human pride that has the fragility of a butterfly and the strength of tempered steel. The measure of
women's oppression is that we do not take intercourse‐‐entry, penetration, occupation‐‐and ask or
say what it means: to us as a dominated group or to us as a potentially free and self‐determining
people. Instead, intercourse is a loyalty test; and we are not supposed to tell the truth unless it
compliments and upholds the dominant male ethos on sex. We know nothing, of course, about
intercourse because we are women and women know nothing; or because what we know simply
has no significance, entered into as we are. And men know everything‐‐all of them‐‐all the time‐‐no
matter how stupid or inexperienced or arrogant or ignorant they are. Anything men say on
intercourse, any attitude they have, is valuable, knowledgeable, and deep, rooted in the cosmos
and the forces of nature as it were: because they know; because fucking is knowing; because he
knew her but she did not know him; because the God who does not exist framed not only sex but
also knowledge that way. Women do not just lie about orgasm, faking it or saying it is not
important. Women lie about life by not demanding to understand the meaning of entry,
penetration, occupation, having boundaries crossed over, having lesser privacy: by avoiding the
difficult, perhaps impossible (but how will we ever know?) questions of female freedom. We take
oaths to truth all right, on the holy penis before entry. In so doing, we give up the most important
dimension of what it means to be human: the search for the meaning of our real experience,
including the sheer invention of that meaning‐‐ called creativity when men do it. If the questions
make the holy penis unhappy, who could survive what the answers might do? Experience is chosen
for us, then, imposed on us, especially in intercourse, and so is its meaning. We are allowed to have
intercourse on the terms men determine, according to the rules men make. We do not have to have
an orgasm; that terrible burden is on them. We are supposed to comply whether we want to or not.
Want is active, not passive or lethargic. Especially we are supposed to be loyal to the male
meanings of intercourse, which are elaborate, dramatic, pulling in elements of both myth and
tragedy: the king is dead! long live the king!‐‐and the Emperor wears designer jeans. We have no
freedom and no extravagance in the questions we can ask or the interpretations we can make. We
must be loyal; and on what scale would we be able to reckon the cost of that? Male sexual
discourse on the meaning of intercourse becomes our language. It is not a second language even
though it is not our native language; it is the only language we speak, however, with perfect fluency
even though it does not say what we mean or what we think we might know if only we could find
the right word and enough privacy in which to articulate it even just in our own minds. We know
only this one language of these folks who enter and occupy us: they keep telling us that we are
different from them; yet we speak only their language and have none, or none that we remember,
of our own; and we do not dare, it seems, invent one, even in signs and gestures. Our bodies speak
their language. Our minds think in it. The men are inside us through and through. We hear
something, a dim whisper, barely audible, somewhere at the back of the brain; there is some other
word, and we think, some of us, sometimes, that once it belonged to us.
There are female‐supremacist models for intercourse that try to make us the masters of this
language that we speak that is not ours. They evade some fundamental questions about the act
itself and acknowledge others. They have in common a glorious ambition to see women self‐
determining, vigorous and free lovers who are never demeaned or diminished by force or
subordination, not in society, not in sex. The great advocate of the female‐first model of
intercourse in the nineteenth century was Victoria Woodhull. She understood that rape was
slavery; not less than slavery in its insult to human integrity and human dignity. She acknowledged
some of the fundamental questions of female freedom presented by intercourse in her imperious
insistence that women had a natural right‐‐a right that inhered in the nature of intercourse itself‐‐
to be entirely self‐determining, the controlling and dominating partner, the one whose desire
determined the event, the one who both initiates and is the final authority on what the sex is and
will be. Her thinking was not mean‐spirited, some silly role reversal to make a moral point; nor
was it a taste for tyranny hidden in what pretended to be a sexual ethic. She simply understood
that women are unspeakably vulnerable in intercourse because of the nature of the act‐‐entry,
penetration, occupation; and she understood that in a society of male power, women were
unspeakably exploited in intercourse. Society‐‐men‐‐had to agree to let the woman be the mind,
the heart, the lover, the free spirit, the physical vitality behind the act. The commonplace abuses of
forced entry, the devastating consequences of being powerless and occupied, suggested that the
only condition under which women could experience sexual freedom in intercourse‐‐real choice,
real freedom, real happiness, real pleasure‐‐was in having real and absolute control in each and
every act of intercourse, which would be, each and every time, chosen by the woman. She would
have the incontrovertible authority that would make intercourse possible:
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To woman, by nature, belongs the right of sexual determination. When the instinct is
aroused in her, then and then only should commerce follow. When woman rises from
sexual slavery to sexual freedom, into the ownership and control of her sexual organs,
and man is obliged to respect this freedom, then will this instinct become pure and holy;
then will woman be raised from the iniquity and morbidness in which she now wallows
for existence, and the intensity and glory of her creative functions be increased a
hundredfold . . . 17
The consent standard is revealed as pallid, weak, stupid, second‐class, by contrast with
Woodhull's standard: that the woman should have authority and control over the act. The sexual
humiliation of women through male ownership was understood by Woodhull to be a concrete
reality, not a metaphor, not hyperbole: the man owned the woman's sexual organs. She had to own
her sexual organs for intercourse to mean freedom for her. This is more concrete and more
meaningful than a more contemporary vocabulary of "owning" one's own desire. Woodhull wanted
the woman's desire to be the desire of significance; but she understood that ownership of the body
was not an abstraction; it was concrete and it came first. The "iniquity and morbidness" of
intercourse under male dominance would end if women could exercise a materially real self‐
determination in sex. The woman having material control of her own sex organs and of each and
every act of intercourse would not lead to a reverse dominance, the man subject to the woman,
because of the nature of the act and the nature of the sex organs involved in the act: this is the
sense in which Woodhull tried to face the fundamental questions raised by intercourse as an act
with consequences, some perhaps intrinsic. The woman could not forcibly penetrate the man. The
woman could not take him over as he took her over and occupy his body physically inside. His
dominance over her expressed in the physical reality of intercourse had no real analogue in desire
she might express for him in intercourse: she simply could not do to him what he could do to her.
Woodhull's view was materialist, not psychological; she was the first publisher of the Communist
Manifesto in the United States and the first woman stockbroker on Wall Street. She saw sex the
way she saw money and power: in terms of concrete physical reality. Male notions of female power
based on psychology or ideas would not have addressed for her the real issues of physical
dominance and power in intercourse. The woman would not force or rape or physically own the
man because she could not. Thus, giving the woman power over intercourse was giving her the
power to be equal. Woodhull's vision was in fact deeply humane, oriented toward sexual pleasure
in freedom. For women, she thought and proclaimed (at great cost to herself), freedom must be
literal, physical, concrete self‐determination beginning with absolute control of the sexual organs;
this was a natural right that had been perverted by male dominance‐‐and because of its
perversion, sex was for women morbid and degrading. The only freedom imaginable in this act of
intercourse was freedom based on an irrevocable and unbreachable female will given play in a
body honestly her own. This was an eloquent answer to reading the meaning of intercourse the
other way: by its nature, intercourse mandated that the woman must be lesser in power and in
privacy. Instead, said Woodhull, the woman must be king. Her humanity required sexual
sovereignty.
Male‐dominant gender hierarchy, however, seems immune to reform by reasoned or
visionary argument or by changes in sexual styles, either personal or social. This may be because
intercourse itself is immune to reform. In it, female is bottom, stigmatized. Intercourse remains a
means or the means of physiologically making a woman inferior: communicating to her cell by cell
her own inferior status, impressing it on her, burning it into her by shoving it into her, over and
over, pushing and thrusting until she gives up and gives in‐‐ which is called surrender in the male
lexicon. In the experience of intercourse, she loses the capacity for integrity because her body‐‐the
basis of privacy and freedom in the material world for all human beings‐‐is entered and occupied;
the boundaries of her physical body are‐‐neutrally speaking‐‐ violated. What is taken from her in
that act is not recoverable, and she spends her life‐‐wanting, after all, to have something‐‐
pretending that pleasure is in being reduced through intercourse to insignificance. She will not
have an orgasm‐‐maybe because she has human pride and she resents captivity; but also she will
not or cannot rebel‐‐not enough for it to matter, to end male dominance over her. She learns to
eroticize powerlessness and self‐ annihilation. The very boundaries of her own body become
meaningless to her, and even worse, useless to her. The transgression of those boundaries comes
to signify a sexually charged degradation into which she throws herself, having been told,
convinced, that identity, for a female, is there‐‐ somewhere beyond privacy and self‐respect.
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It is not that there is no way out if, for instance, one were to establish or believe that
intercourse itself determines women's lower status. New reproductive technologies have changed
and will continue to change the nature of the world. Intercourse is not necessary to existence
anymore. Existence does not depend on female compliance, nor on the violation of female
boundaries, nor on lesser female privacy, nor on the physical occupation of the female body. But
the hatred of women is a source of sexual pleasure for men in its own right. Intercourse appears to
be the expression of that contempt in pure form, in the form of a sexed hierarchy; it requires no
passion or heart because it is power without invention articulating the arrogance of those who do
the fucking. Intercourse is the pure, sterile, formal expression of men's contempt for women; but
that contempt can turn gothic and express itself in many sexual and sadistic practices that eschew
intercourse per se. Any violation of a woman's body can become sex for men; this is the essential
truth of pornography. So freedom from intercourse, or a social structure that reflects the low value
of intercourse in women's sexual pleasure, or intercourse becoming one sex act among many
entered into by (hypothetical) equals as part of other, deeper, longer, perhaps more sensual
lovemaking, or an end to women's inferior status because we need not be forced to reproduce
(forced fucking frequently justified by some implicit biological necessity to reproduce): none of
these are likely social developments because there is a hatred of women, unexplained,
undiagnosed, mostly unacknowledged, that pervades sexual practice and sexual passion.
Reproductive technologies are strengthening male dominance, invigorating it by providing new
ways of policing women's reproductive capacities, bringing them under stricter male scrutiny and
control; and the experimental development of these technologies has been sadistic, using human
women as if they were sexual laboratory animals‐‐rats, mice, rabbits, cats, with kinky uteri. For
increasing numbers of men, bondage and torture of the female genitals (that were entered into and
occupied in the good old days) may supplant intercourse as a sexual practice. The passion for
hurting women is a sexual passion; and sexual hatred of women can be expressed without
intercourse.
There has always been a peculiar irrationality to all the biological arguments that
supposedly predetermine the inferior social status of women. Bulls mount cows and baboons do
whatever; but human females do not have estrus or go into heat. The logical inference is not that
we are always available for mounting but rather that we are never, strictly speaking, "available."
Nor do animals have cultures; nor do they determine in so many things what they will do and how
they will do them and what the meaning of their own behavior is. They do not decide what their
lives will be. Only humans face the often complicated reality of having potential and having to
make choices based on having potential. We are not driven by instinct, at least not much. We have
possibilities, and we make up meanings as we go along. The meanings we create or learn do not
exist only in our heads, in ineffable ideas. Our meanings also exist in our bodies‐‐what we are, what
we do, what we physically feel, what we physically know; and there is no personal psychology that
is separate from what the body has learned about life. Yet when we look at the human condition,
including the condition of women, we act as if we are driven by biology or some metaphysically
absolute dogma. We refuse to recognize our possibilities because we refuse to honor the potential
humans have, including human women, to make choices. Men too make choices. When will they
choose not to despise us?
Being female in this world is having been robbed of the potential for human choice by men
who love to hate us. One does not make choices in freedom. Instead, one conforms in body type
and behavior and values to become an object of male sexual desire, which requires an
abandonment of a wide‐ ranging capacity for choice. Objectification may well be the most singly
destructive aspect of gender hierarchy, especially as it exists in relation to intercourse. The
surrender occurs before the act that is supposed to accomplish the surrender takes place. She has
given in; why conquer her? The body is violated before the act occurs that is commonly taken to be
violation. The privacy of the person is lessened before the privacy of the woman is invaded: she
has remade herself so as to prepare the way for the invasion of privacy that her preparation makes
possible. The significance of the human ceases to exist as the value of the object increases: an
expensive ornament, for instance, she is incapable of human freedom‐‐taking it, knowing it,
wanting it, being it. Being an object‐‐living in the realm of male objectification‐‐is abject
submission, an abdication of the freedom and integrity of the body, its privacy, its uniqueness, its
worth in and of itself because it is the human body of a human being. Can intercourse exist without
objectification? Would intercourse be a different phenomenon if it could, if it did? Would it be
shorter or longer, happier or sadder; more complex, richer, denser, with a baroque beauty or
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simpler with an austere beauty; or bang bang bang? Would intercourse without objectification, if it
could exist, be compatible with women's equality‐‐even an expression of it‐‐or would it still be
stubbornly antagonistic to it? Would intercourse cause orgasm in women if women were not
objects for men before and during intercourse? Can intercourse exist without objectification and
can objectification exist without female complicity in maintaining it as a perceived reality and a
material reality too: can objectification exist without the woman herself turning herself into an
object‐‐becoming through effort and art a thing, less than human, so that he can be more than
human, hard, sovereign, king? Can intercourse exist without the woman herself turning herself into
a thing, which she must do because men cannot fuck equals and men must fuck: because one price
of dominance is that one is impotent in the face of equality?
To become the object, she takes herself and transforms herself into a thing: all freedoms are
diminished and she is caged, even in the cage docile, sometimes physically maimed, movement is
limited: she physically becomes the thing he wants to fuck. It is especially in the acceptance of
object status that her humanity is hurt: it is a metaphysical acceptance of lower status in sex and in
society; an implicit acceptance of less freedom, less privacy, less integrity. In becoming an object so
that he can objectify her so that he can fuck her, she begins a political collaboration with his
dominance; and then when he enters her, he confirms for himself and for her what she is: that she
is something, not someone; certainly not someone equal.
There is the initial complicity, the acts of self‐mutilation, self‐diminishing, self‐
reconstruction, until there is no self, only the diminished, mutilated reconstruction. It is all
superficial and unimportant, except what it costs the human in her to do it: except for the fact that
it is submissive, conforming, giving up an individuality that would withstand object status or defy
it. Something happens inside; a human forgets freedom; a human learns obedience; a human, this
time a woman, learns how to goose‐step the female way. Wilhelm Reich, that most optimistic of
sexual liberationists, the only male one to abhor rape really, thought that a girl needed not only "a
free genital sexuality" but also "an undisturbed room, proper contraceptives, a friend who is
capable of love, that is, not a National Socialist . . . " 18 All remain hard for women to attain; but
especially the lover who is not a National Socialist. So the act goes beyond complicity to
collaboration; but collaboration requires a preparing of the ground, an undermining of values and
vision and dignity, a sense of alienation from the worth of other human beings‐‐and this alienation
is fundamental to females who are objectified because they do not experience themselves as
human beings of worth except for their value on the market as objects. Knowing one's own human
value is fundamental to being able to respect others: females are remade into objects, not human in
any sense related to freedom or justice‐‐and so what can females recognize in other females that is
a human bond toward freedom? Is there anything in us to love if we do not love each other as the
objects we have become? Who can love someone who is less than human unless love itself is
domination per se? Alienation from human freedom is deep and destructive; it destroys whatever
it is in us as humans that is creative, that causes us to want to find meaning in experiences, even
hard experiences; it destroys in us that which wants freedom whatever the hardship of attaining it.
In women, these great human capacities and dimensions are destroyed or mutilated; and so we
find ourselves bewildered‐‐who or what are these so‐called persons in human form but even that
not quite, not exactly, who cannot remember or manifest the physical reality of freedom, who do
not seem to want or to value the individual experience of freedom? Being an object for a man
means being alienated from other women‐‐those like her in status, in inferiority, in sexual function.
Collaboration by women with men to keep women civilly and sexually inferior has been one of the
hallmarks of female subordination; we are ashamed when Freud notices it, but it is true. That
collaboration, fully manifested when a woman values her lover, the National Socialist, above any
woman, anyone of her own kind or class or status, may have simple beginnings: the first act of
complicity that destroys self‐respect, the capacity for self‐determination and freedom‐‐readying
the body for the fuck instead of for freedom. The men have an answer: intercourse is freedom.
Maybe it is second‐class freedom for second‐class humans.
What does it mean to be the person who needs to have this done to her: who needs to be
needed as an object; who needs to be entered; who needs to be occupied; who needs to be wanted
more than she needs integrity or freedom or equality? If objectification is necessary for
intercourse to be possible, what does that mean for the person who needs to be fucked so that she
can experience herself as female and who needs to be an object so that she can be fucked?
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The brilliance of objectification as a strategy of dominance is that it gets the woman to take
the initiative in her own degradation (having less freedom is degrading). The woman herself takes
one kind of responsibility absolutely and thus commits herself to her own continuing inferiority:
she polices her own body; she internalizes the demands of the dominant class and, in order to be
fucked, she constructs her life around meeting those demands. It is the best system of
colonialization on earth: she takes on the burden, the responsibility, of her own submission, her
own objectification. In some systems in which turning the female into an object for sex requires
actual terrorism and maiming‐‐for instance, footbinding or removing the clitoris‐‐ the mother does
it, having had it done to her by her mother. What men need done to women so that men can have
intercourse with women is done to women so that men will have intercourse; no matter what the
human cost; and it is a gross indignity to suggest that when her collaboration is complete‐‐
unselfconscious because there is no self and no consciousness left‐‐she is free to have freedom in
intercourse. When those who dominate you get you to take the initiative in your own human
destruction, you have lost more than any oppressed people yet has ever gotten back. Whatever
intercourse is, it is not freedom; and if it cannot exist without objectification, it never will be.
Instead occupied women will be collaborators, more base in their collaboration than other
collaborators have ever been: experiencing pleasure in their own inferiority; calling intercourse
freedom. It is a tragedy beyond the power of language to convey when what has been imposed on
women by force becomes a standard of freedom for women: and all the women say it is so.
If intercourse can be an expression of sexual equality, it will have to survive‐‐ on its own
merits as it were, having a potential for human expression not yet recognized or realized‐‐the
destruction of male power over women; and rape and prostitution will have to be seen as the
institutions that most impede any experience of intercourse as freedom‐‐chosen by full human
beings with full human freedom. Rape and prostitution negate self‐determination and choice for
women; and anyone who wants intercourse to be freedom and to mean freedom had better find a
way to get rid of them. Maybe life is tragic and the God who does not exist made women inferior so
that men could fuck us; or maybe we can only know this much for certain‐‐that when intercourse
exists and is experienced under conditions of force, fear, or inequality, it destroys in women the
will to political freedom; it destroys the love of freedom itself. We become female: occupied;
collaborators against each other, especially against those among us who resist male domination‐‐
the lone, crazy resisters, the organized resistance. The pleasure of submission does not and cannot
change the fact, the cost, the indignity, of inferiority.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Copyright © 1987 by Andrea Dworkin.
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I love life so fiercely, so desperately, that nothing good can come of it: I mean the
physical facts of life, the sun, the grass, youth. It's a much more terrible vice than
cocaine, it costs me nothing, and there is an endless abundance of it, with no limits:
and I devour, devour. How it will end, I don't know. ‐‐Pasolini
*
I can't remember much of what anything was like, only how it started. No lights, no
weather. From now on everything is in a room somewhere in Europe, a room. A series
of rooms, a series of cities: cold, ancient cities: Northern European cities: gray, with
old light: somber but the gray dances: old beauty, muted grandeur, monumental grace.
Rembrandt, Brueghel. Mid‐European and Northern winters, light. Old cruelties, not
nouveau.
He was impotent and wanted to die.
On the surface he was a clown. He had the face of a great comic actor. It moved in
parts, in sections, the scalp in one direction, the nose forward, the chin somewhere
else, the features bigger than life. A unique face, completely distinct, in no way
handsome, outside that realm of discourse altogether. Someday he would be beautiful
or ugly, depending on his life. Now he was alternately filled with light or sadness, with
great jokes and huge gestures or his body seemingly shriveled down to a heap of
bones by inexplicable grief, the skin around the bones sagging loose or gone. He was a
wild man: long, stringy blond hair; afghan coat making him into some wild mountain
creature; prominent, pointed, narrow, but graceful nose; a laugh that went the
distance from deep chuckle to shrill hysteria, and back each calibrated niche of
possibility, and walls shivered.
It was amidst hashish and rock 'n' roll.
The youth gathered in huge buildings set aside for dissipation. Inside we were
indulged. The huge rooms were painted garish colors. There were garish murals.
Political and cultural radicals were kept inside, tamed, self‐important, it was the
revolution: big black balls of hashish and rock 'n' roll.
Inside there was this figure of a man, all brassy on the outside, and inside impotent
and ready to die.
I took his life in my hands to save him. I took his face in my hands, I kissed him. I took
his body to save him from despair. A suffering man: a compassionate woman: the
impersonal love of one human for another, sex the vehicle of redemption: you hear
about it all the time. Isn't that what we are supposed to do?
*
150
It doesn't matter where it was, but it was there, in a huge mass of rooms painted in
glaring colors: rock music blaring, often live, old‐time porno films‐‐Santa coming
down a chimney‐‐projected on the walls, boys throwing huge balls of hashish across
the room, playing catch. Cigarettes were rolled from loose tobacco in papers: so was
grass: so was a potent mixture of hashish and tobacco, what I liked. I got good at it.
You put together three cigarette papers with spit and rolled a little filter from a match
cover, just a piece of it, and put down a layer of loose tobacco, and then you heated the
hash over a lit match until it got all soft and crumbly, and then you crumbled it
between your fingers until there was a nice, thick layer of it over the tobacco, and you
sort of mixed them together gently with your fingers, and then you rolled it up, so that
it was narrow on the end with the filter and wider at the bottom, and with a match,
usually burnt, you packed the mixture in the papers at the bottom, and brought the
papers together and closed it up. Then you lit it and smoked. It went round and round.
The boys had long, long hair. There were only a few junkies, a little hard dope, not a
lot of stealing, very congenial: music: paint: philosophy. There were philosophers
everywhere and artistes. One was going to destroy the museum system by putting his
paintings out on the sidewalk free for people to see. I met him my first afternoon in
the strange new place. He was cheerful about destroying the museum system. They
were all cheerful, these energetic talkers of revolution. One spent hours discussing the
history of failed youth movements in Europe: he had been in them all, never aged, a
foot soldier from city to city in the inevitability of history. Another had Mao's red book
and did exegesis on the text while joints were handed to him by enthralled cadres.
Another knew about the role of the tobacco industry in upholding Western
imperialism: he denounced the smokers as political hypocrites and bourgeois fools.
Meanwhile, the music was loud, the porno movies played on the walls as Santa fucked
a blond woman in black lace, the hash was smoked pound after pound.
The women stood out. Mostly there were men but the women did not fade into the
background. There was M, who later became a famous dominatrix near Atlantic City.
She was over six feet tall and she wore a short leather skirt, about crotch level. Her
thighs were covered with thick scars. She had long, straight, blond hair. She wanted to
know if I had carried guns for the Black Panthers. Since I had been too young then, she
wouldn't have anything to do with me. There was E, an emaciated, catty little thief:
girlfriend of a major ideologist of the counterculture revolution, a small, wiry, cunning,
nervous, bespectacled man: she wore government surplus, guerrilla style: they were
arrested for stealing money from parking meters. You can't make a great plan on an
empty stomach, he told me. There was a bright, beautiful woman who looked like the
Dutch Boy boy, only she lit up from inside and her smile was like sunlight. Her
boyfriend was dour, officious, a functionary in the huge, government‐run building that
housed the radical youth and the hashish, he made sure the porno movies were on the
right walls at the right times. There was Frau B, a dowager administrator, suburban,
having an affair with the head honcho, an ex‐colonel in an occupying army: they kept
the lid on for the government. And then I too became a fixture: the girlfriend, then the
wife. The American. The only brunette. The innocent by virtue of Americanism. They
kept Europe's feudal sex secrets hidden. I thought I invented everything. Smoking
dope in their great painted rooms they seemed innocent: I thought I was the old one.
In these rooms, he looked up, his face all questioning and tender and sad: and I kissed
him.
*
Once you want to be together in Northern Europe it is the same all over. There is
nowhere to go.
In the South there are beaches and old ruins. Boys sneak girls somewhere, some flat
place, and other boys hide behind rocks or pieces of ancient walls and watch. In the
North it is cold. There are the streets, too civilized for sex. There are no rooms, no
151
apartments, even adult men live with their parents. One is sneaked into a tiny
bedroom in the parents' house: hands are held over one's mouth: no noise can be
made: and sneaked out before dawn, giggling silently and left in the cold, unless one's
lover is sentimental: then he covers you in his coat and buries you in his arms and you
wait for dawn together. In Northern European cities, dawn comes late but parents
wake up early. The young men have no privacy: they stay strange little bad boys who
get taller and older. They get married too young. They sneak forever.
But it doesn't matter: where or why or how.
There were plenty before him in gray Europe. It was his sadness: saturating his comic
face, his comic stance, his great comic stories, his extravagant gestures. It made him
different: sad: more like me, but so fragile compared to me, so unused. When he
looked up, so innocent, I must have decided. I became his friend, thinking that he too
must love life fiercely, desperately: my gift to him: it costs me nothing and there is an
abundance of it, without limits: the physical facts of life. There is not a lot I can do. I
can do this.
*
Darker, grayer: no buildings filled with hash: another European city: to get an
apartment: we had spent nights together out on the street, in the rain, in the cold, he
was my friend, I had nowhere to go and he had nowhere to take me so he stayed with
me in the wet nights, bitter cold. So we went somewhere else, Northern, gray, he came
a few days a week, every week, he taught me how to cook, he was my friend. There
was a big bed, one room, a huge skylight in the middle of the room, one large table in a
corner: I put the bed under the skylight, water condenses and drips on it, but there I
teach him, slowly. I have understood. He has too much respect for women. I teach him
disrespect, systematically. I teach him how to tie knots, how to use rope, scarves, how
to bite breasts: I teach him not to be afraid: of causing pain. It goes slowly. I teach him
step by step. I invent sex therapy in this one room somewhere in the middle of
Europe. I am an American innocent, in my fashion. I forbid intercourse. I teach him
how to play games. You be this and I will be that. Rape, virgin, Queen Victoria. The
games go on and on. There are some we do over and over. I teach him to penetrate
with his fingers, not to be afraid of causing pain. I fellate him. I teach him not to worry
about erection. I tie him up. Dungeon, brothel, little girl, da‐da. I ask him what he
wants to do and we do it. I teach him not to be afraid of causing pain. Not to be afraid
of hurting me. I am the one there: don't be afraid of hurting me, see, this is how. I teach
him not to be afraid of piss and shit, human dirt. I teach him everything about his
body, I penetrate him, I scratch, I bite, I tie him up, I hit him with my hand open, with
my fist, with belts: he gets hard. He does each thing back to me. He is nearly hard.
Water condenses on the skylight and falls. We move the bed. I am disappointed. I liked
the extravagance. I do everything I can think of to help him: impotent and suicidal: I
am saving his life. We are on an island, isolated in this European city. There is us.
There is the bed. He is nearly hard. We move back to his city, where he is from, into a
room that is ours. He needs some act, some gesture, some event to give him the final
confidence: to get really hard. Reader, I married him.
*
I love life so fiercely, so desperately: there is an endless abundance of it, with no
limits: it costs me nothing.
Reader, I married him.
*
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I thought I could always leave if I didn't like it. I had the ultimate belief in my own
ability to walk away. I thought it would show him I believed in him. It did. Reader, he
got hard.
*
He became a husband, like anyone else, normal. He got hard, he fucked, it spilled over,
it was frenzy, I ended up cowering, caged, catatonic. How it will end finally, I don't
know. I wanted to help: but this was a hurricane of hate and rage let loose: I wanted to
help: I saved him: not impotent, not suicidal, he beat me until I was a heap of collapsed
bone, comatose, torn, bleeding, bruised so bad, so hard: how it will end, I don't know.
*
Oh, it was a small small room with no windows: he had it painted dark blue: he didn't
let me sleep: he never let me sleep: he beat me and he fucked me: I fought back and I
tried to run away. The rest is unspeakable. He got hard and fucked easy now. Reader, I
had married him. He rolled on top and he fucked: it costs me nothing, and there is an
endless abundance of it: I love life so fiercely, so desperately: how it will end, I don't
know.
*
Reader, I saved him: my husband. He can fuck now. He can pulverize human bones.
*
I got away. How it will end, I don't know.
I love life so fiercely, so desperately, that nothing good can come of it: I mean the
physical facts of life, the sun, the grass, youth. It's a much more terrible vice than
cocaine, it costs me nothing, and there is an endless abundance of it, with no limits:
and I devour, devour. How it will end, I don't know. ‐‐Pasolini
Sad boy. Sex is so easy. I can open my legs and save you. It is so little for me to do. I
know so much.
Sad boy. Desperate child. Gentle soul. Too much respect. Afraid to violate. But sex is
violation. I read it in books. I learned it somewhere. I show you how: and I devour,
devour. There is an endless abundance of it, with no limits. I am a woman. This is what
I was born to give. How it will end, I don't know.
*
Then I can't understand anymore. This isn't what I meant. I am so hurt, the cuts, the
sores, the bleeding, let me sleep. You are hard now, my husband: let me sleep: I beg:
an hour, a minute. I love life so fiercely, so desperately: I mean the physical facts of
life: I want to make you happy: I don't want to die: the fists pounding, wild, enraged:
sex was always so easy: it costs me nothing, and there is an endless abundance of it,
with no limits: and I didn't want you to suffer, to die. How it will end now, I don't
know.
*
The bed: I show you everything: every wild game: soon we drop the scripts and just
tie the knots: how to penetrate: how to move, when, even why: every nerve:
pretending to pretend so it isn't real: pretending to pretend but since we do what we
153
pretend in what sense are we pretending? You pretend to tie me up, but you tie me up.
I am tired of it now. I do what you need, tired of the repetition, you learn by rote,
slowly, like in the third grade, not tone‐deaf but no genius of your own: the notes, one
by one, so you can get hard. You get hard. Now you're not pretending. I don't know
how it will end. I am waiting for it to end. I know what I want: to get to the end: you
will tell me when the game is finished: is it over? are you hard?
*
He is normal now, not impotent and suicidal, but in a rage: my normal, human
husband who gets hard: he is in a rage, like a mad dog. This isn't what I meant. I love
life so fiercely, so desperately: I thought only good could come of it: sex is so easy:
there is an abundance of it, without limits: I teach him what I know: he needed a little
more confidence, so reader, I married him. I didn't know. I didn't know. Believe me,
not them: the normal, human husband with normal, human rage: little girl saints of
sex with your philosophy, little darlings, when what's inside comes out, be somewhere
hidden, chaste, out of reach: it spilled over: it was rage: it was hate: it was sex: he got
hard: he beat me until I couldn't even crawl: it costs me nothing, and there is an
endless abundance of it, with no limits: I try to get away: how it will end, I don't know.
Until now I devoured, devoured, I loved life so fiercely: now I think nothing good can
come of it: why didn't someone say‐‐oh, girl, it isn't so easy as it seems, be gone when
what's inside comes out: impotence and suicide aren't the worst things. His face isn't
sad now: he is flowering outside, to others, they have never seen him fatter, cockier,
no grief, no little boy: the human husband, all hard fuck and fists: and I cower: reader,
I married him: I saved him: how it will end, I don't know.
*
You can see what he needed, you can see what I did. It's no secret now, not me alone. I
got inside it when it was still a secret. It is everywhere now. Watch the men at the
films. Sneak in. Watch them. See how they learn to tie the knots from the pictures in
the magazines. Impotent and suicidal. I taught him not to be afraid to hurt: me. What's
inside comes out. I love life so fiercely, so desperately, and I devour, devour, and how
it will end, I don't know. Sex is so easy, and it costs me nothing, and there is an endless
abundance of it, with no limits: and I devour, devour. I saved him. How it will end, I
don't know. There will be a film called Snuff.
I love life so fiercely, so desperately, that nothing good can come of it: I mean the
physical facts of life, the sun, the grass, youth. It's a much more terrible vice than
cocaine, it costs me nothing, and there is an endless abundance of it, with no limits:
and I devour, devour. How it will end, I don't know. ‐‐Pasolini
*
Sad, gentle face, comic. Unconsummated. My virgin. My little boy. My innocent.
Suicidal and impotent. I want you to know what I know, being ground under: hard
thighs: hard sweat: hard cock: kisses to the marrow of the bone. I love life so fiercely,
so desperately. It costs me nothing, and there is an endless abundance of it, with no
limits, and I devour, devour. I teach you. You get hard. You pulverize human bones.
Finally I know how it will end. Oh, I run, I run, little boy.
Coitus as punishment for the happiness of being together. ‐‐Kafka
*
I lived another year in that Northern city of Old Europe. Terror wipes you clean if you
don't die. I took everyone I liked: with good cheer, a simple equanimity. There were
154
houseboats, saunas, old cobbled streets, huge mattresses on floors with incense
burning: long‐haired boys and short‐haired girls: I knew their names: something
about them: there was nothing rough: I felt something in the thighs: I always felt
something coming from me or I did nothing: it was different: I had many of them,
whoever I wanted. I read books and took drugs. I was happy.
I started to write, sentences, paragraphs, nothing whole. But I started to write.
Slowly I saw: coitus is the punishment for being a writer afraid of the cold passion of
the task. There is no being together, just the slow learning of solitude. It is the
discipline, the art. I began to learn it.
*
I lived in the present, slowly, except for tremors of terror, physical memories of the
beatings, the blood. I took drugs. I took who I wanted, male or female. I was alert. I
read books. I listened to music. I was near the water. I had no money. I watched
everyone. I kept going. I would be alone and feel happy. It frightened me. Coitus is the
punishment for the happiness of being alone. One can't face being happy. It is too
extreme.
*
I had to be with others, compulsion. I was afraid to be alone. Coitus is the punishment
for the fear of being alone. I took who I liked, whatever moved me, I felt it in my gut. It
was fine. But only solitude matters. Coitus is the punishment for cowardice: afraid of
being alone, in a room, in a bed, on this earth: coitus is the punishment for being a
woman: afraid to be alone.
*
I couldn't be alone. I took whoever made me feel something, a funny longing in the gut
or crotch. I liked it. I took hashish, acid. Not all the time, on special days, or on long
afternoons. I took long saunas. I was happy. I read books. I started to write. I began to
need solitude. It started like a funny longing in the gut or crotch. Coitus was the
punishment for not being able to stand wanting solitude so much.
*
I gave up other lovers. I wanted solitude. It took a few years to get faithful. Coitus was
the punishment for a breach of faith.
*
I came back to New York City, the Lower East Side. I lived alone, poor, writing. I was
raped once. It punished me for the happiness of being myself.
*
I am alone, in solitude. I can almost run my fingers through it. It takes on the rhythmic
brilliance of any passion. It is like holy music, a Te Deum. Coitus is the punishment for
not daring to be happy.
*
I learn the texture of minutes, how hours weave themselves through the tangled mind:
I am silent. Coitus is the punishment for running from time: hating quiet: fearing life.
*
155
I betray solitude. I get drunk, pick up a cab driver. Coitus is the punishment.
*
I write day in and day out, night after night, alone, in the quiet of this exquisite
concentration, this exquisite aloneness, this extreme new disordering of the senses:
solitude, my beloved. Coitus is the punishment for not daring to be extreme enough,
for compromising, for conforming, for giving in. Coitus is the punishment for not
daring to disorder the senses enough: by knowing them without mediation. Coitus is
the punishment for not daring to be original, unique, discrete.
*
I am not distracted, I am alone, I love solitude, this is passion too. I am intensely
happy. When I see people, I am no less alone: and I am not lonely. I concentrate when I
write: pure concentration, like life at the moment of dying. I dream the answers to my
own questions when I sleep. I am not tranquil, it is not my nature, but I am intensely
happy. Coitus is the punishment for adulterating solitude.
*
I forget the lovers of Europe. They don't matter. The terror still comes, it envelops me,
solitude fights it tooth and nail, solitude wins. I forget what I have done on these
streets here. It doesn't matter. I concentrate. I am alone. The solitude is disruption,
extremity, extreme sensation in dense isolation. This is a private passion, not for
exhibit. Coitus is the punishment for exhibiting oneself: for being afraid to be happy in
private, alone. Coitus is the punishment for needing a human witness. I write. Solitude
is my witness.
*
Coitus is the punishment for the happiness of being. Solitude is the end of punishment.
I write. I publish.
*
Coitus is punishment. I write down everything I know, over some years. I publish. I
have become a feminist, not the fun kind. Coitus is punishment, I say. It is hard to
publish. I am a feminist, not the fun kind. Life gets hard. Coitus is not the only
punishment. I write. I love solitude: or slowly, I would die. I do not die.
Coitus is punishment. I am a feminist, not the fun kind.
[...]
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Copyright © 1986 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
156
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by Andrea Dworkin
Part IV
THE NEW TERRORISM
I wrote this to answer two editorials in The New York Times that quoted from
Pornography: The New Terrorism and denounced feminists for undermining the First
Amendment (freedom of speech) by speaking out against pornography. The New York
Times would not publish it; neither would The Washington Post, Newsweek, Mother
Jones, The Village Voice, The Nation, The Real Paper, or anywhere else one could think
to send it. It was first published in 1980 in the anthology Take Back the Night, edited
by Laura Lederer. I had been named in one of the Times editorials and thought that
ethically I was entitled to some right of response. No. I thought the other places‐‐very
big on free speech‐‐should publish it because they were very big on free speech. No.
A great many men, no small number of them leftist lawyers, are apparently afraid that
feminists are going to take their dirty pictures away from them. Anticipating the
distress of forced withdrawal, they argue that feminists really must shut up about
pornography‐‐what it is, what it means, what to do about it‐‐to protect what they call
"freedom of speech." Our "strident" and "overwrought" antagonism to pictures that
show women sexually violated and humiliated, bound, gagged, sliced up, tortured in a
multiplicity of ways, "offends" the First Amendment. The enforced silence of women
through the centuries has not. Some elementary observations are in order.
The Constitution of the United States was written exclusively by white men who
owned land. Some owned black slaves, male and female. Many more owned white
women who were also chattel.
The Bill of Rights was never intended to protect the civil or sexual rights of women
and it has not, except occasionally by accident.
The Equal Rights Amendment, which would, as a polite afterthought, extend equal
protection under the law such as it is to women, is not yet part of the Constitution.
There is good reason to doubt that it will be in the foreseeable future.
Both law and pornography express male contempt for women: they have in the past
and they do now. Both express enduring male social and sexual values; each attempts
to fix male behavior so that the supremacy of the male over the female will be
maintained. The social and sexual values of women are barely discernible in the
157
culture in which we live. In most instances, women have been deprived of the
opportunity even to formulate, let alone articulate or spread, values that contradict
those of the male. The attempts that we make are both punished and ridiculed.
Women of supreme strength who have lived in creative opposition to the male
cultural values of their day have been written out of history‐‐silenced.
Rape is widespread. One characteristic of rape is that it silences women. Laws against
rape have not functioned to protect the bodily integrity of women; instead, they have
punished some men for using women who belong to some other men.
Battery is widespread. One characteristic of battery is that it silences women. Laws
against battery have been, in their application, a malicious joke.
There is not a feminist alive who could possibly look to the male legal system for real
protection from the systematized sadism of men. Women fight to reform male law, in
the areas of rape and battery for instance, because something is better than nothing.
In general, we fight to force the law to recognize us as the victims of the crimes
committed against us, but the results so far have been paltry and pathetic. Meanwhile,
the men are there to counsel us. We must not demand the conviction of rapists or turn
to the police when raped because then we are "prosecutorial" and racist. Since white
men have used the rape laws to imprison black men, we are on the side of the racist
when we (women of any color) turn to the law. The fact that most rape is intraracial,
and more prosecution will inevitably mean the greater prosecution of white men for
the crimes they commit, is supposedly irrelevant. (It is, of course, suddenly very
relevant when one recognizes that this argument was invented and is being promoted
by white men, significantly endangered for perhaps the first time by the anti‐rape
militancy of women.) We are also counseled that it is wrong to demand that the police
enforce already existing laws against battery because then we "sanction" police entry
into the home, which the police can then use for other purposes. Better that rape and
battery should continue unchallenged, and the law be used by some men against other
men with no reference to the rightful protection of women. The counsel of men is
consistent: maintain a proper‐‐and respectful‐‐silence.
Male counsel on pornography, especially from leftist lawyers, has also been abundant.
We have been told that pornography is a trivial issue and that we must stop wasting
the valuable time of those guarding "freedom of speech" by talking about it. We have
been accused of trivializing feminism by our fury at the hatred of women expressed in
pornography. We have been told that we must not use existing laws even where they
might serve us or invent new ones because we will inevitably erode "freedom of
speech"‐‐but that the use of violence against purveyors of pornography or property
would not involve the same hazards. Others, less hypocritical, have explained that we
must not use law; we must not use secondary boycotts, a civil liberties No‐No (since
women do not, with rare exceptions, consume pornography, women cannot boycott it
by not buying it; other strategies, constituting secondary boycotts, would have to be
used); we must not, of course, damage property, nor do we have the right to insult or
harass. We have even been criticized for picketing, the logic being that an exhibitor of
pornography might cave in under the pressure which would constitute a dangerous
precedent. The men have counseled us to be silent so that "freedom of speech" will
survive. The only limitation on it will be that women simply will not have it‐‐no loss,
since women have not had it. Such a limitation does not "offend" the First Amendment
or male civil libertarians.
The First Amendment, it should be noted, belongs to those who can buy it. Men have
the economic clout. Pornographers have empires. Women are economically
disadvantaged and barely have token access to the media. A defense of pornography is
a defense of the brute use of money to encourage violence against a class of persons
who do not have‐‐and have never had‐‐the civil rights vouchsafed to men as a class.
The growing power of the pornographers significantly diminishes the likelihood that
158
women will ever experience freedom of anything‐‐certainly not sexual self‐
determination, certainly not freedom of speech.
The fact of the matter is that if the First Amendment does not work for women, it does
not work. With that premise as principle, perhaps the good lawyers might voluntarily
put away the dirty pictures and figure out a way to make freedom of speech the reality
for women that it already is for the literary and visual pimps. Yes, they might, they
could; but they will not. They have their priorities set. They know who counts and
who does not. They know, too, what attracts and what really offends.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"For Men, Freedom of Speech; For Women, Silence Please," first published in the
anthology Take Back the Night, edited by Laura Lederer (New York: William Morrow
and Co., 1980). Copyright © 1979 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
159
First Love
A chapter from an unpublished novel by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1978, 1980 by Andrea Dworkin.
Yet if I care to care
force loving into being, then I pry open
all memory's charnal house of sores
‐‐Robin Morgan, "Credo"
E,
It is so hard to write you. Why am I doing it this way, not intending ever to send this
letter, still with one eye to publication, a grand concept for a book in some sense, and
still with one eye, that poets conscience, to a future which becomes increasingly
impossible to imagine. It seems the only way I can bear the passion behind the
language, the memory, the desire, the only way not to be burnt up by what I feel. You
come over me in waves of memory, especially when I sleep, and I wake up in sweat
and trembling, not knowing where I am, not remembering the years that separate us.
So often I wanted to write, dear E, now I am this person, I look this way (you wouldn't
like it), I do this, I feel this, lists, details, it was warm or cold on that day when that
happened and then my life changed in this way and that‐‐but I cant, I never could, and
I cant now. In writing this letter, not to be sent, perhaps I can find the signs that will
tell you who I have become.
Dearest E, I loved you. Now that love is memory, sometimes haunting, sometimes
buried, forgotten, as if dead. I see yr face, yes, I know, as it was, I remember you as I
remember the sun, always, burned in my brain; somehow you are part of me, mixed
up in me, for all the days of my life. I left you when you were life to me, when to be
physically separated from you was sheer and consuming pain, as if a limb had been
cut off, amputated. Leaving you was the hardest, and perhaps the bravest, thing I have
ever done.
Dearest E, I want to describe in some way the drive to become that impelled me to go
to you and to go from you, that has driven me from person to person, place to place,
bed to bed, street to street, and which somehow coheres, finds cogency and true
expression, when I say, I want to write, or I want to be a writer, or I am a writer. I
want to tell you that this drive to become is why I left you and why I never returned as
I had promised.
I was 19 when I knew you. I wanted to be a writer. I didnt want to go mad or suffer or
die. I was 19. I wasnt afraid of anything, or, as I sometimes thought, I was equally
afraid of everything so that nothing held a special terror and no action that interested
me was too dangerous. I wanted to do everthing that I could imagine doing,
everything I had ever read about, anything any poet or hero had ever done. I loved
Rimbaud. I loved Plato and through him Socrates. I loved Sappho. I loved Dostoevsky,
and sweet Shelley, and Homer. I loved cold Valery, and warm D.H. Lawrence, and
tortured Kafka, and raging tender Ginsberg.
160
I didnt have questions in words in my mind. I had instead these surging impulses that
welled up and were spent. I had a hunger to know and to tell and to do everything that
could be done. I had an absolute faith in my own will to survive.
What I didnt want to do was to say, look Im this height, and I went to school here and
there, and then that year I did this and that, and then I knew so and so, and then the
next one was so and so, and then this situation occurred, and then that one, and the
room was red and blue and three by four, and then I was that old and went there and
did that and then that and then, naturally, that.
I wanted instead to write books that were fire and ice, wind sweeping the earth. I
wanted to write books that, once experienced, could not be forgotten, books that
would be cherished as we cherish the most exquisite light we have ever seen. I had
contempt for anything less than this perfect book that I could imagine. This book that
lived in my imagination was small and perfect and I wanted it to live in person after
person, forever. Even in the darkest of human times, it would live. Even in the life of
one person who would sustain it and be sustained by it, it would live. I wanted to
write a book that would be read even by one person, but always. For the rest of
human time some one person would always know that book, and think it beautiful and
fine and true, and then it would be like any tree that grows, or any grain of sand. It
would be, and once it was it would never not be.
In my secret longings there was another desire as well, not opposite but different, not
the same but as strong. There would be a new social order in which people could live
in a new way. There would be this new way of living which I could, on the edges of my
mind and in the core of my being, imagine and taste. People would be free, and they
would live decent lives, and those lives would not be without pain, but they would be
without certain kinds of pain. They would be lives untouched by prisons and killings
and hunger and bombs. I imagined that there could be a world without
institutionalized murder and systematic cruelty.
I imagined that I could write a book that would make such a world possible.
So my idea of my book that I would write sometimes took another turn. It had less to
do with the one person who would always, no matter how dark the times, somewhere
be reading it, and it had more to do with here and now, change, transformation,
revolution. I had some idea of standing, as one among many, my book as my
contribution, at one point in history and changing its course and flow. I thought,
imagine a book that could have stopped the Nazis, imagine a life strong and honest
enough to enable one to make such a book. I began to think of writing as a powerful
way of changing the human condition instead of as a beautiful way of lamenting it or
as an enriching or moving way of describing it.
I had wanted to make Art, which was, I had been led to believe, some impeccable
product, inhuman in its process, made by madmen, inhuman in its final form, removed
from life, without flaw, perfect, crystal, monumental, pain turned beautiful, sweat
turned cold and stopped in time, suffering turned noble and stopped in time.
But I also wanted to write a book that could be smelled and felt, that was total human
process, the raw edges left as raw as any life, real, with a resolution that took one to a
new beginning, not separate from my life or the lives of the multitudes who were
living when I was living. I wanted to write a book that would mean something to
people, not to dead people past or future, but to living people, something that would
not only sustain them but change them, not only enhance the world in the sense of
ornament, but transform, redefine, reinvent it.
When I knew you I was 19. I did not know many things. How could I? I wanted to
make Art, and I had a passion for life, and I wanted to act in the world so that it would
be changed, and I knew that those things nourished one another but I did not know
161
how. I did not know that they could be the same, that for me they must be the same,
for they all had to live in this one body as one or they could not live at all.
The teachers I had had did not know or tell the truth. They did not care about how
artists lived in the world.They seemed to find the lives of artists shoddy and cheap,
even as they found works of art marble and pure. They never talked about art as if it
had anything at all to do with life. They thought that the texts were there to be
analyzed, or memorized, one after another. They thought that art was better than life,
better than the artists who made the art and lived their lives. They had no notion of
process, how one made something out of the raw impulses of the imagination, how
one cried out or mourned or raged in images, in language, in ideas. So they taught that
ideas were fixed, dead, sacred or profane, right or wrong, to be studied but not
created, to be learned but not lived. They did not seem to know that the whole of
human literature is a conversation through time, each voice speaking to the whole of
human living.
And I did not understand so much. I did not understand, for instance, that people
really die. I did not understand that death is irrevocable. I did not understand the grief
of those who remember the dead. I did not understand that the horrors of history,
those textbook cases of genocide, rape, and slaughter, would happen in my lifetime to
people I knew. And so I did not understand that the earth is real, and that what
happens on it happens to real people just like me. I did not understand that as I grew
older my life would continue with me. I thought instead that each event in my life was
discrete, each person of that moment only. I did not understand that the people I knew
I would always know, one way or another, for the rest of my life. I did not know that
one never stops knowing anything, that time continues to pass relentlessly, though
without any particular vengeance, taking each of us with it. I did not understand then
that there is no choice, that one always writes for the living, that there is no other way
to create the future or to redeem the past. I also did not know that each human life is
precious, brief, an agony, filled with pain and struggle, sorrow and loss.
I love books the way I love nature. I can imagine now that someday there will be no
nature, at least not as we knew it together on Crete, no mysterious ocean, no luminous
sky, no stark and unsettled mountains. I can imagine now that a time will come, that it
is almost upon us, when no one will love books, that there will be no people who need
them the way some of us need them now‐‐like food and air, sunshine and warmth. It is
no accident, I think, that books and nature (as we know it) may disappear
simultaneously from human experience. There is no mind‐body split.
I never think of you without remembering the ocean. It is an emblem for me of that
time in my life, of the depth and tumult of my feelings, of how my life broke out of my
skin and beyond itself into an unknown, primal realm. The ocean does not signify
anything whimsical, cheap, romantic, or self‐indulgent. It signifies the true mysteries,
not the mystifying ones. It signifies the light years between galaxies, as well as ones tie
to everything on earth. It signifies ones tie to the enormity of being, to the mystery of
this universe‐‐stars, moon, sun, black holes, rings around Saturn. It makes one aware
that this universe is a tapestry of the most awesome magnificence. It does compel
awe.
It has always been to me, the ocean, overwhelming, monstrous, deep, dark, green and
black, so foreign that it requires respect, silence, humility. It is boundless and deep, no
human sense of time can circumscribe it, it rumbles with cavernous sounds, it is filled
with grotesque forms, luminous colors, shapes that defy imagination. All of the life in
it is menacing, compelling, exquisite, with nothing consoling.
I love books too in the same way. They are the human ocean, life before and through
and beyond this self, footsteps on the sand in the largest desert, the wind blows, the
tracks are sometimes obscured, covered over, hidden, waves of human experience in
which one drowns, which carry one, against which one struggles with every life force,
162
forced sometimes under, struggling for any breath, the weight of that water bearing
down mercilessly on one, or floating, effortless, calm, at the precise point between
earth and sky. They are the human ocean of our time, the quest of people through time
to know, ask, feel, survive, to survive beyond the limits of an awful, or insignificant, or
invisible, or painful or ordinary life, beyond the limits of this mortal body, sick,
needful, the vessel of so much suffering and despair. They are the meaning of life as
fully as we can render it. They are the human ocean of everything that has been
experienced, thought, felt, wondered, suffered, recognized, realized, imagined,
affirmed‐‐messages sent through time from one finite human who asked questions,
attempted answers, described, felt, needed, wanted, endured, resisited, to another
who is different yet the same.
A book is at once connected to eternity and to one persons mortal flesh. It is whatever
this flow is that connects us one to the other throughout human time, but it is also the
fruit of one persons specific moment. It is the present, just as the ocean, whatever it
was before, whatever it will be later, exists for the one who sees it when she sees it.
Think of it, each book is what it is for one person to be alive, in her particular present,
what it is, anguish, joy, fear, duration, process, hope. Each person asks the question of
her time and place. Each persons life inhabits and informs every word written. Sitting
somewhere, ancient Greece or Manhatten 1974, hoping that the words will come and
make the feeling in the body bearable, fill the need, make the day or night endurable,
that one will be able to give shape to the chaos of feeling, needing, not knowing. The
world takes form when one writes, for the writer. The world becomes knowable, its
meaning revealed and affirmed. Struggling with the present, with death, with pain,
with love, articulating the present, imagining it as it is and as it might be, asking every
question but also taking time itself and giving it shape, substance, weight: revealing it
to those who share it.
Ive been reading Kafka, his letter to his father, his diaries, his letters to his woman
friend Felice. Discovering the person behind those monuments of consciousness,
discovering the tortured man who subsumed the person. Discovering the fragile,
vulnerable, terrified being behind those monuments of ravaged and ravaging male
consciousness. What is it about genius that it can inhabit the body of a tubercular,
frightened, insignificant German Jew and that he can then force the world into a new
shape so profound, so recognizable, its vision so deeply rooted in the nature of things
as they are, so tangled in the gut and psyche of life as we experience it, that one says, I
dont know where this story ends and life begins. I dont know the difference anymore
between this story and life. I dont know at what point I became part of this story and
forgot that it is print on a page. I dont know how these words were ever put together
this way, or how these images were formed, but I know that this writing embodies the
world as profoundly as a male could embody it in words.
To me, the real mystery is, what made him a writer, how did he become a writer, what
in his life determined it, how was it even possible. He was a writer, how can I say it,
the way that a fish is a fish. Not fragmented, a bit here, a bit there, sometimes choosing
this, sometimes doing that, not with other ways of being, e.g. sometimes we walk and
sometimes we sit and sometimes we run. He was a writer as a fish is a fish, always, all
the time, knowing nothing else, without any other possiblity. Imagine being a writer
like that. (In a footnote I read: "Kafka was survived by three sisters. All three sisters,
including Kafka's favorite, Ottla, and the larger part of their families, were killed by the
Nazis.")
The first book I remember reading was Squanto and the Indians. The Pilgrims, an
austere religious group, came to Amerika from England where they were persecuted
for their religious beliefs. The voyage was long and hard and many died and many
more were gravely ill. In the new land life was no easier. Winters were freezing and
hard, the soil was barren and nothing they planted grew. They suffered terribly,
starving and dying. Then an Indian named Squanto befriended them. He showed them
how to plant corn and how to live off the land. He helped them to plant their crops.
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They reaped a good harvest which Amerikans commemorate as Thanksgiving. Then
they slaughtered Squanto and his tribe.
On the one hand, the genius, the kindness, the fragile, single human being who can,
through an act of being, a simple act of simple giving‐‐writing, teaching, planting‐‐do
so much more than endure, who can transform, who can make life both possible and
meaningful. Then, always, on the other hand, vicious slaughter, insane, impossible,
relentless slaughter.
Squanto, Kafka, the Nazis, those first English interlopers, the tanks entering Athens,
my friends, fragile human beings every one, rounded up like cattle, herded into jails,
there tortured, there their bodies broken, terror, violation, killings and ravagings on a
grand scale, always the grand scale, mad ambition, hundreds or thousands or millions,
victims, tanks, rifle butts, machine guns, searches, seizures, arrests, terror, death. I am
always asking, will it never end. I am always vowing, we will end it.
I remember one letter you wrote me after the colonels took over. You said that yr life
was bitter, that the earth had turned to poison. You said, what do you know about any
of this? And, after all, what did I know? I didnt know then most of what I have had to
learn‐‐slow, dimwitted, dull, fighting always the romantic self‐indulgences into which
I was born. I didnt know then that I wont be spared anything. I didnt know then that
none of us will be spared anything. Anyway, there is really no way to describe white
Amerikan ignorance (and it is not only middle‐class, it is Amerikan, an ignorance
democratically distributed). Who would believe that this ignorance is real as villages
burn and people die? And there is really no way to talk about white Amerikan
innocence, except to say that some of us have lost it. Except to say that years later I
learned that I was a woman, and so learned most of everything.
I came to Crete. I was 19. I was running from Amerika. I was dislocated, wounded,
confused.
I had spent four days in jail, yes, only four days, New York Citys Womens House of
Detention, a brutal, dirty, archaic jail. I had been arrested for demonstrating at the
United States Mission to the United Nations. Adlai Stevenson, then the conscience of
liberal Amerika, walked by us into the building as the police dragged us away. Inside
the jail I was given a brutal intermal examination by two male doctors. As a result I
bled for 15 days after that, terrified, afraid to go to a doctor, afraid of doctors, afraid to
tell my parents, afraid to ask anyone for help. At that time I was living with two men,
and they had what Ive since learned to appreciate as a typical male reaction to Blood
Down There, a kind of histerical stiffening of every muscle, a stony indifference, a
strained withdrawing of mind and body. But at the time I thought that they, two
particular persons, were horrified by me, one particular person, who was bleeding,
bleeding, bleeding. At that time, I also had another lover, an older black man named
Arthur. I liked him a lot, and so on the phone he said, where you been, and I said, the
House of D, and they did that and that and that to me, and he said, white girl, thats
what they do. I felt his contempt for me, and also knew more than I could stand to
know about his real life, and so I never saw him again. Wherever I turned trying to say
what had happened to me, I met that same contempt, or silence, or indifference‐‐but
of course, I always turned to men. When finally, choked and enraged, filled with fury
and confusion, I did turn to two women (I barely knew them), they knew what it had
been. But then, in those years, I didnt turn to women very often or understand that
men could not dare to know.
I felt alone, enraged, furious, violated, hurt, and so afraid. I did not know how to
contain or to understand what had happened to me. I didnt know how to contain or to
understand what I had seen happening in that jail to other women. There was no
language to describe it.
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There are themes in ones life, themes which resonate. One theme in my life, an
important piece of who I am, the Nazi slaughter, resonated then. What had happened
to me, the blood, my fear, the brutality, conjured up the Nazi doctors who had tortured
flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood, and an aunt who had survived to tell me,
retching in terror and memory. The doctors in that jail when they were abusing me‐‐
my aunts Nazi violation resonated then; in the nightmares I had after‐‐it resonated
then. It was what it was, the violation of one woman by two particular men, but it also
conjured up that near history of my living flesh and so it had a resonance beyond
itself‐‐a sound, an echo, through 6,000,000 bodies.
I didnt know then about the 9,000,000 witches burned alive, or the billions of women
raped, abused, bloodied, and abandoned all over this planet. I didnt know then. I felt it,
womans fury, but I couldnt name it, or call it out, and so I anguished, isolated,
confused, unable to name, the very power of speech, and so of knowing, taken away
from me. I didnt know then that we women were a sisterhood united in blood and toil
on this earth, each one speechless, experiencing the unspeakable, robbed of the power
of naming and so of speaking and so of knowing. I knew then only about the several
hundred women in that one jail, each speechless, each experiencing the unspeakable,
robbed of the power of naming and so of speaking and so of knowing. This is
happening to us, I remember was the phrase that turned over and over again in my
mind those days in jail, this is happening to us.
A Jew, a woman, my ties to the dead, my commitment to the living. There is no place
on earth, no day or night, no hour or minute, when one is not a Jew or a woman. There
is no time or place on this earth that does not resonate through 6,000,000 bodies
tortured and gassed, throught 9,000,000 bodies tortured and burned.
In all the years Ive been involved with leftist politics, in Greece, Holland, England, and
Amerika, you were the only man who ever told me this story: "I was a member of the
young communists, an illegal group in Greece since the Civil War; there was a woman
comrade, and we had all done actions with her, and slept with her, and then she had a
political difference with the others and they, who had been her lovers, refused to
speak to her or to associate with her, she was ostracized and cursed; and I quit
because I thought, if these are the people who are making the revolution and if this is
the way they act, then I dont want to live in the kind of world they would make."
I didnt understand this story until many years later. When I knew you, I was a
commited leftist. I had seen many women used then abandoned, I had been used then
abandoned myself; still, I could not make sense of what I had seen or of my own
experience, I did not make sense of it for several more years. The story you told me
stayed with me, embarrassed me somewhat because I didnt entirely understand what
you had done or why you had done it. Still, I liked you for it.
I learned from you, from my landlady, that ancient ruined woman, that the Nazis had
come to Crete because (as reasons go) they wanted a small airstrip on the island. In
the course of their occupation, they did carnage, annihilated whole villages‐‐
sometimes they killed all of the men and boys and left the women and girls (when
they finally did leave, after rape) to mourn, to go hungry, to survive mutilated as if
each husband and boy child killed were a limb that had been severed and she, the
woman, was left with the stumps bleeding.
I did not mistake where I was or what had happened there. Each day there was an
echo, almost hissing in the air, the Nazi slaughter. Each day thatslaughter was sounded
in the bodies of the old women, dressed in black, mourning still, remembering still,
faces older than this old earth, faces weighted down with the years of loss and murder.
And before that, the Cretans were murdered by the Turks, 400 years of occupation
and tyranny. And the Cretans murdered the Jews‐‐each year over the centuries
pogroms on Easter avenged the death of that other Jew, Jesus. And of course the
women belonged to the occupied or to the occupiers, the living or the dead. The
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women were murdered and the women were raped and the women were left to
mourn their dead. It was the human family, bound together in a web of murder and
pain, and each member of that family had murders mark on her.
Living on Crete brought me to a new sensitivity, acute and intolerable. I felt the
resonances of those dead, all of them, and the lives of those living, all of them, in my
own body, and I came to know who I was‐‐that self tied to the past which was ever
present in a way that was not melancholy or romantic. In Amerika, each person is
new, like hemp before the rope is made. On Crete the rope was used, bloodstained, it
smelled of everything that had ever touched it.
And so we, you and I, in ways so different, each were suffused with Crete. You loved
the land, the mountains and what they held, the sea and what it brought and took
away. Amerikans for the most part dont know what that means. The land moved you,
you knew its story, and you were bound to it. I was Amerikan, Jew, female, who knew
nothing at first of the land and what it held‐‐I grew up first in a city, cement, telephone
poles, and then in a suburb, boxlike houses, small plotted lawns, an occasional tree.
But yr land and its people entered into me and in me I began to discover the memory,
passion, and experience of all the peoples of whom I was a part. In that way we
touched each other, and in that way we were brother and sister.
But now comes the harder part, how we were lovers. Who was I then, I barely
remember her, that woman. She doesnt live in me very much anymore.
I was in Greece (Athens, Piraeus, Crete). I was 19. I wrote. I saw, for the first time, the
mountains, the light, that luminous Greek light, the ocean which from the shore was
filled with bright strips of color. I had many lovers, all men.
I was a person who always had her legs open, whose breast was always warm and
accommodating, who derived great pleasure from passion with tenderness, without
tenderness, with brutality, with violence, with anything any man had to offer.
I was a person who always had her legs open, who lived entirley from minute to
minute, from man to man. I was a person who did not know that there was real malice
in the world, or that people were driven‐‐to cruelty, to vengeance, to rage. I had no
notion at all of the damage that people sustain and how that damage drives them to do
harm to others.
I was a person who was very much a woman, who had internalized certain ways of
being and of feeling, ways given to her through books, movies, the full force of media
and culture‐‐and through the real demands of real men.
I was a person who was very much a woman, accomodating, adoring of mens bodies,
needful, needing above all to be fucked, to be penetrated, loving that moment more
than any other.
I was a person who was very much a woman, who loved men, who loved to be fucked,
who gloried in cock, who called every sexual act, tender, violent, brutal, the same
name, "lovemaking."
I thought, how can I even explain it now, that life was what Miller and Mailer and
Lawrence had said it was. I believed them. I thought that they were creative and
brilliant truth tellers. I thought that the world was as they said it was, that to be a
hero, one must be as their heroes were. I wanted to be a hero‐writer, outside the
bounds of stifling convention. I thought that I was becoming as they were by doing
that which they admired and advocated. I did not know, or feel, or realize what was
being done to me by those who were as they were. I did not experience myself or my
body as my own.
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I did not feel what was being done to me until, many years later, I read Kate Millets
Sexual Politics. Something in me moved then, shifted, changed forever. Suddenly I
discovered something inside me, to feel what I had felt somewhere but had had no
name for, no place for. I began to feel what was being done to me, to experience it, to
recognize it, to find the right names for it. I began to know that there was nothing
good or romantic or noble in the myths I was living out; that, in fact, the effect of these
myths was to deprive me of my bodily intergrity, to cripple me creatively, to take me
from myself. I began to change in a way so fundamental that there was no longer any
place for me in the world‐‐I was no longer a woman as I had been a woman before. I
experienced this change as an agony. There was no place for me anywhere in the
world. I began to feel anger, rage, bitterness, despair, fury, absolute fury, as I began to
know that they, those writers and their kind, had taken cruelty and rape and named it
for me, "life," "sex," "lovemaking," "freedom," and I hated them for it, and I hate them
for it still.
There was a particular part of Sexual Politics that began this change in me, a small
moment in a vast book. Millet described Henry Millers depictions of sex acts in a voice
I had never heard before. She said, simply it seems now, look at this, this is what he
does and then this is what he calls it. Then I saw it‐‐the cruelty of it‐‐as what it was, no
matter what others, the whole world, called it. No one who has ever had this
experience denies the revolutionary power of language or the absolute importance of
naming, or the violation which inheres in being robbed of speech even as one
experiences the unspeakable.
E, you see, this is what is so hard to describe to those who have not experienced it:
that as a woman, ones body is colonialized, ones flesh is actually taken from one,
named and owned by others, all experience their experience, all value their value. The
process for a woman of becoming whole, herself, cannot even be described as
reclaiming ones flesh (ones land), ones personality (ones land), ones own integrity
(ones land), because one has been deprived of both core and vessel for too long, over
too many generations and centuries. One can say that the French colonialized Algeria,
and conjure up a vision of a free Algeria, because one has a memory that the French
did not always own Algeria. But Algerian women have no memory of a time when they
were not owned by Algerian men. Algerian women, and all women, have been robbed
of any memory of freedom. Our bondage is so ancient, so absolute, it is every inch of
the past that we can know. So we cannot reclaim, because no memory of freedom
animates us. We must invent, reinvent, create, imagine the scenarios of our own
freedom against the will of the world. At the same time we must build the physical and
psychic communities that will nourish and sustain us. For in reality, as the Three
Marias of Portugal have written, "there is no bread for us at the table of man," that is,
unless we are first willing to prepare and serve the meal. And, of course, the men own
the bread and the table and the women who serve and the beds we must sleep in at
night.
I am saying that my body was colonialized, owned by others, imperialists who robbed
it of its richest resources‐‐possessed, taken, conquered, all the words those male
writers use to describe ecstatic sexuality. And I am saying that I was that slave
woman, that caricature of a human being, that servant whose core and vessel
belonged to those who had conquered it. I was that slave woman who accepted the
conquerors naming of my experience and called it, their dreadful brutality, their
possessing and taking, "lovemaking," "ecstasy," "freedom." That was the woman you
knew.
I tremble when I know that you loved her, and only her. I am afraid, cynical, bitter,
when I want to believe that you were also better than that, as I was in some not yet
living part of myself; when I think, over these 10 long years, this is a man who could
know me now, who could love me now, whom I could know and love. In some part of
me‐‐a part I do not dare trust or respect‐‐I believe, but am also afraid to believe, and
also do not believe, that in you there lives one who is not commited to oppressing
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women. I dare allow myself, sometimes, to imagine (or is it remember) that we did
touch each other in those hidden parts.
I arrived in Athens on my 19th birthday. I was very lonely. There had been riots in
Athens, Papandreou Senior had been ousted from the government by King
Constantine; the people rioted in protest. I met an officer in the Greek Army, we drank
ouzo on a mountain top, we looked down on the thousands in the streets, then we
went to some crummy hotel and he fucked me. It was a horrible moment afterwards,
when I looked at him and saw him and said, you really hate women you know. I saw
the muscles in his arm tighten, and the impulse to strike animate his body, and his
insane vanity, and then the decision that it wasnt important after all. I had never
known that, that there were men who hated women, and yet at that moment I knew
that I had just been fucked by one. It was the gift of my 19th birthday. I never forgot
that man or that moment.
There seemed to be only two possibilities. To be a housewife like my mother, limited,
boring, irritating. How we have been robbed of our mothers, I knew only the
narrowness of her life, nothing of its depths. She was kept from me, cloistered,
covered from my gaze by impenetrable layers of cultural lies. She was kept from me.
We were set against each other, every mother Clytemnestra, every daughter Electra. I
did not want to be her. I wanted to be Miller, or Mailer, or Rimbaud, my Rimbaud, a
hero, nothing of the world closed to me, an initiator, an inventor, a creator. No one
said the truth: phallic initiator, phallic inventor, phallic creator. Those were the false,
vicious choices
There were so many, and each was the one I was with. One after another, over and
over.
I had been on Crete maybe three months when I first saw you. Glorious, a golden
moment. I was drinking vermouth at an outdoor cafe. The day was dark and drizzly.
You stepped out of a doorway, looked around, stepped back in out of sight. You were
so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful, radiating light, yr eyes so huge and deep and dark.
I dont remember how we began to talk or when we first made love, but it really did
happen that way, I saw you and the earth stood still, everthing in me opended up and
reached out to you. Later I understood that you were too beautiful, that yr phsical
beauty interfered with yr life, stood between you and it, that it created an almost
unbridgeable distance between you and others, even as it drew them to you.
I was happy. I loved you. I was consumed by my love for you. It was as if I breathed
you instead of the air. Sometimes I felt a peace so great that I thought it would lift me
off the earth. I felt in you and through you and because of you. Later, when you were
so much a part of me that I didnt know where you ended and I began. I would still
sometimes step back and marvel at yr physical beauty. Sometimes I would think that
my life would be complete if I would always be able to look at you.
I dont know what you felt. I never questioned it or thought about it. What was
admitted of no other possibility. What was had no words, no language. I remember
that a time came when we no longer made love all day and all night, but only twice
each day, once in the night and once in the morning, and I asked a woman I knew if
she thought you still loved me.
I was ecstatic with you. What are the words? I loved you, I breathed you. What does
that mean? What does it mean that two people, a man and a woman, who share no
common language, come together and for almost a year share every day in an erotic
ecstasy, die in each other, are born in each other, rise and fall and intertwine and cry
out, breathe in and through each other, are nourished and sustained by mutual touch,
are one in the way that the sun is one, when the coming together of those two people
embodies every possible feeling, sound, silence?
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And towards the end, before I left, when we began to fight, to have those monstrous
wordless fights composed of a passions as large as the love we were‐‐what was that?
What does it mean that two people, a man and a woman, who require each other for
the sake of life itself, like water or food or air, who do not share a common language,
who speak only pidgin bits of French, English, Greek, but know each other completely,
understand whole sentences and speeches composed in three languages at a time,
begin to tear and rend each others insides‐‐using gestures, fragments, emblems, signs.
What does it mean when these two people, a man and a woman, have a fight, a
monstrous fight, that lasts all night, through every fury and silence (but he will not
leave her, he will not go from her house), a fight that begins when she tries to kill him,
literally to tear the life out of him with her bare hands because he dares to touch her
(and she would die without that touch), and their pain is so great, so physically
unbearable, that still they have only each other, because only they in all the world
share that pain and grief? What is that?
I swear I dont know, all these years later I still dont know. When I left you I thought
that the pain would kill me, literally, physically. I felt a physical pain so acute, all
through my body, in ever part of it, for well over a year I felt this pain, it kept me
awake, it filled my sleep, nothing around me was as real as the pain inside me, and
still, ten years later, sometimes I wake up from a dream that has forced me to feel it
again.
I have always wanted to know why I left you. I have wanted to know what in me was
stronger than my love for you‐‐what nameless drive, in me but not claimed by me as
part of me, moved me to decide to leave you, to make the arrangements necessary to
leave you, to walk to the boat, to get on the boat, to stay on the boat even as you called
to me from the shore.
I dont know exactly when or why yr anger took explicit sexual forms. You began
fucking me in the ass, brutally, brutally. I began to have rectal bleeding. I told you, I
implored you. You ignored my screams of pain, my whispers begging you to stop. You
said, a woman who loves a man stands the pain. I was a woman who loved a man; I
submitted, screamed, cried out, submitted. To refuse was, I thought, to lose you, and
any pain was smaller than that pain, or even the contemplation of that pain. I
wondered even then, how can he take such pleasure when I am in such pain. My pain
increased, and so did yr pleasure.
Once you stopped speaking to me (had I resisted in some way?). When finally (was it a
day or two?) you came to me I waited for an explanation. Instead you touched me,
wanting to fuck me, as if no explanation were necessary, as if I was yrs to take, no
matter what. Had I been strong enough, I would have killed you with my bare hands.
As it was, you were weak in yr surprise, and I hurt yr neck badly. I was glad (Im still
glad). We fought the whole night long, with long stretches of awful silence and a
desperate despair. In the course of that night you told me that we would marry. It was
towards morning, and after you had raped me as is the way with men who are locked
in a hatred which is bitter, and without mercy, you said, thats all thats left, to get
married, isnt that what people do, isnt this the way that married people feel. Bored
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and dead and utterly bound to each other. Miserable and sick and without freedom or
hope. Yr body moving above me during that rape, my body absolutely still in
resistance, my eyes wide open staring at you in resistance, and you said, now Ill fuck
you the way I fuck a whore, now youll know the difference, how I loved you before
and how I hate you now. I said, numb and dead and dying, no, I wont marry you, I cant
stand this, its worse than anything. You said, we cant be apart, youll see, it wont be so
bad. I remember that then you lay between my legs, both of us on our backs, and we
didnt move until dawn. Then you left.
The next day I took my razor blades to a woman friend and I said, keep these, I dont
want to be silly but I think that at any minute I wont be able to stand it anymore, to
stand this excruciating pain, to take one more second of this being alive without him,
and I will be happy to be dead before the next second comes, but I dont want to be
dead, and I need help not to be. She knew that it was the truth and my friends didnt
leave me alone for one minute after that. I was in despair. I had no hope. Time was
anguish. I learned how many seconds there were in a day.
I left Crete a few weeks later. Somehow we endured. Somehow we survived that
agony. Somehow only we had suffered it and all the others were outside of it.
Somehow we became tender with each other again. Somehow we made love again,
with such great sadness and softness that it was new. It was as if either of us might
break into a million pieces at any minute, as if there was nothing to save or to hide or
to redeem either, as if the only parts of us still living were as fragile as dust in the
wind.
And it was very important, I think, that our last week together was spent celibate. You
had, after that terrible night, gone to Athens and there gotten the clap from some
young man, and me from you, and so our last week together we didnt make love. We
went to Athens in yr fathers truck full of tomatoes to take the tomatoes to the market.
I cried the whole time, hysterically, doubled up on the car seat, from market to market,
howling, wailing, screaming like a banshee, the tears never stopped. You were very
kind, tender, and so we began to laugh together again, and on the day I left we were
closer than we had perhaps ever been.
If you loved him, why did you leave him? My friends asked me that often, and it was
strange that I had left, that any woman would leave a man she loved the way I loved
you. I answered in many ways. Sometimes I said that I had become sick. It was true. I
had gonorrhea, and my ass had been torn apart. I had an operation on my rectum and
as I lay in the hospital wracked with pain, I received letters from you which were
completely indifferent to my physical condition. You did not want to know. A woman
who loves a man accepts the pain. I did accept it, but not gracefully. Sometimes I told
people that I had left because we had begun to fight. That too was true, though when I
left I knew that I could stay, that you would not leave me, that we could even marry, if
I wanted.
The decision to leave was not rational. It was made, in fact, long before the worst
happened. It was a feeling, an impulse, that inhabitated my body like a fever. Once I
felt it I knew that I would leave no matter what. I describe it to you now as the drive to
become that lives in the part of me that did not breathe in you, that is a writer, and
that even my identity as a woman could not entirely silence. It is that part of me that
enraged you even as it enthralled you, the part that could not be subsumed by
seduction or anal assault or any sort of domination. It is that part that could not even
be conquered, or quieted, by tenderness. It is the part of me that was, even then, most
alive, and that no man, not even you who were for me the air I breathed, could ever
take from me.
If you had truly loved him, you never would have left him.' Some have said that to me,
but I say no, I loved you, and I left you. I had a drive to become, to live, to imagine, to
create, and it could not be contained in what took place between us.
170
I wanted to come back. I expected to come back. I planned to come back. I started to
come back. But I never did return to you.
Two years after I had left, as I had promised, I started on my way back to you. I went
to Amsterdam. I wrote you, Im coming back. I received a letter from you that said, my
life is bitter, you dont know whats happening here, Amerikans are stupid and you are
an Amerikan, tanks and death are everywhere, my friends are being imprisoned and
tortured and killed, come if you can bear it, I cant promise you anything. You said that
you yourself knew only bitterness, and, indeed, yr letter was bitterness.
I had exactly enough money for fare one way, nothing more. I had wanted you to say,
come, come now, I need you now, now in this time of desperate trouble I need you.
I did not return. A few months later I married.
I was married for three years. During those years, I dreamed of you. I would wake up
in a cold sweat, desperate just to hear the sound of yr voice. I never understood why I
had not gone to you.
A year after my marriage ended, talking with a friend, I understood why I had not
gone to you. Whatever the false (male‐determined) values that still infuse my
judgement of myself‐‐e.g. I betrayed you, abandoned you, deserted you, had no right
not to return to you given yr desperate situation‐‐I discovered, in my failure to return,
the dimensions of my own cowardice. I had been so afraid, E, so afraid of the reality of
what had happened/was happening to you. The real guns. The real police. The real
torture. The real dying. I had stayed in Amsterdam to pursue a life of "radical"
pleasure‐‐smoking dope, fucking, the romance of radical ideas without the reality of
dangerous opposition. And I realized too that I had not been able to accept the letter
you had written me‐‐"I am only bitter"‐‐no image of romantic love was there to propel
me toward you, toward self‐sacrifice, toward bravery.
I wrote to you then, after my marriage ended, saying, I am living alone, writing a book,
and in November I would like to come see you if you are still willing to see me.
Miraculously, you wrote back, saying where you would be, warm, saying to come.
But as I worked on my book and struggled with this new clarity, I saw that in Greece I
could do nothing, and that my struggle was in Amerika. I saw that I had to come back
here, to Amerika, to hone my book into an instrument of revolution. I had to confront
the real danger here‐‐not give myself in service to the romance of Amerikas male
"radicals," but instead to confront the hatred of women, male power over women,
from which, I believe, all other illegitimate power is derived. Here, knowing the
language, I could take responsibility. Elsewhere, I would be still running, still hiding. I
saw that this assumption of responsibility must be at the center of my life. I saw that I
could not be any mans woman, not even yours; that I myself must act in the world
directly, develop and use all my strength in the pursuit of my vision, a vision no male
could have birthed. I knew that I had discovered my true faith.
I wrote you again, saying, E, I am returning to Amerika, when I finally do come to Crete
will you see me? No answer from you. I ask our Greek friends in Paris for news of you,
but there is none.
Now, more time has passed. I dont think that I will ever come back to you or see you
again. Sometimes I wish that were not so. But I have one choice to make in life, to
make and to keep making‐‐will I seek freedom, or will I dress myself in chains? I am
on a journey long forbidden to women. I want the freedom to become. I want that
freedom more than I want any other thing life has to offer. I no longer believe that yr
freedom is more important than mine, that yr pleasure or pain is more important than
mine. I no longer believe that the torture of a man in prison is worse than the torture
of a woman in bed.
171
I began this letter in desire; I end in anger. I dream that love without tyranny is
possible.
A.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"First Love," copyright © 1978, 1980 by Andrea Dworkin, is a chapter from an
unpublished epistolary novel, Ruins, and first appeared in The Woman Who Lost Her
Names: Selected Writings by American Jewish Women, compiled and edited by Julia
Wolf Mazow (San Francisco: Harper & Row Publishers, 1980). Lines from "Credo,"
copyright © 1972, are from Monster: Poems by Robin Morgan (New York: Random
House and Vintage Books, 1972) and are used with permission.
172
OUR BLOOD: PROPHECIES AND DISCOURSES ON SEXUAL POLITICS
Copyright © 1974‐76 by Andrea Dworkin.
Chapter 1
[Delivered at Smith College, Northhampton, Massachusetts, April 16, 1974.]
I am very happy to be here today. It is no small thing for me to be here. There are
many other places I could be. This is not what my mother had planned for me.
I want to tell you something about my mother. Her name is Sylvia. Her father's name is
Spiegel. Her husband's name is Dworkin. She is fifty‐nine years old, my mother, and
just a few months ago she had a serious heart attack. She is recovered now and back
on her job. She is a secretary in a high school. She has been a heart patient most of her
life, and all of mine. When she was a child she had rheumatic fever. She says that her
real trouble began when she was pregnant with my brother Mark and got pneumonia.
After that, her life was a misery of illness. After years of debilitating illness‐‐heart
failures, toxic reactions to the drugs that kept her alive‐‐she underwent heart surgery,
then she suffered a brain clot, a stroke, that robbed her of speech for a long time. She
recovered from the heart surgery. She recovered from her stroke, although she still
speaks more slowly than she thinks. Then, about eight years ago she had a heart
attack. She recovered. Then, a few months ago she had a heart attack. She recovered.
My mother was born in Jersey City, New Jersey, the second oldest of seven children,
two boys, five girls. Her parents, Sadie and Edward, who were cousins, came from
someplace in Hungary. Her father died before I was born. Her mother is now eighty.
There is no way of knowing of course if my mother's heart would have been injured so
badly had she been born into a wealthy family. I suspect not, but I do not know. There
is also of course no way of knowing if she would have received different medical
treatment had she not been a girl. But regardless, it all happened the way it happened,
and so she was very ill most of her life. Since she was a girl, no one encouraged her to
read books (though she tells me that she used to love to read and does not remember
when or why she stopped reading); no one encouraged her to go to college or asked
her to consider the problems of the world in which she lived. Because her family was
poor, she had to work as soon as she finished high school. She worked as a secretary
full‐time, and on Saturdays and some evenings she did part‐time work as a "salesgirl"
in a department store. Then she married my father.
My father was a school teacher and he also worked nights in the post office because he
had medical bills to pay. He had to keep my mother alive, and he had two children to
support as well. I say along with Joseph Chaikin in The Presence of the Actor: "The
medical‐economic reality in this country is emblematic of the System which literally
chooses who is to survive. I renounce my government for its inequitable economic
system." 1 Others, I must point out to you, had and have less than we did. Others who
were not my mother but who were in her situation did and do die. I too renounce this
government because the poor die, and they are not only the victims of heart disease,
or kidney disease, or cancer‐‐they are the victims of a system which says a visit to the
doctor is $25 and an operation is $5,000.
173
When I was twelve, my mother emerged from her heart surgery and the stroke that
had robbed her of speech. There she was, a mother, standing up and giving orders. We
had a very hard time with each other. I didn't know who she was, or what she wanted
from me. She didn't know who I was, but she had definite ideas about who I should be.
She had, I thought, a silly, almost stupid attitude toward the world. By the time I was
twelve I knew that I wanted to be a writer or a lawyer. I had been raised really
without a mother, and so certain ideas hadn't reached me. I didn't want to be a wife,
and I didn't want to be a mother.
My father had really raised me although I didn't see a lot of him. My father valued
books and intellectual dialogue. He was the son of Russian immigrants, and they had
wanted him to be a doctor. That was their dream. He was a devoted son and so, even
though he wanted to study history, he took a pre‐medical course in college. He was too
squeamish to go through with it all. Blood made him ill. So after pre‐med, he found
himself, for almost twenty years, teaching science, which he didn't like, instead of
history, which he loved. During the years of doing work he disliked, he made a vow
that his children would be educated as fully as possible and, no matter what it took
from him, no matter what kind of commitment or work or money, his children would
become whatever they wanted. My father made his children his art, and he devoted
himself to nurturing those children so that they would become whatever they could
become. I don't know why he didn't make a distinction between his girl child and his
boy child, but he didn't. I don't know why, from the beginning, he gave me books to
read, and talked about all of his ideas with me, and watered every ambition that I had
so that those ambitions would live and be nourished and grow‐‐but he did. *
So in our household, my mother was out of the running as an influence. My father,
whose great love was history, whose commitment was to education and intellectual
dialogue, set the tone and taught both my brother and me that our proper engagement
was with the world. He had a whole set of ideas and principles that he taught us, in
words, by example. He believed, for instance, in racial equality and integration when
those beliefs were seen as absolutely aberrational by all of his neighbors, family, and
peers. When I, at the age of fifteen, declared to a family gathering that if I wanted to
marry I would marry whomever I wanted, regardless of color, my father's answer
before that enraged assembly was that he expected no less. He was a civil libertarian.
He believed in unions, and fought hard to unionize teachers‐‐an unpopular notion in
those days since teachers wanted to see themselves as professionals. He taught us
those principles in the Bill of Rights which are now not thought of very highly by most
Amerikans‐‐an absolute commitment to free speech in all its forms, equality before
just law, and racial equality.
I adored my father, but I had no sympathy for my mother. I knew that she was
physically brave‐‐my father told me so over and over‐‐but I didn't see her as any
Herculean hero. No woman ever had been, as far as I knew. Her mind was
uninteresting. She seemed small and provincial. I remember that once, in the middle
of a terrible argument, she said to me in a stony tone of voice: You think I'm stupid. I
denied it then, but I know today that she was right. And indeed, what else could one
think of a person whose only concern was that I clean up my room, or wear certain
clothes, or comb my hair another way. I had, certainly, great reason to think that she
was stupid, and horrible, and petty, and contemptible even: Edward Albee, Philip
Wylie, and that great male artist Sigmund Freud told me so. Mothers, it seemed to me,
were the most expendable of people‐‐no one had a good opinion of them, certainly not
the great writers of the past, certainly not the exciting writers of the present. And so,
though this woman, my mother, whether present or absent, was the center of my life
in so many inexplicable, powerful unchartable ways, I experienced her only as an
ignorant irritant, someone without grace or passion or wisdom. When I married in
1969 I felt free‐‐free of my mother, her prejudices, her ignorant demands.
I tell you all of this because this story has, possibly for the first time in history, a rather
happier resolution than one might expect.
174
Do you remember that in Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls Maria is asked about
her lovemaking with Robert, did the earth move? For me, too, in my life, the earth has
sometimes moved. The first time it moved I was ten. I was going to Hebrew school, but
it was closed, a day of mourning for the six million slaughtered by the Nazis. So I went
to see my cousin who lived nearby. She was shaking, crying, screaming, vomiting. She
told me that it was April, and in April her youngest sister had been killed in front of
her, another sister's infant had died a terrible death, their heads had been shaved ‐‐let
me just say that she told me what had happened to her in a Nazi concentration camp.
She said that every April she remembered in nightmare and terror what had
happened to her that month so many years before, and that every April she shook,
cried, screamed, and vomited. The earth moved for me then.
The second time the earth moved for me was when I was eighteen and spent four days
in the Women's House of Detention in New York City. I had been arrested in a
demonstration against the Indochina genocide. I spent four days and four nights in the
filth and terror of that jail. While there two doctors gave me a brutal internal
examination. I hemorrhaged for fifteen days after that. The earth moved for me then.
The third time the earth moved for me was when I became a feminist. It wasn't on a
particular day, or through one experience. It had to do with that afternoon when I was
ten and my cousin put the grief of her life into my hands; it had to do with that
women's jail, and three years of marriage that began in friendship and ended in
despair. It happened sometime after I left my husband, when I was living in poverty
and great emotional distress. It happened slowly, little by little. A week after I left my
ex‐husband I started my book, the book which is now called Woman Hating. I wanted
to find out what had happened to me in my marriage and in the thousand and one
instances of daily life where it seemed I was being treated like a subhuman. I felt that I
was deeply masochistic, but that my masochism was not personal‐‐each woman I
knew lived out deep masochism. I wanted to find out why. I knew that I hadn't been
taught that masochism by my father, and that my mother had not been my immediate
teacher. So I began in what seemed the only apparent place‐‐with Story of O, a book
that had moved me profoundly. From that beginning I looked at other pornography,
fairy tales, one thousand years of Chinese footbinding, and the slaughter of nine
million witches. I learned something about the nature of the world which had been
hidden from me before‐‐I saw a systematic despisal of women that permeated every
institution of society, every cultural organ, every expression of human being. And I
saw that I was a woman, a person who met that systematic despisal on every street
corner, in every living room, in every human interchange. Because I became a woman
who knew that she was a woman, that is, because I became a feminist, I began to
speak with women for the first time in my life, and one of the women I began to speak
with was my mother. I came to her life through the long dark tunnel of my own. I
began to see who she was as I began to see the world that had formed her. I came to
her no longer pitying the poverty of her intellect, but astounded by the quality of her
intelligence. I came to her no longer convinced of her stupidity and triviality, but
astonished by the quality of her strength. I came to her, no longer self‐righteous and
superior, but as a sister, another woman whose life, but for the grace of a feminist
father and the new common struggle of my feminist sisters, would have repeated
hers‐‐and when I say "repeated hers" I mean, been predetermined as hers was
predetermined. I came to her, no longer ashamed of what she lacked, but deeply
proud of what she had achieved‐‐indeed, I came to recognize that my mother was
proud, strong, and honest. By the time I was twenty‐six I had seen enough of the world
and its troubles to know that pride, strength, and integrity were virtues to honor. And
because I addressed her in a new way she came to meet me, and now, whatever our
difficulties, and they are not so many, she is my mother, and I am her daughter, and
we are sisters.
You asked me to talk about feminism and art, is there a feminist art, and if so, what is
it. For however long writers have written, until today, there has been masculinist art‐‐
art that serves men in a world made by men. That art has degraded women. It has,
175
I ask myself, what did I learn from all those books I read as I was growing up? Did I
learn anything real or true about women? Did I learn anything real or true about
centuries of women and what they lived? Did those books illuminate my life, or life
itself, in any useful, or profound, or generous, or rich, or textured, or real way? I do not
think so. I think that that art, those books, would have robbed me of my life as the
world they served robbed my mother of hers.
Theodore Roethke, a great poet we are told, a poet of the male condition I would
insist, wrote:
Two of the charges most frequently levelled against poetry by women are lack of
range‐‐in subject matter, in emotional tone‐‐ and lack of a sense of humor. And one
could, in individual instances among writers of real talent, add other aesthetic and
moral shortcomings: the spinning‐out; the embroidering of trivial themes; a concern
with the mere surfaces of life‐‐that special province of the feminine talent in prose‐‐
hiding from the real agonies of the spirit; refusing to face up to what existence is; lyric
or religious posturing; running between the boudoir and the altar, stamping a tiny
foot against God; or lapsing into a sententiousness that implies the author has re‐
invented integrity; carrying on excessively about Fate, about time; lamenting the lot of
woman . . . and so on. 2
What characterizes masculinist art, and the men who make it, is misogyny‐‐and in the
face of that misogyny, someone had better reinvent integrity.
They, the masculinists, have told us that they write about the human condition, that
their themes are the great themes‐‐ love, death, heroism, suffering, history itself. They
have told us that our themes‐‐love, death, heroism, suffering, history itself‐‐are trivial
because we are, by our very nature, trivial.
I renounce masculinist art. It is not art which illuminates the human condition‐‐it
illuminates only, and to men's final and everlasting shame, the masculinist world‐‐and
as we look around us, that world is not one to be proud of. Masculinist art, the art of
centuries of men, is not universal, or the final explication of what being in the world is.
It is, in the end, descriptive only of a world in which women are subjugated,
submissive, enslaved, robbed of full becoming, distinguished only by carnality,
demeaned. I say, my life is not trivial; my sensibility is not trivial; my struggle is not
trivial. Nor was my mother's, or her mother's before her. I renounce those who hate
women, who have contempt for women, who ridicule and demean women, and when I
do, I renounce most of the art, masculinist art, ever made.
As feminists, we inhabit the world in a new way. We see the world in a new way. We
threaten to turn it upside down and inside out. We intend to change it so totally that
someday the texts of masculinist writers will be anthropological curiosities. What was
that Mailer talking about, our descendants will ask, should they come upon his work
in some obscure archive. And they will wonder‐‐bewildered, sad‐‐at the masculinist
glorification of war; the masculinist mystifications around killing, maiming, violence,
and pain; the tortured masks of phallic heroism; the vain arrogance of phallic
supremacy; the impoverished renderings of mothers and daughters, and so of life
itself. They will ask, did those people really believe in those gods?
176
Feminist art is not some tiny creek running off the great river of real art. It is not some
crack in an otherwise flawless .stone. It is, quite spectacularly I think, art which is not
based on the subjugation of one half of the species. It is art which will take the great
human themes‐‐love, death, heroism, suffering, history itself‐‐and render them fully
human. It may also, though perhaps our imaginations are so mutilated now that we
are incapable even of the ambition, introduce a new theme, one as great and as rich as
those others‐‐should we call it "joy"?
We cannot imagine a world in which women are not experienced as trivial and
contemptible, in which women are not demeaned, abused, exploited, raped,
diminished before we are even born‐‐and so we cannot know what kind of art will be
made in that new world. Our work, which does full honor to those centuries of sisters
who went before us, is to midwife that new world into being. It will be left to our
children and their children to live in it.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
Go to "Lesbian Pride."
Return to OUR BLOOD TABLE OF CONTENTS.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Feminism, Art, and My Mother Sylvia." Copyright © 1974, 1976 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved. First published in Social Policy, May/June 1975.
177
Lesbian Pride
PROPHECIES AND DISCOURSES ON SEXUAL POLITICS
by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1975, 1976 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 7
Lesbian Pride
[Delivered at a rally for Lesbian Pride Week, Central Park, New York City, June 28,
1975.]
For me, being a lesbian means three things ‐‐
First, it means that I love, cherish, and respect women in my mind, in my heart, and in
my soul. This love of women is the soil in which my life is rooted. It is the soil of our
common life together. My life grows out of this soil. In any other soil, I would die. In
whatever ways I am strong, I am strong because of the power and passion of this
nurturant love.
Second, being a lesbian means to me that there is an erotic passion and intimacy
which comes of touch and taste, a wild, salty tenderness, a wet sweet sweat, our
breasts, our mouths, our cunts, our intertangled hairs, our hands. I am speaking here
of a sensual passion as deep and mysterious as the sea, as strong and still as the
mountain, as insistent and changing as the wind.
Third, being a lesbian means to me the memory of the mother, remembered in my
own body, sought for, desired, found, and truly honored. It means the memory of the
womb, when we were one with our mothers, until birth when we were torn asunder.
It means a return to that place inside, inside her, inside ourselves, to the tissues and
membranes, to the moisture and blood.
There is a pride in the nurturant love which is our common ground, and in the sensual
love, and in the memory of the mother‐‐and that pride shines as bright as the summer
sun at noon. That pride cannot be degraded. Those who would degrade it are in the
position of throwing handfuls of mud at the sun. Still it shines, and those who sling
mud only dirty their own hands.
Sometimes the sun is covered by dense layers of dark clouds. A person looking up
would swear that there is no sun. But still the sun shines. At night, when there is no
light, still the sun shines. During rain or hail or hurricane or tornado, still the sun
shines.
Does the sun ask itself, "Am I good? Am I worthwhile? Is there enough of me?" No, it
burns and it shines. Does the sun ask itself, "What does the moon think of me? How
does Mars feel about me today?" No, it burns, it shines. Does the sun ask itself, "Am I
as big as other suns in other galaxies?" No, it burns, it shines.
In this country in the coming years, I think that there will be a terrible storm. I think
that the skies will darken beyond all recognition. Those who walk the streets will walk
them in darkness. Those who are in prisons and mental institutions will not see the
178
sky at all, only the dark out of barred windows. Those who are hungry and in despair
may not look up at all. They will see the darkness as it lies on the ground in front of
their feet. Those who are raped will see the darkness as they look up into the face of
the rapist. Those who are assaulted and brutalized by madmen will stare intently into
the darkness to discern who is moving toward them at every moment. It will be hard
to remember, as the storm is raging, that still, even though we cannot see it, the sun
shines. It will be hard to remember that still, even though we cannot see it, the sun
burns. We will try to see it and we will try to feel it, and we will forget that it warms us
still, that if it were not there, burning, shining, this earth would be a cold and desolate
and barren place.
As long as we have life and breath, no matter how dark the earth around us, that sun
still burns, still shines. There is no today without it. There is no tomorrow without it.
There was no yesterday without it. That light is within us‐‐constant, warm, and
healing. Remember it, sisters, in the dark times to come.
"Lesbian Pride." Copyright © 1975, 1976 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved. First
published under the title "What Is Lesbian Pride?" in The Second Wave, Vol. 4, No. 2,
1975. Delivered as a lecture under the title "What Is Lesbian Pride?"
179
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE. WRITINGS 1976‐1989
Part III TAKE BACK THE DAY
One of the slurs constantly used against me by women writing in behalf of
pornography under the flag of feminism in misogynist media is that I endorse a
primitive biological determinism. Woman Hating (1974) clearly repudiates any
biological determinism; so does Our Blood (1976), especially "The Root Cause." So
does this piece, published twice, in 1978 in Heresies and in 1979 in Broadsheet.
Heresies was widely read in the Women's Movement in 1978. The event described
in this piece, which occurred in 1977, was fairly notorious, and so my position on
biological determinism‐‐I am against it‐‐is generally known in the Women's
Movement. One problem is that this essay, like others in this book, has no cultural
presence: no one has to know about it or take it into account to appear less than
ignorant; no one will be held accountable for ignoring it. Usually critics and
political adversaries have to reckon with the published work of male writers
whom they wish to malign. No such rules protect girls. One pro‐pornography
"feminist" published an article in which she said I was anti‐abortion, this in the face
of decades of work for abortion rights and membership in many pro‐choice groups.
No one even checked her allegation; the periodical would not publish a retraction.
One's published work counts as nothing, and so do years of one's political life.
1
All who are not of good race in this world are chaff. ‐‐Hitler, Mein Kampf 1
It would be lunacy to try to estimate the value of man according to his race, thus
declaring war on the Marxist idea that men are equal, unless we are determined to
draw the ultimate consequences. And the ultimate consequence of recognizing the
importance of blood‐‐that is, of the racial foundation in general‐‐is the transference of
this estimation to the individual person. ‐‐Hitler, Mein Kampf 2
Hisses. Women shouting at me: slut, bisexual, she fucks men. And before I had spoken,
I had been trembling, more afraid to speak than I had ever been. And, in a room of 200
sister lesbians, as angry as I have ever been. "Are you a bisexual?" some woman
screamed over the pandemonium, the hisses and shouts merging into a raging noise.
"I'm a Jew," I answered; then, a pause, "and a lesbian, and a woman." And a coward.
Jew was enough. In that room, Jew was what mattered. In that room, to answer the
question "Do you still fuck men?" with a No, as I did, was to betray my deepest
convictions. All of my life, I have hated the proscribers, those who enforce sexual
conformity. In answering, I had given in to the inquisitors, and I felt ashamed. It
humiliated me to see myself then: one who resists the enforcers out there with
militancy, but gives in without resistance to the enforcers among us.
The event was a panel on "Lesbianism as a Personal Politic" that took place in New
York City, Lesbian Pride Week 1977. A self‐proclaimed lesbian separatist had spoken.
180
Amidst the generally accurate description of male crimes against women came this
ideological rot, articulated of late with increasing frequency in feminist circles: women
and men are distinct species or races (the words are used interchangeably); men are
biologically inferior to women; male violence is a biological inevitability; to eliminate
it, one must eliminate the species/race itself (means stated on this particular evening:
developing parthenogenesis as a viable reproductive reality); in eliminating the
biologically inferior species/race Man, the new Ubermensch Womon (prophetically
foreshadowed by the lesbian separatist * herself) will have the earthly dominion that
is her true biological destiny. We are left to infer that the society of her creation will
be good because she is good, biologically good. In the interim, incipient SuperWomon
will not do anything to "encourage" women to "collaborate" with men‐‐no abortion
clinics or battered woman sanctuaries will come from her. After all, she has to
conserve her "energy" which must not be dissipated keeping "weaker" women alive
through reform measures.
In the audience, I saw women I like or love, women not strangers to me, women who
are good not because of biology but because they care about being good, swept along
in a sea of affirmation. I spoke out because those women had applauded. I spoke out
too because I am a Jew who has studied Nazi Germany, and I know that many Germans
who followed Hitler also cared about being good, but found it easier to be good by
biological definition than by act. Those people, wretched in what they experienced as
their own unbearable powerlessness, became convinced that they were so good
biologically that nothing they did could be bad. As Himmler said in 1943:
We have exterminated a bacterium [Jews] because we did not want in the end to be
infected by the bacterium and die of it. I will not see so much as a small area of sepsis
appear here or gain a hold. Wherever it may form, we will cauterize it. All in all, we
can say that we have fulfilled this most difficult duty for the love of our people. And
our spirit, our soul, our character has not suffered injury from it. 3
So I spoke, afraid. I said that I would not be associated with a movement that
advocated the most pernicious ideology on the face of the earth. It was this very
ideology of biological determinism that had licensed the slaughter and/or
enslavement of virtually any group one could name, including women by men. ("Use
their own poison against them," one woman screamed.) Anywhere one looked, it was
this philosophy that justified atrocity. This was one faith that destroyed life with a
momentum of its own.
Insults continued with unabated intensity as I spoke, but gradually those women I
liked or loved, and others I did not know, began to question openly the philosophy
they had been applauding and also their own acquiescence. Embraced by many
women on my way out, I left still sickened, humiliated by the insults, emotionally
devastated by the abuse. Time passes, but the violence done is not undone. It never is.
2
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I am told that I am a sexist. I do believe that the differences between the sexes are our
most precious heritage, even though they make women superior in the ways that
matter most. ‐‐George Gilder, Sexual Suicide 4
Perhaps this female wisdom comes from resignation to the reality of male aggression;
more likely it is a harmonic of the woman's knowledge that ultimately she is the one
who matters. As a result, while there are more brilliant men than brilliant women,
there are more good women than good men. ‐‐Steven Goldberg, The Inevitability of
Patriarchy 5
As a class (not necessarily as individuals), we can bear children. From this, according
to male‐supremacist ideology, all our other attributes and potentialities are derived.
On the pedestal, immobile like waxen statues, or in the gutter, failed icons mired in
shit, we are exalted or degraded because our biological traits are what they are. Citing
genes, genitals, DNA, pattern‐releasing smells, biograms, hormones, or whatever is in
vogue, male supremacists make their case which is, in essence, that we are biologically
too good, too bad, or too different to do anything other than reproduce and serve men
sexually and domestically.
The newest variations on this distressingly ancient theme center on hormones and
DNA: men are biologically aggressive; their fetal brains were awash in androgen; their
DNA, in order to perpetuate itself, hurls them into murder and rape; in women,
pacifism is hormonal and addiction to birth is molecular. Since in Darwinian terms
(interpreted to conform to the narrow social self‐interest of men), survival of the
fittest means the triumph of the most aggressive human beings, men are and always
will be superior to women in terms of their ability to protect and extend their own
authority. Therefore women, being "weaker" (less aggressive), will always be at the
mercy of men. That this theory of the social ascendancy of the fittest consigns us to
eternal indignity and, applied to race, conjures up Hitler's identical view of
evolutionary struggle must not unduly trouble us. "By current theory," writes Edward
O. Wilson reassuringly in Sociobiology: The New Synthesis, a bible of genetic
justification for slaughter, "genocide or genosorption strongly favoring the aggressor
need take place only once every few generations to direct evolution." 6
3
I have told you the very low opinion in which you [women] were held by Mr Oscar
Browning. I have indicated what Napoleon once thought of you and what Mussolini
thinks now. Then, in case any of you aspire to fiction, I have copied out for your
benefit the advice of the critic about courageously acknowledging the limitations of
your sex. I have referred to Professor X and given prominence to his statement that
women are intellectually, morally and physically inferior to men . . . and here is a final
warning . . . Mr John Langdon Davies warns women "that when children cease to be
altogether desirable, women cease to be altogether necessary." I hope you will make
note of it. ‐‐Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own 7
In considering male intellectual and scientific argumentation in conjunction with male
history, one is forced to conclude that men as a class are moral cretins. The vital
question is: are we to accept their world view of a moral polarity that is biologically
fixed, genetically or hormonally or genitally (or whatever organ or secretion or
molecular particle they scapegoat next) absolute; or does our own historical
experience of social deprivation and injustice teach us that to be free in a just world
we will have to destroy the power, the dignity, the efficacy of this one idea above all
others?
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Recently, more and more feminists have been advocating social, spiritual, and
mythological models that are female‐supremacist and/or matriarchal. To me, this
advocacy signifies a basic conformity to the tenets of biological determinism that
underpin the male social system. Pulled toward an ideology based on the moral and
social significance of a distinct female biology because of its emotional and
philosophical familiarity, drawn to the spiritual dignity inherent in a "female
principle" (essentially as defined by men), of course unable to abandon by will or
impulse a lifelong and centuries‐old commitment to childbearing as the female
creative act, women have increasingly tried to transform the very ideology that has
enslaved us into a dynamic, religious, psychologically compelling celebration of female
biological potential. This attempted transformation may have survival value‐‐that is,
the worship of our procreative capacity as power may temporarily stay the male‐
supremacist hand that cradles the test tube. But the price we pay is that we become
carriers of the disease we must cure. It is no accident that in the ancient matriarchies
men were castrated, sacrificially slaughtered, and excluded from public forms of
power; nor is it an accident that some female supremacists now believe men to be a
distinct and inferior species or race. Wherever power is accessible or bodily integrity
honored on the basis of biological attribute, systematized cruelty permeates the
society and murder and mutilation contaminate it. We will not be different.
It is shamefully easy for us to enjoy our own fantasies of biological omnipotence while
despising men for enjoying the reality of theirs. And it is dangerous‐‐because genocide
begins, however improbably, in the conviction that classes of biological distinction
indisputably sanction social and political discrimination. We, who have been
devastated by the concrete consequences of this idea, still want to put our faith in it.
Nothing offers more proof‐‐sad, irrefutable proof‐‐that we are more like men than
either they or we care to believe.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"Biological Superiority: The World's Most Dangerous and Deadly Idea," first published
in Heresies No. 6 on Women and Violence, Vol. 2, No. 2, Summer 1978. Copyright ©
1977 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights reserved.
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Autobiography
I come from Camden, New Jersey, a cold, hard, corrupt city, and‐‐now having been
plundered by politicians, some of whom are in jail‐‐also destitute. I remember being
happy there.
First my parents and I lived on Princess Avenue, which I don't remember; then, with
my younger brother, Mark, at my true home, 1527 Greenwood Avenue. I made a
child's vow that I would always remember the exact address so I could go back, and I
have kept that vow through decades of dislocation, poverty, and hard struggle. I was
ten when we moved to the suburbs, which I experienced as being kidnapped by aliens
and taken to a penal colony. I never forgave my parents or God, and my heart stayed
with the brick row houses on Greenwood Avenue. I loved the stoops, the games in the
street, my friends, and I hated leaving.
I took the story of the three little pigs to heart and was glad that I lived in a brick
house. My big, bad wolf was the nuclear bomb that Russia was going to drop on us. I
learned this at Parkside School from the first grade on, along with reading and writing.
A bell would ring or a siren would sound and we had to hide under our desks. We
were taught to cower and wait quietly, without moving, for a gruesome death, while
the teacher, of course, stood at the head of the class or policed the aisles for elbows or
legs that extended past the protection of the tiny desks. And what would happen to
her when the bomb came? Never, I believe, has a generation of children been so
relentlessly terrorized by adults who were so obviously and stupidly lying. Eventually,
the dullest of us picked up on it; and I was far from the dullest.
I remember trying to understand what the bomb was and how it would come and
why. I'd see blinding light and heat and fire; and when my brain got tired of seeing
burning humans, empty cities, burning cement, I would console myself with the story
of the three little pigs. I was safe because my house was brick.
It is that feeling of my brain meeting the world around me that I remember most
about being a child. The feeling was almost physical, as if I could feel my brain being
stretched inside my head. I could feel my brain reaching for the world. I knew my
brain did more than think. It could see and imagine and maybe even create something
new or beautiful, if I was lucky and brave. I always wanted engagement, not abstract
knowledge.
I loved the world and living and I loved being immersed in sensation. I did not like
boundaries or want distance from what was around me. I saw adults as gatekeepers
who stood between me and the world. I hated their evasions, rules, lies, petty
tyrannies. I wanted to be honest and feel everything and take everything on. I didn't
want to be careful and narrow the way they were. I thought a person could survive
anything, except maybe famine and war, or drought and war. When I learned about
Auschwitz my idea of the unbearable became more specific, more informed, sober and
personal.
I began to think about survival very early, because we were Jewish on the heels of the
Holocaust; because of the ubiquitous presence of those Russian bombs; and also
because my mother was ill with heart disease. She had scarlet fever when she was a
child, and in her family, big and poor, both parents immigrants, one did not call the
doctor for a girl. The scarlet fever turned into rheumatic fever, which injured her
heart long before there was open‐heart surgery. She had many heart failures, maybe
heart attacks, and at least one stroke before I became officially adolescent. She would
be short of breath, maybe fall down; then she'd be gone, to a hospital, but Mark and I
never really had any way of knowing if she had died yet. We would be farmed out to
relatives, separated most of the time. This could happen day or night, while doing
homework or sleeping. We'd be told to get dressed fast because Mother was very sick
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and we couldn't stay here now; and Dad was at work or at the hospital and he would
explain later: be quiet, don't ask questions, cooperate. We never knew anything we
could count on. I usually didn't even know where Mark was. Or she might be sick, at
home but in bed and off‐limits, maybe dying. Sometimes I would be allowed to sit on
her bed for a little while and hold her hand.
She was Sylvia, and I loved her madly when I was a child, which she never believed,
not even by the time she did die, in 1991 at the age of seventy‐six. I did stop loving her
when I was older and exhausted by her repudiations of me; but it would not be wrong
to say that as a child I was in love with her, infatuated. I remember loving her long,
dark hair, and the smell of coffee, which she drank perpetually when she was able to
walk around, and the smoke from her cigarettes. Maybe it was my child's fear of death,
or her sudden, brutal absences, that made me adore her without ever flinching when
she pushed me away. I wanted to be around her, and I would have been her slave had
she been generous enough to accept me. She was my first great romance.
But I was the wrong child for my mother to have had. She preferred dull obedience to
my blazing adoration. She valued conformity and never even recognized the brazen
emotional ploys of a child to hold on to her. My emotions were too extravagant for her
own more literal sensibility. One could follow her around like a lovesick puppy, but if
the puppy peed on the floor, she thought its intention was to spite her. She saw malice
in almost anything I said or did. When I would be stretching my brain in curiosity‐‐and
dancing my brain in front of her to dazzle her‐‐she thought it was defiance. When I
asked her questions, which was a way for me to be engaged with her, she considered
the questions proof of rebellion, a wayward delinquency, maybe even treason to her
authority. I could never excite her or make myself understood or even comfort her. I
do remember her reading to me sometimes at night when I couldn't sleep, and I
remember feeling very happy.
She often told me that she loved me but did not like me. I came to believe that
whatever she meant by love was too remote, too cold, too abstract or formulaic, to
have anything to do with me as an individual, as I was. She said that a mother always
loved her child; and since this was an important rule in her world, she probably
followed it. I never understood what she meant even when I was fully grown up‐‐
which feelings this generic and involuntary love might include. But to the extent that
she knew me, there was no doubt that she did not like me, and also that I could not be
the child that she would find likable. I wasn't, I couldn't be, and I didn't want to be. She
understood only that I didn't want to be.
I had to be independent, of course. I had to learn to live without her or without anyone
special. I had to learn to live from minute to minute. I had to learn to be on my own,
emotionally alone, physically alone. I had to learn to take care of myself and
sometimes my brother and sometimes even her. I never knew what would happen
next, or if she'd be sick or dying, or where I'd be sleeping at night. I had to get strong
and grow up. I'd try to understand and I'd ask God how He could make her so sick.
Somehow, in stretching my brain to beat back the terror, I'd assert my own desire to
live, to be, to know, to become. I had many a Socratic dialogue in my head before I ever
read one. I had a huge inner life, not so strange, I think, for a child, or for a child who
would become a writer. But the inner lives of children were not an acknowledged
reality in those days, in the fifties, before I was ten and we moved to the suburbs, a
place of sterility and desolation where no one had an inner life ever.
I have idyllic memories of childhood in Camden: my brother, my father, and me having
tickling fights, wrestling, on the living room floor; me in my cowgirl suit practicing my
fast draw so I could be an American hero; a tiny sandbox on our front lawn where all
the children played, boys and girls together, our Eden until a certain year when the
girls had to wear tops‐‐I may have been five but I remember screaming and crying in
an inarticulate outrage. We girls played with dolls on the stoops, washed their hair, set
it, combed it out, dressed the dolls, tried to make stories of glamour in which they
185
stood for us. I remember being humiliated by some girl I didn't like for not washing
my doll's hair right‐‐I think the doll was probably drowning. Later, my grandfather
married her mother across the street, and I had to be nice to her. I was happier when
we moved from dolls to canasta, gin rummy, poker, and strip poker. The children on
the street developed a collective secret life, a half dozen games of sex and dominance
that we played, half in front of our mothers' eyes, half in a conspiracy of hiding. And
we played Red Rover and Giant Steps, appropriating the whole block from traffic. And
there was always ball, in formal games, or alone to pass the time, against brick walls,
against the cement stoops. I liked the sex‐and‐dominance games, which could be
overtly sadomasochistic, because I liked the risk and the intensity; and I liked
ordinary games like hide‐and‐seek. I loved the cement, the alleys, the wires and
telephone poles, the parked cars that provided sanctuary from the adults, a kind of
metallic barrier against their eyes and ears; and I loved the communal life of us, the
children, half Lord of the Flies, half a prelude to Marjorie Morningstar. To this day, my
idea of a good time is to sit on a city stoop amid a profusion of people and noise as
dark is coming on.
I would say that it was Sylvia who started fighting with me when I was an exuberant
little pup and still in love with her. But eventually I started fighting back. She
experienced my inner life as a reproach. She thought I was arrogant and especially
hated that I valued my own thoughts. When I kept what I was thinking to myself, she
thought I was plotting against her. When I told her what I thought, she said I was
defiant and some species of bad: evil, nasty, rotten. She often accused me of thinking I
was smarter than she. I probably was, though I didn't know it; but it wasn't my fault. I
was the child, she the adult, but neither of us understood that.
Our fights were awful and I don't doubt that, then as now, I fought to win. I may have
been around eight when I dug in; and we were antagonists. I may have been a little
older. Of course, I still wanted her to take me back and love me, but each crisis made
that harder. Because of the wrenching separations, the pressing necessity of taking
care of myself or Mark or her, the loneliness of living with relatives who didn't
particularly want me, I had to learn to need my mother less. When we fought she said I
was killing her. At some point, I don't know exactly when, I decided not to care if she
did die. I pulled myself away from her fate and tried to become indifferent to it. With a
kind of emotional jujitsu, I pushed my mother away in my mind and in how I lived. I
did this as a child. I knew that she might really die, and maybe I would be the cause, as
they all kept saying. I also knew I was being manipulated. I had to make a choice:
follow by rote her ten thousand rules of behavior for how a girl must act, think, look,
sit, stand‐‐in other words, cut out my own heart; or withstand the threat of her
imminent death‐‐give up the hope of her love or her friendship or her understanding. I
disciplined myself to walk away from her in every sense and over time I learned how.
She told me I had a hard heart.
I made good grades, though I had trouble conforming in class as I got older because of
the intellectual vacuity of most of my teachers. I followed enough of the social rules to
keep adults at bay. There weren't therapists in schools yet so no adult got to force‐
fuck my mind. I was smart enough to be able to strategize. I wasn't supposed to take
long, solitary walks, but I took them. I wasn't supposed to go to other parts of our
neighborhood, but I went. I had friends who were not Jewish or white at a time when
race and religion lines were not crossed. I knew boys who were too old for me. I read
books children weren't allowed to read. I regarded all of this as my private life and my
right. My mother simply continued to regard me as a liar and a cheat with
incomprehensible but clearly sinister tendencies and ideas.
When I was ten we moved to Delaware Township in New Jersey, a place New York
Times writer Russell Baker described in a column as "nowhere along the highway,"
after which the outraged citizens changed the name to Cherry Hill. It was an empty
place with sporadic outbreaks of ranch‐ type and split‐level housing projects. There
were still wild cherry trees and some deer. With the deer came hunters who stalked
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them across flat fields of ragweed and poison ivy. It was virtually all‐white, unlike
Camden in which the schools were racially and ethnically mixed even as residential
blocks were segregated according to precise calibrations: Polish Catholics on one
block, Irish Catholics on another. It was intellectually arid, except for a few teachers,
one of whom liked to play sex‐and‐seduction games with smart little girls. It was
wealthy while we were quite poor. We moved there because my mother could not
climb steps and the good Lord had never made a flatter place than Delaware
Township/Cherry Hill. I lived for the day that I would leave to go to New York City,
where there were poets and writers and jazz and people like me.
Harry, my daddy, was not a rolling stone. He wasn't at home because he worked two
jobs most of the time and three jobs some of the time. He was a schoolteacher during
the day and at night he unloaded packages at the post office. Later he became a
guidance counselor at a boys' academic high school in Philadelphia and also in a
private school for dropouts trying to get their high school diplomas. I don't know what
the third job was, or when he had it. My brother and I would go stretches of many
days without seeing him at home; and when we were in other people's houses, it could
be weeks. There were times when he would go to college classes on Saturdays in an
effort to get his Ph.D. degree, but he never had the time to write a dissertation so he
never got the degree. My dream was that when I grew up I would be able to give him
the money to write his dissertation; but I never did make enough money and he says
he is too old now anyway (though he still goes to the library every week). He was
different from other men in how he acted and how he thought. He was gentle and soft‐
spoken. He listened with careful attention to children and women. He wanted teachers
to unionize and the races to integrate. He was devoted to my mother and determined
that she would get the very best medical care, a goal entirely out of reach for a low‐
paid schoolteacher, except that he did it. He borrowed money to pay medical bills. He
borrowed money to take my mother to heart specialists. He borrowed money for
professional nurses and to get housecleaning help and some child care and sometimes
to hire a cook. He kept us warm and fed and sheltered, even though not always at
home or together. He was outspoken and demonstrative in expressing affection, not
self‐conscious or withdrawn as most men were. He was nurturant and emotionally
empathetic. He crossed a gender line and was stigmatized for it; called a sissy and a
fairy by my buddies on the street who no doubt heard it from their parents. He loved
my mother and he loved Mark and me; but especially me. I will never know why. He
said I was the apple of his eye from the time I was born and I believe him. I did nothing
to earn it and it was the one great gift of my life. On Sundays he slept late but he and I
would watch the Sunday news shows together and analyze foreign crises or political
personalities or social conflicts. We would debate and argue, not the vicious
arguments I had with my mother but heightened dialogue always touching on policy,
ideas, rights, the powerful and the oppressed, discrimination and prejudice. I don't
know how he had the patience; but patience was a defining characteristic. He enjoyed
my intelligence and treated me with respect. I think that to be loved so
unconditionally by a father and treated with respect by him was not common for a girl
then. I think he kept my mother alive and I think he kept Mark and me from being
raised in foster care or as orphans.
He was appalled by the conflict between me and my mother, and certainly by the time
I was a teenager he held me responsible for it. He knew I was adult inside. He let me
know that my mother's well‐being would always come first with him. And I remember
that he hated it when I would cry. He must have thought it cowardly and pitiful and
self‐indulgent. I made many eloquent but to him unpersuasive declarations about my
right to cry.
I trusted and honored him. I guess that I trusted him to love me more even than to
take care of us. In an honors history seminar in high school, the class was asked to
name great men in history. I named my father and was roundly ridiculed by advocates
for Thomas Jefferson and Napoleon. But I meant it‐‐ that he had the qualities of true
greatness, which I defined as strength, generosity, fairness, and a willingness to
187
sacrifice self for principle. His principle was us: my mother, Mark, and me. When I was
an adult we had serious ruptures and the relationship broke apart several times‐‐all
occasions of dire emergency for me. I think that he did abandon me when I was in
circumstances of great suffering and danger. He was, I learned the hard way, only
human. But what he gave me as a child, neither he nor anyone else could take away
from me later. I learned perseverance from his example, and that endurance was a
virtue. Even some of his patience rubbed off on me for some few years. I saw courage
in action in ordinary life, without romance; and I learned the meaning of commitment.
I could never have become a writer without him.
I wrote my first novel during science class in seventh grade in the suburbs. My best
friend, a wild, beautiful girl who wanted to be a painter, sat next to me and also wrote
a novel. In the eighth grade, my friend gone from school to be with a male painter in
his late twenties or thirties, I wrote a short story for English class so disturbing to my
teacher that she put her feelings of apprehension into my permanent record. The
ethos was to conform, not to stand out. She knew the writing was good, and that
troubled her. There was too much vibrancy in the language, too much imagination in
the physical evocations of place and mood. Highly influenced by the television series
"The Twilight Zone" and grief‐stricken at the loss of my soulmate girlfriend, I wrote a
story about a wild woman, strong and beautiful, with long hair and torn clothes, on
another planet, sitting on a rock. My story had no plot really, only longing and
language. I remember getting lost in descriptions of the woman, the sky, the rock,
maybe wind and dirt. In formal terms, I believe I kept circling back to the woman on
the rock through repeating images and phrases that worked almost like music to my
ear‐‐a way of creating movement yet insisting on the permanence of some elements of
the scenario. I had a picture in my mind, which was involuntary. I don't know why it
was there or how it got there. The picture was stubborn: it didn't move or change. I
could see it as if it were real with my eyes open, though it was conceptual and in my
head. It wasn't in front of my eyes; it was behind them. I had huge emotions of pain
and loss. I had the need to keep moving through life, not be held back or stopped by
anything I felt. I remember finding words that resonated with the emotions I felt: not
words that expressed those emotions or described them, but words that embodied
them without ever showing them. It was the unrevealed emotion‐‐attached to the
words but invisible in them, then used to paint the picture in my head in language that
was concrete and physical‐‐that gave the prose an intensity so troubling to my
teacher. Was she troubled by the homoeroticism of the story? I don't believe she
recognized it.
In the eighth grade, of course, I did not have any consistent internal standards for how
prose must be or what prose must do. But I did know much more about what I wanted
from language when, thirty years later, I brought that same picture, the same wild
woman on the same rock, into my novel MÖ, first published in 1990 in England.
The rock was Massada: a steep, barren mountain surrounded by desert, a refuge in
ancient Palestine for a community of Jews known as zealots who committed, as the
traditional story goes, mass suicide rather than surrender to the occupying Roman
army. Ten men used their swords to slit the throats of everyone else; then one man
killed the nine men and himself.
MÖ's narrator is a contemporary figure who in one of the novel's endings (it has two)
sees herself as the wild woman on Massada at the time of the so‐called suicides: "A
child can't commit suicide. You have to murder a child. I couldn't watch the children
killed; I couldn't watch the women taken one last time; throats bared; heads thrown
back, or pushed back, or pulled back; a man gets on top, who knows what happens
next, any time can be the last time, slow murder or fast, slow rape or fast, eventual
death, a surprise or you are waiting with a welcome, an open invitation; rape leading,
inexorably, to death; on a bare rock, invasion, blood, and death. Massada; hear my
heart beat; hear me; the women and children were murdered."
188
I wasn't missing my old girlfriend. I didn't have the same picture in my head because I
was feeling what I had felt in the eighth grade. In my experience nothing in writing is
that simple. Both memory and consciousness are deeper and wider than the thinking
mind, which might find meaning in such a facile association.
I felt, certainly, a much larger abandonment, a more terrifying desolation, essentially
impersonal: how the lives of women and children were worthless to men and God. In
the despair of that recognition, the barren landscape of the rock became a place to
stare men and God in the face, and my wild woman the one to do it. When the picture
first came into my head, I dismissed it but it would not go. When I started to work
with it in words, I saw Massada, I saw her, and I saw the murders. I, the writer,
became a witness. Real history out in the world and a picture etched in my brain but
forgotten for three decades converged in words I felt compelled to keep bringing
together. Each word brought with it more detail, more clarity. My narrator, who is a
character in my book, knows less than I do. She is inside the story. Deciding what she
will see, what she can know, I am detached from her and cold in how I use her. I do not
ever think she is me. She is not my mouthpiece. She does not directly speak my views
or enumerate my ideas or serve as a mannequin in words displaying my wounds of
body or soul. I am more than the sum of all her parts; and she can live in the reader's
mind but the reader's mind cannot know me through knowing her. I have never been
to Massada. However dull it may seem, I am the person who sits at the typewriter
writing words, rewriting them, over and over, night in and night out (since I work at
night), over months or years. MÖ took three years to write.
In using the picture in my head from my eighth‐grade story, I broke the picture open
into a universe of complex and concrete detail dreadful with meaning, in particular
about incest and the power of the father‐‐the patriarchal right of invasion into the
bodies of women and children. At the end of writing MÖ's Massada chapter, I felt as if I
had finally seen that earlier picture whole. When I was younger I could only see a
fragment, or a line drawing, but now I had seen everything that had been implicit in
the picture from the beginning, from its first appearance in my mind, as if I had
uncovered something pre‐existing. It was always real and whole; what I had done as a
writer was to find it and describe it, not invent it. In the eighth grade, I had not known
how to use my mind or language to explicate the picture in my head, which was a gift
or a visitation; I couldn't see the human destiny that had been acted out on that barren
rock. But the time between my childhood and now had collapsed. The time between
Massada and now had collapsed.
This strange but not unusual aftermath of creating helps to explain why so many
writers disclaim responsibility for their characters and ideas. The character made me
do it, most writers say. But the truth is that one starts out with a blank page, and each
and every page is blank until the writer fills it. In the process, the mind uses itself up,
each cognitive capacity‐‐intellect, imagination, memory, intuition, emotion, even
cunning‐‐used to the absolute utmost, a kind of strip‐mining of one's mental faculties.
At the same time, with the mind as scavenger and plunderer, one cannibalizes one's
own life. But one's own life for the writer includes everything she can know, not just
what happened to her in the ordinary sense. If I know about you‐‐a gesture, an
emotion, an event‐‐I will use you if I need your gesture, your emotion, your event.
What I take will seem to me to be mine, as if I know it from the inside, because my
imagination will turn it over and tear it apart. Writers use themselves and they use
other people. Empathy can be invasive. Friendship is sometimes a robbery‐in‐
progress. This omniscient indifference takes a certain coldness, and a certain distance,
which writers have and use.
Facts and details are the surface. The writer needs the facts and everything
underneath them. One wanders, bodiless, or goes on search‐and‐destroy missions
using one's mind. One needs a big earth, rich soil, deep roots: one digs and pulls and
takes.
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But after, when the writing is finished, one looks at the finished thing and has a feeling
or conviction of inevitability: I found it, not I made it. It‐‐the story, the novel‐‐had its
own laws; I simply followed them‐‐found them and followed them; was smart enough
and shrewd enough to find them and follow them; wasn't sidetracked or diverted,
which would mean failure, a lesser book. Even with nonfiction, which in the universe
of my writing has the same cognitive complexity as fiction, in the aftermath one feels
that one has chiseled a pre‐existing form (which necessarily has substance attached to
it) out of a big, shapeless stone: it was there, I found it. This is an affirmation of skill
but not of invention. At best, one feels like a sculptor who knows how to liberate the
shape hidden in the marble or clay‐‐or knew the last time but may not know the next,
may be careless, may ruin the stone through distraction or stupidity. Once finished,
the process of writing becomes opaque, even to the writer. I did it but how did I do it?
Can I ever do it again? The brain becomes normal. One can still think, of course, but
not with the luminosity that makes intelligence so powerful a tool while writing, nor
can one think outside of literal and linear time anymore.
Writing is alchemy. Dross becomes gold. Experience is transformed. Pain is changed.
Suffering may become song. The ordinary or horrible is pushed by the will of the
writer into grace or redemption, a prophetic wail, a screed for justice, an elegy of
sadness or sorrow. It is the lone and lonesome human voice, naked, raw, crying out,
but hidden too, muted, twisted and turned, knotted or fractured, by the writer's love
of form, or formal beauty: the aesthetic dimension, which is not necessarily familiar or
friendly. Nor does form necessarily tame or simplify experience. There is always a
tension between experience and the thing that finally carries it forward, bears its
weight, holds it in. Without that tension, one might as well write a shopping list.
My fiction is not autobiography. I am not an exhibitionist. I don't show myself. I am not
asking forgiveness. I don't want to confess. But I have used everything I know‐‐my life‐
‐to show what I believe must be shown so that it can be faced. The imperative at the
heart of my writing‐‐what must be done‐‐ comes directly from my life. But I do not
show my life directly, in full view; nor even look at it while others watch.
Autobiography is the unseen foundation of my nonfiction work, especially IÖ and PÖ.
These two nonfiction books are not "about" me. There is no first‐person writing in
them. Conceptually, each involved the assimilation of research in many intellectually
distinct areas using analytical skills culled from different disciplines. The research
materials had nothing to do with me personally. They were freestanding, objectively
independent (for instance, not interviews conducted by me). Yet when I wrote IÖ and
PÖ, I used my life in every decision I made. It was my compass. Only by using it could I
find north and stay on course. If a reader could lift up the words on the page, she
would see‐‐ far, far under the surface‐‐my life. If the print on the page turned into
blood, it would be my blood from many different places and times. But I did not want
the reader to see my life or my blood. I wanted her to see [Ö]. I wanted her to know
them the way I know them: which is deeply.
I'd like to take what I know and just hand it over. But there is always a problem, for a
woman: being believed. How can I think I know something? How can I think that what
I know might matter? Why would I think that anything I think might make a
difference, to anyone, anywhere? My only chance to be believed is to find a way of
writing bolder and stronger than woman hating itself‐‐smarter, deeper, colder This
might mean that I would have to write a prose more terrifying than rape, more abject
than torture, more insistent and destabilizing than battery, more desolate than
prostitution, more invasive than incest, more filled with threat and aggression than
pornography. How would the innocent bystander be able to distinguish it, tell it apart
from the tales of the rapists themselves if it were so nightmarish and impolite? There
are no innocent bystanders. It would have to stand up for women‐‐stand against the
rapist and the pimp‐‐by changing women's silence to speech. It would have to say all
the unsaid words during rape and after; while prostituting and after; all the words not
said. It would have to change women's apparent submission‐‐the consent read into
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the silence by the wicked and the complacent‐‐into articulate resistance. I myself
would have to give up my own cloying sentimentality toward men. I'd have to be
militant; sober and austere. I would have to commit treason: against the men who
rule. I would have to betray the noble, apparently humanistic premises of civilization
and civilized writing by conceptualizing each book as if it were a formidable weapon
in a war. I would have to think strategically, with a militarist heart: as if my books
were complex explosives, minefields set down in the culture to blow open the status
quo. I'd have to give up Baudelaire for Clausewitz.
Yes, okay, I will. Yes, okay: I did. In retrospect, that is just what I did: in MÖ and IÖ and
PÖ and IÖ.
It was in Amsterdam in 1972 that I made the vow, which I have kept, that I would use
everything I know in behalf of women's liberation. I owed the women's movement a
big debt: it was a feminist who helped me escape the brutality of my marriage. Escape
is not a one‐time run for your life: you keep running and hiding; he shows up out of
nowhere and beats you, menaces you, threatens, intimidates, screams a foul invective
at you in broad daylight on crowded streets, breaks into wherever you find to live, hits
you with his dirty fists, dirtied by your pain, your blood.
I left the marital home toward the end of 1971, some two months after I turned
twenty‐five. I fled the country in which I had been living for five years in November
1972. I have no continuous memory of the events of that year. Even with the events I
can remember, I have no sense of their sequence. I was attacked, persecuted, followed,
harassed, by the husband I had left; I often lived the life of a fugitive, except that it was
the more desperate life of a battered woman who had run away for the last time,
whatever the outcome.
I have written about the experience of being a battered wife in three nonfiction
essays: "A Battered Wife Survives" (1978) and "What Battery Really Is" (1989), both
of which are included in the U.S. edition of LÖ; and "Trapped in a Pattern of Pain,"
published in the Ö, June 26, 1994. I wrote "A Battered Wife Survives" to celebrate my
thirty‐first birthday. I still shook and trembled uncontrollably, but not all the time;
had nightmares and flashbacks, but less. I had published two books: WÖ (1974) and
OÖ (1976). I had survived and was not alone in a universe of pain and fear. The other
two essays were written in behalf of other battered women: Hedda Nussbaum and
Nicole Brown Simpson. I felt the need to try to make people understand how
destructive and cruel battery is‐‐and how accepted, how normal, how supported by
society. With enormous reluctance, I revisited the site of this devastation in my own
life. I had to say what battery was from the point of view of the woman being hurt,
since I knew.
Everything I have written in these nonfiction essays about myself is true. It would be
wrong, however, to read my fiction as if it were a factual narrative, a documentary in
words. Literature is always simpler and easier than life, especially in conveying
atrocity. As the infrequency of my nonfiction essays about battery suggests, I am
extremely reluctant to write about it: partly because I can't bear to think about it;
partly because I feel physically ill when I literally trip over absent memory, great and
awful blank areas of my life that I cannot recover‐‐I am shaky with dread and vertigo;
and partly because I still hide.
But the year of running, hiding, to stay alive is essential to the story of how I became a
writer, or the writer I am, for better or worse. He kept our home; I was pushed out.
This was fine, since I just wanted not to be hit. I had no money. I was isolated as
battered women usually are but also I was a foreigner with no real rights except
through my husband. My parents refused to have me back. His family was his‐‐I was
too afraid of him ever to tell them anything, though I believe they knew. I slept first on
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the floor of a friend's room‐‐his friend, too‐‐with her two dogs. Later, I slept where I
could. I lived this way before I was married but not with an assassin after me, nor
having sustained such brutality that my mind didn't quite work‐‐it failed me in
everyday situations, which it no longer recognized; it failed me with ordinary people
who couldn't grasp my fear.
A feminist named Ricki Abrams helped me: gave me asylum, a dangerous kindness in
the face of a battering man; helped me find shelter repeatedly; and together she and I
started to plan the book that became WÖ.
I lived on houseboats on the canals‐‐a majestic one near the Magere Brug, a stunningly
beautiful bridge, a plainer one infested with mice. I slept in someone's kitchen. I lived
for a while in the same house as Ricki, a narrow, teetering building on a cobblestone
street that ringed a canal in Amsterdam's historically preserved old city. I hid on a
farm far outside Amsterdam with a commune of hippies who made their own cloth
with a spinning wheel and a loom. I slept in a cold and deserted mansion near the
German border. In one emergency, when my husband had broken into where I was
living, had beaten me and threatened to kill me, I spent three weeks sleeping in a
movie theater that was empty most of the time. Experimental movies were shown in a
big room where I hid. The whole building was empty otherwise. On some nights small
audiences of artistes would sit and watch formless flashes of light. When the avant‐
garde cleared out, I was allowed to open a cot. I lived in a state of terror. Every trip
outside might mean death if he found me.
No one knew about battery then, including me. It had no public name. There were no
shelters or refuges. Police were indifferent. There was no feminist advocacy or
literature or social science. No one knew about the continuing consequences, now
called post‐traumatic stress syndrome, which has a nice dignity to it. How many times,
after all, can one say terror, fear, anguish, dread, flashbacks, shaking, uncontrollable
trembling, nightmares, he's going to kill me?
At the time, so far as I knew, I was the only person this had ever happened to; and the
degradation had numbed me, disoriented me; challenged me; lowered me; shamed
me; broken me.
It was Ricki who first gave me feminist books to read. I remember especially Sexual
Politics by Kate Millett (whose class at Barnard Ricki had taken), The Dialectic of Sex
by Shulamith Firestone, and the anthology Sisterhood Is Powerful edited by Robin
Morgan. I had left the United States in l968 a second time (the first being in 1965, after
a rapelike trauma in Manhattan's Women's House of Detention, where I was taken
after an arrest for protesting the Vietnam War). I had not read or heard about these
books. I argued with them in Amsterdam. I argued with Ricki. Oppression meant the
U.S. in Vietnam, or apartheid in South Africa, or legal segregation in the U.S. Even
though I had been tortured and was fighting for my life, I could not see women, or
myself as a woman, as having political significance. I did know that the battery was
not my fault. I had been told by everyone I asked for help the many times I tried to
escape‐‐strangers and friends‐‐that he would not he hitting me if I didn't like it or
want it. I rejected this outright. Even back then, the experience of being battered was
recognizably impersonal to me. Maybe I was the only person in the world this had
ever happened to, but I knew it had nothing to do with me as an individual. It just
never occurred to me that I was being hit because I was a woman.
WÖ was not a book written out of an ideology. It came out of an emergency, written
half underground and in hiding. I wanted to find out what had happened to me and
why. I knew only that it was impersonal. I made a list of what I thought might bear on
what had happened to me, and that list became the table of contents in the published
book. I looked at fairy tales‐‐what did they teach about being female; at pornography‐‐
I was part of a generation that used it‐‐what did it say about being female; at Chinese
footbinding and the persecution of the witches‐‐why was there culturally normalized
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violence against females; at androgyny‐‐the myths and contemporary ideas of a
community not organized on the principle of gender, the falseness of gender itself. I
wanted to examine the culture: sex roles; sex; history; mythology; community.
Somehow, I had been given a key and access to a space in the basement of Paradiso,
one of the clubs the Dutch government sponsored for counterculture, hashish‐
smoking, rock‐and‐roll‐addicted hippies. The basement under the huge church
building was dark and dank with a colony of misfits and homeless, mentally
disoriented strangers, most of whom were hiding from someone, often the police. I
was allowed to work there on the book‐‐I had a desk and chair‐‐but I was not
supposed to sleep there, and I tried not to. My cohabitants did not inspire confidence
and my husband, who worked upstairs at night when Paradiso was open, was
dangerous for sure. Like other escaping battered women (I have since learned), I lived
in a shared or overlapping social and economic world with the batterer; I tried to
believe it would be all right.
The book Ricki and I were going to write together became, of course, very important
to me. I don't know if the attempt was interrupted by the violence or the violence was
interrupted by the attempt. I know that I devoted myself to the book, even though it
was hard for me to concentrate because I lived in constant fear. I held on to the book
as if it were a life raft, even though I was drowning in poverty and fear. There were
times of hope, near normalcy. At one point my husband got a new apartment and
offered me our old one. I took it, for all the obvious reasons. He left a mattress;
someone gave me a small radio; and I lived on potatoes. Then he started breaking in;
and it was there that he bloodied me and said he would kill me, run me down when he
saw me, and I knew it was true finally, and I had to hide in the movie theater after that
for three weeks, the time it took to get a restraining order. My lawyer, assigned by the
court, at first didn't believe me or didn't care when I told him about the beatings or
how dangerous my husband was; but later my husband apparently roughed up the
lawyer's secretary. This time, when driven from the apartment by my husband's
threats to a phone in a store around the block, the lawyer told me to go somewhere
else for a while, though he didn't know where or how and didn't care. I had had to go
to the store to use the phone because the apartment phone was in my husband's
name, and he had it disconnected and it was a two‐year wait for a new line. As I came
out of the back room of the store where the phone was, the woman who owned the
store opened her cash register, grabbed a handful of bills, pushed them at me, and
said: "Run for your life. Now." I did.
Through all this, I held on to this idea of a book; and I kept working on it. Ricki and I
did research together and some writing together. But then she pulled away from it.
The book itself, in taking on counterculture pornography, brought us into conflict with
friends and acquaintances in the exilic, counterculture community in Amsterdam.
Some of these folks produced a pornography tabloid called Suck. Ricki and I drafted a
chapter on Suck and gave it to them to read. I, at least, believed that they would see
the insult to women in what they were publishing, and that there was danger in some
of their photographs‐‐I remember in particular a photo of an Asian woman inserting a
huge, glass, bowl‐shaped jar into her rectum. I had begun to identify with other
women. Our friends, the makers of the pornography, reacted with outrage to our
effrontery in challenging them. They said they had always been for civil rights (against
segregation based on race) and this was sex‐‐what kind of chicks were we anyway?
We thought we were perfectly fine chicks at the time, even though the word "chick"
itself was beginning to have an ugly sound to it. Ricki decided that she couldn't take
the social ostracism these folks threatened. We agreed that I would finish the book
and get it published. I had to get out of there anyway or I'd be killed. I knew I had to
disappear and that there could be no mistakes. I planned a secret escape and in
November 1972 I disappeared suddenly.
The vow that I made‐‐out loud, to myself but with Ricki as witness‐‐was that I would
become a real writer and I would use everything I knew to help women. I didn't know
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how much I knew, how valuable it would be; nor did she. But we both did understand
that in 1972 what I knew was not part of feminism: what I knew about male
dominance in sex or rape in marriage, for instance. The knowledge about male
dominance in sex came not only from this one marriage but from several years of
prostituting before I got married. I called it "being on the streets," and it consisted of
equal parts whoring, poverty and homelessness, and just being a tough girl. I had
never kept it a secret, not from my husband, not from any friend. Ricki and I both
understood that I had experience that could be knowledge. I made a vow to use it for
women.
Writers need to be damned hard to kill. So do women, of course. I have never believed
in suicide, the female poet's alternative to standing her ground and facing down the
power of men. I don't like it that Plath and Sexton wrote strong and beautiful poems
capturing the horror and meanness of male dominance but would not risk losing
socially conventional femininity by sticking around to fight it out in the realm of
politics, including the politics of culture. I always wanted to live. I fought hard to live.
This means I did something new. I have been bearing the unbearable, and facing men
down, for a long time now.
I began messing with men when I was in high school, though, sadly, they began
messing with me earlier than that‐‐I was raped at nine, though not legally, since
fingers and a hand were used for penetration, not the officially requisite penis. That
ended up in my hand as he twisted and contorted with a physical omnipresence that
pinned me and manipulated me at the same time. This breach of a child's body does
count. It does register. The boundary of the body itself is broken by force and
intimidation, a chaotic but choreographed violence. The child is used intentionally and
reduced to less than human by the predator's intelligence as well as his behavior. The
commitment of the child molester is absolute, and both his insistence and his victory
communicate to the child his experience of her‐‐a breachable, breakable thing any
stranger can wipe his dick on. When it is family, of course, the invasion is more
terrible, more intimate, escape more unlikely. I was lucky‐‐it was a stranger. I was
lucky by the standards of today: neither kidnapped nor killed. The man became part of
the dark‐‐not "the dark" in its usual symbolic sense, bad, with a racist tinge, but part of
the literal dark: his body, almost distinct, got folded into every dark room like the one
in which he hurt me and he got folded into the dark of every night I had to get through,
with eyes open, waiting. I didn't like to sleep, because then I couldn't guard my mother
against death. So I kept my eyes open. I could feel that the night was occupied with
tangible creatures, and the man, hiding, was one of them.
As a child with an immense ambition to live, to know, to feel, I moved toward
everything that frightened me: men, night, the giving up of my own body. I wanted to
be an artist, by which I meant a writer. I despised commercial writing. My heroes were
Rimbaud and Baudelaire. I had a paperback of Baudelaire's poems with me, in French
with an English prose translation, when the man molested me. A few years later I had
a high school teacher who said that most girls of my social class who worked (the
ideal was not to work) became hairdressers, but I was so smart that I could become a
prostitute, which at least was interesting. He was my tutor in sex; a guide; a charlatan
and an exploiter. But he made the sameness of art and opening my legs palpable,
urgent: there wasn't one without the other. I thought he was a philosopher and
someday we would found a school of philosophy; I would be his acolyte. He
introduced me to Camus and Sartre. I was a motherless child with spirit and
intelligence in a world that abhorred both in girls. I wanted knowledge but distrusted
formal education because the adults were enforcers and transparently wanted to
break my spirit; except for the seducer. He wanted to appropriate it for his own
purposes but I didn't begin to imagine that. I would find ways to go to New York City
to find poems and on the bus I would find a way to get money from old guys who liked
teenage girls to touch them. I'd use the money to go to Greenwich Village and buy
mimeographed collections of poems. I loved Allen Ginsberg especially. More than
anyone he expressed the sense of pain I felt, the anger and rebellion, but also the
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undifferentiated infatuation I felt for the world of possibility around me. I had no
sense of evil and I didn't believe that harm could defeat me‐‐I'd make poems out of it.
High school was hell, to be endured, the teachers behavior‐police who took books
away and tried to shut the mind down. For instance, a tenth‐grade teacher in a study
hall confiscated my copy of Hamlet, which I had been reading. She said we weren't
allowed to read it until the twelfth grade. I told her that I had already read it several
times so why take it from me? She did take it and countered with her certainty that
one day she would read about me in the newspapers. In those days only politicians
and criminals made news. Girls didn't become politicians. I was bad for reading
Hamlet. Each day the enforcers pushed me into a sustained rage laced with contempt;
and each day the seducer manipulated my anger and loneliness, pushed me further
into experiencing intelligence as a sexualized mark of Cain and artistic ambition as a
sexualized delinquency.
Meanwhile, my father worked hard so that I could have a formal education that would
be excellent, not mediocre, on the college level. The high school guidance counselors
wanted me to go to a state college for girls to get a teaching degree "to fall back on
when your husband dies." My intelligence had no significance to them; my desire to
write, which I confessed, was beneath consideration. My father knew I would not stay
in any college that was high school redux. In September 1964 I went to Bennington
College on scholarships and loans, loans he took out, not me. I did have jobs there for
money but not enough to carry any of the real economic burden. I stayed there one
year, left, returned for two years, left, mailed in my thesis from Amsterdam. In 1969
my father, fittingly, attended my graduation and picked up my diploma. I am
considered a graduate of the class of 1968, however, because that is how Bennington
keeps track of students. In those years, so many students left‐‐some of the richer ones
to Austin Riggs, a mental institution not too far away, some taking other detours‐‐that
the college always reckoned you a member of the class in which you entered and
optimistically added four years to signify graduation; it would be hard for an already
overtaxed administration to know who returned when, for how long, and to what end.
Bennington had a reputation for academic excellence and a bohemian environment. In
fact, Bennington trained mistresses, not wives, for artists, not businessmen. To
illustrate the ambiance: the year before my first year, seniors in literature had, as a
group project, recreated the brothel scene in Joyce's Ulysses, themselves the whores.
A lot of the faculty preyed on the nearly all‐female student body; and the deep
conviction of most of the faculty that these girls would never become artists
themselves was openly articulated when, in my third year of attendance, coeducation
was discussed and eventually adopted. Students, including me, got to hear how
useless the mostly male faculty felt teaching girls. We never became anything, they
said, each a dozen times in a dozen ways. We seemed to be fine for fucking and serial
marriage, some faculty actually going through as many as four marriages with
successive students and countless adulteries. But we could never become what in our
hearts we thought we were: creative, ambitious, risk‐taking doers and thinkers and
makers. I had three brilliant teachers at Bennington, each of whom was ethically
scrupulous with respect to me; and I owe them a lot. They taught me with an
astonishing intellectual generosity; they supported my aspirations; they even
protected me, from other faculty and sometimes from myself. They extended
friendship without the sexualization. The rest of it was intellectually boring. After my
first few weeks there, my philosophy professor telephoned me at the student house
where I lived and asked me please not to leave: she knew I was bored. I distracted
myself with drugs, sex, and politics.
Bennington had a nine‐week work period in the winter‐‐a long two months‐‐and long
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and spring breaks, a big problem for a girl with no real home
and no money. For my first work period in December 1964 I took marginal political
jobs in New York City and fucked for food and shelter and whatever cash I needed. I
worked with the Student Peace Union and the War Resisters League opposing the war
in Vietnam. I had other jobs, too, for instance as a receptionist at a New York
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University institute for remedial reading. In February 1965 I was arrested outside the
United States Mission to the United Nations for protesting America's involvement in
Vietnam. I had a book of poems by Charles Olson with me when I was arrested. I spent
four days in the Women's House of Detention before I was released on my own
recognizance. While in jail, in addition to the many strip‐searches by hand that police
and nurses made into my vagina and anus, I was brutalized by two male doctors who
gave me an internal examination, the first one I ever had. They pretty much tore me
up inside with a steel speculum and had themselves a fine old time verbally
tormenting me as well. I saw them enjoy it. I witnessed their pleasure in doing it. I
couldn+t understand why they would like to hurt me. I began to bleed right after.
When I came out of jail I was mute from the trauma. I wandered around the city,
homeless and resourceless, silent and confused, for several days, until I showed up at
the apartment of a stranger who had taken a bag I had packed for jail from me when,
toward the end of the day, it seemed as if we would not be arrested. I sort of vaguely
remembered her name and looked it up in the phone book when I needed underwear
badly enough. She was the writer Grace Paley and this was before she herself had
gone to jail to protest Vietnam. She made me come in and sit; I stared silently. Grace
got me to talk but instead of normal talk I said what had happened to me. I didn't even
know the words for speculum or internal examination, so I was exceptionally blunt
and used my hands. She thought that what had been done to me was horrible and she
immediately called a woman reporter to say that this monstrous thing had been done
to this girl. The reporter said: so what? But that night I went to the Student Peace
Union office and typed letters to newspapers to tell what had happened to me in the
jail: blunt letters. The antiwar boys, whose letters I typed during the day, whose
leaflets I mimeographed, laughed at me; but I mounted a protest against the prison.
The New York Times, The Daily News, and the New York Post carried the story. The
city was forced to conduct a grand jury investigation. An assistant to the governor also
investigated. A liberal Republican, John V. Lindsay, challenged entrenched Democratic
incumbent Robert Wagner for mayor partly by holding Wagner responsible for the
corruption in the jail and promising to shut it down. Lindsay won. Television news
shows did documentaries on the prison, which had a long history of brutalizing
women, some of whom had died. Eventually, the grand jury vindicated the prison, and
the governor's assistant was defunded by the legislature. My parents were ashamed of
my arrest and of the way in which I had been hurt. They were enraged with me and
pretty much abandoned me. I left school, my parents, the country. I went to Greece
with less than a hundred dollars in my pocket. I gave most of it to an old woman,
Mildred, whom I met on a train. She said she had lost hers but had money waiting in
Athens. I showed up at the appointed place, at the appointed time, but she never came.
That night, my nineteenth birthday, I picked up a Greek army officer: I needed food
and money. Since the hill overlooking Athens was beautiful and the night sublime, it
was easy to pretend this was romance. I remember saying to him after, ‐You really
hate women, don't you?" I hadn't anticipated woman hating but I recognized it in his
abrupt post‐coital tristesse. I learned not to voice the observation however many
times I made it, whatever the post‐coital mood. Men don't like to be seen or remarked
on by what my friend Judith Malina, director of the Living Theatre, calls "talking
women." I wrote poems and a novel called NÖ, a surrealistic screed against the
Vietnam War built on the self‐immolation of protester Norman Morrison. I published a
small collection of poems and Genet‐like prose called Child (Heraklion, Crete, 1966). It
wasn't until I published WÖ in 1974 that I became a talking woman who could say
with some authority: you really hate women, don't you?
The authority was never my own plain experience. I always thought other people's
lives worth more than mine. As a matter of temperament I had an interest in the
collective or communal, not the personal. I thought psychology was a phony science,
and I still do. I didn't think something was important simply because it happened to
me, and certainly the world concurred. I had learned that I would not be believed. I
knew that from the world's point of view, though never my own, I was trash, the
bottom. The prison authorities said I lied and the grand jury claimed to believe them,
not me. No one really believed me about my husband. I had a deep experience of the
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double standard but no systematic understanding of it. The writers I had loved and
wanted to emulate‐‐Baudelaire or Artaud or Dostoevsky or Henry Miller or Jean
Genet‐‐were apparently ennobled by degradation. The lower they sunk the more
credibility they had. I was lowered and disgraced, first by what was being called
sexual liberation, then by the violence of domestic sexual servitude, without any
concomitant increase in expertness: I paid my dues, baby, I know the price of the
ticket but so what? When I emerged as a writer with WÖ, it was not to wallow in pain,
or in depravity, or in the male romance with prostitution; it was to demand change. I
wanted to change the power structure in the social world that had made degradation
a destiny for many of us, or lots of us, or maybe even all of us‐‐for women. I didn't
want to write the female suicide's poem nor did I want to write another male‐inspired
lyric celebrating the sewer. I wanted to resist male dominance for myself and to
change the outcome for other women. I did not want to open my legs again, this time
in prose. I did not believe that to do so would persuade or bring change. I found, then
and over the next twenty years, a stubborn refusal to credit a woman with any deep
knowledge of the world itself, the world outside the domain of her own introspection
about romantic love, housekeeping, a man. This refusal was so basic and so
widespread that it could stay an unspoken assumption. Women who wanted to write
about social issues did it through anecdote. Books that could only have been written
out of an extensive and significant knowledge of what it meant to be pornographized
or sexually colonized‐‐my books‐‐were dismissed by patriarchy's intellectual ruling
class as Victorian or puritanical‐‐empirical synonyms for ignorant.
Instead of using my own experience as the immediate subject of discourse, I used a
more complex method of exposing bone and blood: I found the social phenomena that
could be pulled apart to show what I knew to be the essential heart of the experience‐‐
rape, prostitution, battery, for instance; woman hating, sexualized insult, bias,
discrimination‐‐and I found the language to carry it: to carry it far, way past where
critics could reach or, frankly, most men could imagine. I had the luck of having my
books last over enough time to reach women‐‐not elite women but grassroots women
and marginalized women. Slowly women began to come to me to say, yes, that's right;
and I learned more from them, went deeper. I used writing to take language where
women's pain was‐‐and women's fear‐‐and I kept excavating for the words that could
bear the burden of speaking the unspeakable: all that hadn't been said during the rape
or after, while prostituting or after; truths that had not been said ever or truths that
had not been said looking the rapist, the batterer, the pimp, the citizen‐john, in the
eye. This has been my contribution to literature and to the women's movement.
I saw my mother's strength. Illness seems a visitation, a particular affliction to test the
courage of the stricken person, a personal challenge from God. It is hard to know what
one can learn from the example even of someone as heroic as my mother surely was.
In my mother, I saw Herculean strength in the face of pain, sickness, incapacitation,
and the unknown. I have never thought that much of it rubbed off, because I am a
coward in that realm: any minor illness makes me feel as if life has stopped. The
heroic person, as I saw from my mother, never accepts even the suggestion that life
might stop. She keeps pulling the burden, illness as a stone weight; she never stops
pulling. Nothing in my mother's life suggested that women were wimps.
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In school‐‐grade school and college‐‐my female friends were rebels with deep souls:
bad children in adulthood; smart adults in childhood; precocious; willful; stubborn;
not one age or one sex or with one goal easily advanced by a conforming marriage and
inevitable motherhood. Despite the best efforts of parents, teachers, to bind our feet
Chinese‐style, we kept kicking. Ain't none of us got out with unbroken feet; we all got
some bones bent in half; we got clipped and pushed and stepped on hard to make us
conform; and in our different ways we kept walking, even on the broken hones. It was
a time when girls were supposed to be virgins when we married. The middle‐ class
ideal was that women were not supposed to work; such labor would reflect badly on
our husbands. Anyone pregnant outside of marriage was an outcast: a delinquent or
an exile; had a criminal abortion or birthed a child that would most likely be taken
away from her for adoption, which meant forever then. In disgrace, she would be sent
away to some home for pregnant girls, entirely stigmatized; her parents ashamed,
shocked; she herself a kind of poison that had ruined the family's notion of its own
goodness and respectability. She would be socially reprehensible and repulsive‐‐and
the social ostracism would be absolute. I had close friends who resisted, who never
quite gave in, despite appearances to the contrary. The cost was high sometimes; but
it is my impression that my friends, like most women, paid the highest price when
they did give in, not when they resisted. The cost needs to be spread out over time: the
many marriages and the midlife depression. On the streets there were women who
were both strong and fragile at the same time: immensely strong to bear the
continuing sexual invasion, consistent brutality, and just plain bad weather (no joke);
immensely strong to accept responsibility as the prostituting persona‐‐I want this, I
do this, I am this, ain't nothin' hurts me; and much too fragile to face either the cost of
prostituting or its etiology. The cost was physical disintegration and mental splitting
apart. The cost was getting dirtier and lonelier and anesthetizing pain with more and
meaner drugs. The cost was accepting the physical violence of the johns, moving
through it as if it didn't matter or hadn't happened, never facing that one had been
hurt, then hurt again, nor asking why. Some girls were straight‐out battered and
forced. But even without a violent man in sight, the etiology always had to do with
sexual abuse, in the present or in the past; also with homelessness and poverty; with
the willingness of men to use any girl for small change; with abandonment‐‐the
personal abandonment of family, the social abandonment choreographed by the users.
It may be harder to face abandonment than to endure exploitation; and there were no
models for articulating the realities and consequences of sexual abuse. The point of
dealing with political oppression has never been that the oppressed are by nature
weak, therefore pitiful: the more injustice on one's back, the stronger one must be.
Strong girls become strong women and use that strength to endure; but fighting
injustice requires a dynamic strength disciplined to resistance, focused on subverting
illegitimate power, eventually to level it. In a system valuing men over women, girls
with piss and vinegar carried a heavier burden than girls brimming over with sugar
and spice; the stronger were punished more, and still are. In this world, female
friendships, deep and sustained loves, romances and infatuations, also love affairs,
helped keep one's heart alive, one's sense of self, however unratified by the larger
universe, animated and sensate. The political use of female strength to change society
for the benefit of women is a different choice: a harder, better choice than endurance,
however noble (or stylish) the endurance.
In my early adult life as a writer, there were three women especially who helped me
and taught me and believed in me: Grace Paley, Barbara Deming, and Muriel Rukeyser.
Each one sort of took me in and took me to her heart for some significant period of my
life. Each one was mother and sister and friend. Each one was a distinguished and
powerful writer, a social rebel, an original moral thinker. Each lived a life that
combined writing and political action. Each put herself on the line for the oppressed,
the powerless; was repelled by exploitation and injustice; and was devoted to women‐
‐had deep and intimate friendships with women and fought for women's rights. I met
Grace in 1965, shortly after I got out of the Women's House of Detention. She fed me
and gave me a bed to sleep in; I went to her when I was distressed, exhausted, in
trouble‐‐or more trouble than usual. She helped me when I came back from Greece;
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then again later when I came back from Amsterdam. I met Barbara in 1965 a few
months later than Grace, on a television program about the Women's House of
Detention, where she too had spent some time as a political protester (see "Letter to
M.," Lavender Culture, edited by Jay and Young); and then we met again and became
close after WÖ was published. In 1976, my friend John Stoltenberg (about whom more
later) and I went down to Sugarloaf Key in Florida to live on shared land with Barbara
and her lover, Jane Verlaine. I couldn't tolerate the subtropical climate so after five
months John and I moved north to the Berkshires. I met Muriel in 1972 after I had
returned to New York City from Amsterdam at an antiwar meeting. She tried very
hard to help me survive as a writer, including by hiring me as her assistant (see
"Introduction,"LÖ). My apprenticeship to her had a slightly formal quality, because she
paid me for the duration. She opened her home to me and her heart; she advised me
and counseled me; and she made sure I had a bare minimum of money. She was
attuned to the concrete necessities. A woman who has been poor and entirely on her
own, as Muriel had been, knows that one's life can slip through a crack; good
intentions can't match the value of a dime.
These friendships were of enormous importance to me; I doubt I would have survived
without them. But the friendships went far beyond any utility for survival. Each of
these women had faith in me‐‐and I never quite knew why; and each of these women
loved me‐‐and I never knew why. It was a lucky orphan who found each of these
women and it was a lucky striving writer who found each of these writers. They are all
taken more seriously now than they were then; but I had the good sense to know that
each was an American original, wise with common sense and plain talk, gritty with
life; they were great craftswomen, each a citizen and a visionary. I know what I took; I
hope I gave enough back.
It is hard to say what keeps a writer writing in the face of discouragement. It helps to
have had a difficult childhood; to have a love of writing itself, without regard to the
outcome; and eventually to have an audience, however small, that wants you, wants
those troublesome books, is like a lover to you, very intimate with enormous
expectations‐‐embraces you through the language you find and the truth you are
willing to tell. I have had that audience, which I meet when I travel to lecture or to give
readings, a U.S. underground unrecognized by the media in small towns, on college
campuses, at political rallies, tender, luminous, brave women of all ages, and mostly
but not exclusively young men who want fairness for women. They have shown me
respect and love.
One can be derailed by savage reviews, certainly poverty, a ubiquitous cultural
contempt, violent words or violent gestures or violent acts, invisibility as a writer or,
in the American tradition, too much fame or notoriety. My own view is that survival is
a matter of random luck: the right blow, the one that will finish you, does not hit you
at the right time in the right place. I have not made money nor had an easy time
publishing my work, which has been anathematized. I had a hard childhood, which is
good; and I have the audience that wants my work, which is essential; and I love to
write regardless of the outcome in publishing, which is damned lucky or I'd have died
of a broken heart. But especially I have had the love of John Stoltenberg, with whom I
have lived now for twenty years, and the love and friendship of Elaine Markson, who
has been my agent for the past twenty‐two years. They are fierce and brilliant friends.
Neither has been intimidated by the anger against my work or against me. Each has
stayed with me when I thought they would leave or should leave. I love John with my
heart and soul; but what is more extraordinary is the way in which he has loved me
(see his "LÖ). I never promised him anything; but he promised me right from the
beginning that he would stay with me for the rest of his life. I am just entertaining the
idea that he might. He undertook to live the life I needed. He has taken on my
hardships as his own; indeed, they have become his own. We share the circumstances
created by the antagonism to my work on Grub Street. We share the politics of radical
feminism and a commitment to destroying male dominance and gender itself. We
share a love of writing and of equality; and we share each and every day. He is a
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deeply kind person, and it is through the actual dailiness of living with him that I
understand the spiritual poverty and the sensual stupidity of eroticizing brutality over
kindness. Elaine has been a loyal friend and colleague in circumstances both complex
and difficult. She has stayed loyal to me and to my work through years when she
didn't make enough in commissions to cover the postage she spent sending out my
manuscripts. Pornographers and their flunkies have tried to bully and intimidate her;
so have publishers, as if silencing me would further freedom of speech. She has kept
sending out manuscripts of mine for years as publishers stubbornly refused them. It
was she who finally made it possible for me to publish my work in England when U.S.
publishers were a dead end. IÖ, published by Secker & Warburg in the United
Kingdom in 1986, was the first of several books to have widespread British
distribution while remaining unsold in the U.S. I had written a good first draft in 1983,
which Elaine tried to sell in the U.S., then a final version in 1984. IÖ was finally
published here in 1987‐‐ by an English company; but was never brought out in a
paperback edition. The paperback is still in print in England. These are trying
difficulties that no slick, money‐driven agent would tolerate. Elaine will tell you that
she doesn't always agree with me; but why should she‐‐and why should anyone
assume that she does? The assumption comes from the lazy but popular stigmatizing
ploy of guilt by association, a form of hysteria that pervades any discussion of me or
my work in publishing circles. She refuses to give in to this discrediting ruse. Her faith
in me has sometimes had to stand in for my faith in myself: I have become shaky but
she stands firm. Many times, in the quiet of the room where I work, I have had to face
the fact that I would not still be writing‐‐ given how hard the hard times have been‐‐
were it not for Elaine's passionate commitment and integrity. We've walked many
miles together.
So the right blow may still strike in the right place at exactly the right time: to break
my writer's heart and stop me in my tracks. I do believe that survival is random, not a
result of virtue or talent. But so far, especially in knowing John and Elaine, I have been
blessed with monumental grace and staggering good luck.
On April 30, 1992, at the age of forty‐two, my brother Mark died of cancer. This was
exactly eighteen years after the publication date of WÖ, an anniversary that will never
make me happy again.
He was living in Vienna when he died, a molecular biologist, married to his wife of ten
years, Eva Rastl, also a molecular biologist, forty at the time of his death.
He was chair of the department of molecular biology at the Ernst Boehringer Institute
of Vienna. He and Eva worked together there and also earlier at Columbia University
in New York City. He had done post‐doctoral work in biochemistry at the Carnegie
Institution in Baltimore, the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda, and the University
of California at Davis. At the time Mark got ill, he and Eva were doing research on the
metabolism of cancer cells. They were wonderful together, sharing love, friendship,
and work. She, a Catholic from Austria, he, Jewish, born in Camden in 1949, reconciled
cultural differences and historical sorrow through personal love, the recognition of
each other as individuals, and the exercise of reason, which they both, as scientists,
valued. A belief in reason was key to a world view that they had in common.
When my brother died, part of me died. This is not hyperbole or clich. I could feel
some of the light that is life going dead inside me and when he died, it went out. He
was a gentle boy, the one life I knew from infancy. I had a utopian memory of loving
him, a kind of ecstatic love for him that was nonverbal, inexplicable, untouched by
growing older. Although we were separated from the time I left home to go to college‐
‐there was a period of eleven years when I didn't see him at all, although we wrote
each other‐‐the closeness of early childhood never changed, his emotional importance
to me, mine to him. But he didn't remember his early childhood or his later childhood;
he didn't remember anything from childhood. This terrified me. Because we had
usually been sent to stay at separate places when my mother was ill, I had no idea
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what might have happened to him. As an adult, he had recurrent nightmares that he
couldn't understand. I was able to explain or identify the elements of one of them for
him. He saw a big man dressed in black carrying a black bag and coming into the
house at night‐‐then he woke up in fear. This was my mother's doctor, a cold,
frightening figure. I always thought of him as death but I did know who he was. My
brother didn't. The childhood years were still blank when he died.
He was the kind child, the nurturer of my parents. As they grew older, he took care of
them, with his company, his true concern. My mother died a year before Mark and I
don't believe he recovered from her death before his own. Like my father, like John, he
was a good and giving man.
I saw him about three weeks before he died. He had asked me to come to Vienna in
October 1990 to visit. I didn't want to go to Austria ever, but put these feelings aside
to see him. Told he had cancer in November 1991, he submitted to a major operation
in which a large part of his esophagus near his stomach was removed. He recovered
from the surgery but lost the use of his larynx. There were signs that the malignant
cells had spread. I found myself the bearer of this knowledge, a confidant for Eva, the
one who had to keep my father hoping and eventually the one who had to tell him that
Mark would die soon, probably within a few days. In our childhood, Mark and I had
learned to be alone with our troubles whatever they were. Mark undertook to die the
same way. Eva was with him and they were close, tender, inseparable; but he didn't
want family or friends to make the journey to see him. I told him that I was coming to
Vienna and he didn't have to see me but I would be there; I had made the
arrangements. I believe he was glad, but he got sicker much faster than he or Eva or I
anticipated. When I went he was unbearably ill. He had asked me to bring him Skippy
peanut butter, which was our staple as children. He was starving to death, a not
unusual effect of cancer, and so Eva and I hoped he would eat it. But he couldn't. I also
took him marbles, especially cats' eyes, which we had played with when we were
children. Marbles and bottlecaps were currency among the kids in our neighborhood.
Once he had stolen all mine and my mother had let him keep them because he was a
boy‐‐they were boys' wealth, not girls'. He smiled when I told him but I don't think he
remembered. He kept the marbles near him.
I sat with him during the day for as long as he would let me. Sometimes he could
whisper‐‐it was air, not sound, shaped by his mouth. But sometimes he was too weak
for that, and I sat at a table in the same room‐‐a modern living room with a large
picture window that looked out on trees and bushes, a room filled with daylight‐‐and
read, or tried to read. I think it was only after he died and Eva sent me some
photographs of him from those days of my visit that I realized how frail he had been,
how much I hadn't seen‐‐how hard it had been for him to appear clean and groomed
and calm and smiling. The cancer had spread to his liver. Tumors were growing on his
neck, which he kept covered, and on other parts of his body.
Then I'd go back to my hotel and I would wail; I'd scream and cry and wail. I would
call John‐‐it would still be late afternoon in Vienna, too expensive to call‐‐and I'd howl
and keen and cry wildly, again and again, until I was worn out. Then I'd take a walk in
the park across from my hotel. The cold air would be bracing, and my head would stop
hurting. Then I would return to my room and sit down to write. I had brought a legal
pad with me and also an article that John Irving had recently published in the New
York Times Book Review castigating feminists for opposing pornography, charging
that we were purveyors of a new puritanism (see John Irving, "Pornography and the
New Puritans," March 29, 1992). I knew that to survive the pain I felt on seeing my
brother dying I would have to find a way to use the pain. I truly thought that
otherwise it would kill me. I decided, coldly and purposefully, to confront the most
painful theme in my own life‐‐repeated sexual abuse. The logic of my answer to Mr.
Irving was that no one with the kind of experience I had could be called a puritan; and
maybe I and other women actually knew more about sexual violence than he did; and
it was the pornographers, not feminists, who punished women in the public square, as
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puritans had, for being sexual. The narrative was a first‐person detailed telling of
rapes and assaults (see the New York Times Book Review, May 3, 1992). The day my
piece was published as a nearly full‐page letter edited from the article I had intended,
my father and I were on a plane to Vienna to bury Mark at the Central Cemetery. The
chief rabbi of Vienna conducted the service. My father simply refused to sit with the
men, as is orthodox practice, and sat with Eva and me. My brother wasn't religious but
he loved walking in that great European graveyard. He was someone who walked
miles for pleasure; and the Central Cemetery, miles from where he lived, had been one
of his favorite places to walk to, then wander in. What does a man with no memory of
childhood think of on long, solitary walks to the civilized, well‐tended graves of the
Austrians, the abandoned, overgrown graves of the Jews? My brother had taken me
there on my first trip to Vienna‐‐he had wanted me to see this place that was special to
him. I had reacted with horror to the sight of the neglected Jewish graves, the latest
stone I saw dated 1938. On my 1992 trip back to Vienna when Mark was sick, I saw on
television that the mayor of Vienna had just made a speech acknowledging the
importance of Jews, always, to life in Vienna, to its greatness as a city, and that a
committee of non‐Jewish Austrians was trying to make some restitution by cleaning
up the abandoned graves and trying to find out what had happened to the families.
Because of this change, we felt able to bury Mark in the Central Cemetery, in the
contemporary Jewish burial ground, where he could rest near Eva, though she cannot
be buried with him. I have gone back to visit his grave. Eva says it has helped her to
have Mark buried there.
I am less alive because I lost my brother. Yet I used what I felt while I watched him
dying to write something I considered necessary. I think this is a deep and perhaps
terrible truth about writing. Surely, it is a deep and terrible truth about me. As long as
I can, I will take what I feel, use it to face what I am able to know, find language, and
write what I think must be written for the freedom and dignity of women.
Brooklyn, New York
July/August 1994
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RIGHT-WING WOMEN
Excerpt from Chapter 3
Abortion
by Andrea Dworkin
Copyright © 1983 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
[...]
Norman Mailer remarked during the sixties that the problem with the sexual
revolution was that it had gotten into the hands of the wrong people. He was right. It
was in the hands of men.
The pop idea was that fucking was good, so good that the more there was of it, the
better. The pop idea was that people should fuck whom they wanted: translated for
the girls, this meant that girls should want to be fucked‐‐as close to all the time as was
humanly possible. For women, alas, all the time is humanly possible with enough
changes of partners. Men envision frequency with reference to their own patterns of
erection and ejaculation. Women got fucked a lot more than men fucked.
Sexual‐revolution philosophy predates the sixties. It shows up in Left ideologies and
movements with regularity‐‐in most countries, in many different periods, manifest in
various leftist "tendencies." The sixties in the United States, repeated with different
tonalities throughout Western Europe, had a particularly democratic character. One
did not have to read Wilhelm Reich, though some did. It was simple. A bunch of nasty
bastards who hated making love were making war. A bunch of boys who liked flowers
were making love and refusing to make war. These boys were wonderful and
beautiful. They wanted peace. They talked love, love, love, not romantic love but love
of mankind (translated by women: humankind). They grew their hair long and
painted their faces and wore colorful clothes and risked being treated like girls. In
resisting going to war, they were cowardly and sissies and weak, like girls. No wonder
the girls of the sixties thought that these boys were their special friends, their special
allies, lovers each and every one.
The girls were real idealists. They hated the Viet Nam War and their own lives, unlike
the boys', were not at stake. They hated the racial and sexual bigotry visited on blacks,
in particular on black men who were the figures in visible jeopardy. The girls were not
all white, but still the black man was the figure of empathy, the figure whom they
wanted to protect from racist pogroms. Rape was seen as a racist ploy: not something
real in itself used in a racist context to isolate and destroy black men in specific and
strategic ways, but a fabrication, a figment of the racist imagination. The girls were
idealistic because, unlike the boys, many of them had been raped; their lives were at
stake. The girls were idealists especially because they believed in peace and freedom
so much that they even thought it was intended for them too. They knew that their
mothers were not free‐‐they saw the small, constrained, female lives‐‐and they did not
want to be their mothers. They accepted the boys' definition of sexual freedom
because it, more than any other idea or practice, made them different from their
mothers. While their mothers kept sex secret and private, with so much fear and
shame, the girls proclaimed sex their right, their pleasure, their freedom. They decried
the stupidity of their mothers and allied themselves on overt sexual terms with the
long‐haired boys who wanted peace, freedom, and fucking everywhere. This was a
world vision that took girls out of the homes in which their mothers were dull
captives or automatons and at the same time turned the whole world, potentially, into
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the best possible home. In other words, the girls did not leave home in order to find
sexual adventure in a sexual jungle; they left home to find a warmer, kinder, larger,
more embracing home.
Sexual radicalism was defined in classically male terms: number of partners,
frequency of sex, varieties of sex (for instance, group sex), eagerness to engage in sex.
It was all supposed to be essentially the same for boys and girls: two, three, or
however many long‐haired persons communing. It was especially the lessening of
gender polarity that kept the girls entranced, even after the fuck had revealed the
boys to be men after all. Forced sex occurred‐‐it occurred often; but the dream lived
on. Lesbianism was never accepted as lovemaking on its own terms but rather as a
kinky occasion for male voyeurism and the eventual fucking of two wet women; still,
the dream lived on. Male homosexuality was toyed with, vaguely tolerated, but largely
despised and feared because heterosexual men however bedecked with flowers could
not bear to be fucked "like women"; but the dream lived on. And the dream for the
girls at base was a dream of a sexual and social empathy that negated the strictures of
gender, a dream of sexual equality based on what men and women had in common,
what the adults tried to kill in you as they made you grow up. It was a desire for a
sexual community more like childhood‐‐before girls were crushed under and
segregated. It was a dream of sexual transcendence: transcending the absolutely
dichotomized male‐female world of the adults who made war not love. It was‐‐for the
girls‐‐a dream of being less female in a world less male; an eroticization of sibling
equality, not the traditional male dominance.
Wishing did not make it so. Acting as if it were so did not make it so. Proposing it in
commune after commune, to man after man, did not make it so. Baking bread and
demonstrating against the war together did not make it so. The girls of the sixties
lived in what Marxists call, but in this instance do not recognize as, a "contradiction."
Precisely in trying to erode the boundaries of gender through an apparent single
standard of sexual‐liberation practice, they participated more and more in the most
gender‐reifying act: fucking. The men grew more manly; the world of the
counterculture became more aggressively male‐dominated. The girls became women‐
‐found themselves possessed by a man or a man and his buddies (in the parlance of
the counterculture, his brothers and hers too)‐‐traded, gang‐fucked, collected,
collectivized, objectified, turned into the hot stuff of pornography, and socially
resegregated into traditionally female roles. Empirically speaking, sexual liberation
was practiced by women on a wide scale in the sixties and it did not work: that is, it
did not free women. Its purpose‐‐it turned out‐‐was to free men to use women
without bourgeois constraints, and in that it was successful. One consequence for the
women was an intensification of the experience of being sexually female‐‐the precise
opposite of what those idealistic girls had envisioned for themselves. In experiencing
a wide variety of men in a wide variety of circumstances, women who were not
prostitutes discovered the impersonal, class‐determined nature of their sexual
function. They discovered the utter irrelevance of their own individual, aesthetic,
ethical, or political sensitivities (whether those sensitivities were characterized by
men as female or bourgeois or puritanical) in sex as men practiced it. The sexual
standard was the male‐to‐female fuck, and women served it‐‐it did not serve women.
In the sexual‐liberation movement of the sixties, its ideology and practice, neither
force nor the subordinate status of women was an issue. It was assumed that‐‐
unrepressed‐‐everyone wanted intercourse all the time (men, of course, had other
important things to do; women had no legitimate reason not to want to be fucked);
and it was assumed that in women an aversion to intercourse, or not climaxing from
intercourse, or not wanting intercourse at a particular time or with a particular man,
or wanting fewer partners than were available, or getting tired, or being cross, were
all signs of and proof of sexual repression. Fucking per se was freedom per se. When
rape‐‐obvious, clear, brutal rape‐‐occurred, it was ignored, often for political reasons
if the rapist was black and the woman white. Interestingly, in a racially constructed
rape, the rape was likely to be credited as such, even when ultimately ignored. When a
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white man raped a white woman, there was no vocabulary to describe it. It was an
event that occurred outside the political discourse of the generation in question and
therefore it did not exist. When a black woman was raped by a white man, the degree
of recognition depended on the state of alliances between black and white men in the
social territory involved: whether, at any given time, they were sharing women or
fighting territorially over them. A black woman raped by a black man had the special
burden of not jeopardizing her own race, endangered especially by charges of rape, by
calling attention to any such brutality committed against her. Beatings and forced
intercourse were commonplace in the counterculture. Even more widespread was the
social and economic coercion of women to engage in sex with men. Yet no antagonism
was seen to exist between sexual force and sexual freedom: one did not preclude the
other. Implicit was the conviction that force would not be necessary if women were
not repressed; women would want to fuck and would not have to be forced to fuck; so
that it was repression, not force, that stood in the way of freedom.
In the garden of earthly delights known as the sixties counterculture, pregnancy did
intrude, almost always rudely; and even then and there it was one of the real obstacles
to female fucking on male demand. It made women ambivalent, reluctant, concerned,
cross, preoccupied; it even led women to say no. Throughout the sixties, the birth
control pill was not easy to get, and nothing else was sure. Unmarried women had an
especially hard time getting access to contraceptive devices, including the diaphragm,
and abortion was illegal and dangerous. Fear of pregnancy provided a reason for
saying no: not just an excuse but a concrete reason not easily seduced or persuaded
away, even by the most astute or dazzling argument in behalf of sexual freedom.
Especially difficult to sway were the women who had had illegal abortions already.
Whatever they thought of fucking, however they experienced it, however much they
loved or tolerated it, they knew that for them it had consequences in blood and pain
and they knew that it cost the men nothing, except sometimes money. Pregnancy was
a material reality, and it could not be argued away. One tactic used to counterbalance
the high anxiety caused by the possibility of pregnancy was the esteem in which
"natural" women were held‐‐women who were "natural" in all respects, who wanted
organic fucking (no birth control, whatever children resulted) and organic vegetables
too. Another tactic was to stress the communal raising of children, to promise it.
Women were not punished in the conventional ways for bearing the children‐‐they
were not labeled "bad" or shunned‐‐but they were frequently abandoned. A woman
and her child‐‐poor and relatively outcast‐‐wandering within the counterculture
changed the quality of the hedonism in the communities in which they intruded: the
mother‐and‐child pair embodied a different strain of reality, not a welcome one for
the most part. There were lone women struggling to raise children "freely" and they
got in the way of the males who saw freedom as the fuck‐‐and the fuck ended for the
males when the fuck ended. These women with children made the other women a
little somber, a little concerned, a little careful. Pregnancy, the fact of it, was
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antiaphrodisiacal. Pregnancy, the burden of it, made it harder for the flower boys to
fuck the flower girls, who did not want to have to claw out their own insides or pay
someone else to do it; they also did not want to die.
It was the brake that pregnancy put on fucking that made abortion a high‐priority
political issue for men in the 1960s‐‐not only for young men, but also for the older
leftist men who were skimming sex off the top of the counterculture and even for
more traditional men who dipped into the pool of hippie girls now and then. The
decriminalization of abortion‐‐for that was the political goal‐‐was seen as the final
fillip: it would make women absolutely accessible, absolutely "free." The sexual
revolution, in order to work, required that abortion be available to women on
demand. If it were not, fucking would not be available to men on demand. Getting laid
was at stake. Not just getting laid, but getting laid the way great numbers of boys and
men had always wanted‐‐lots of girls who wanted it all the time outside marriage,
free, giving it away. The male‐dominated Left agitated for and fought for and argued
for and even organized for and even provided political and economic resources for
abortion rights for women. The left was militant on the issue.
Then, at the very end of the sixties, women who had been radical in counterculture
terms‐‐women who had been both politically and sexually active‐‐became radical in
new terms: they became feminists. They were not Betty Friedan's housewives. They
had fought out on the streets against the Viet Nam War; some of them were old
enough to have fought in the South for black civil rights, and all had come into
adulthood on the back of that struggle; and lord knows, they had been fucked. As
Marge Piercy wrote in a 1969 expose of sex and politics in the counterculture:
Fucking a staff into existence is only the extreme form of what passes for common
practice in many places. A man can bring a woman into an organization by sleeping
with her and remove her by ceasing to do so. A man can purge a woman for no other
reason than that he has tired of her, knocked her up, or is after someone else: and that
purge is accepted without a ripple. There are cases of a woman excluded from a group
for no other reason than that one of its leaders proved impotent with her. If a macher
enters a room full of machers, accompanied by a woman and does not introduce her, it
is rare indeed that anyone will bother to ask her name or acknowledge her presence.
The etiquette that governs is one of master‐servant. 5
Or, as Robin Morgan wrote in 1970: "We have met the enemy and he's our friend. And
dangerous." 6 Acknowledging the forced sex so pervasive in the counterculture in the
language of the counterculture, Morgan wrote: "It hurts to understand that at
Woodstock or Altamont a woman could be declared uptight or a poor sport if she
didn't want to be raped." 7 These were the beginnings: recognizing that the brother‐
lovers were sexual exploiters as cynical as any other exploiters‐‐they ruled and
demeaned and discarded women, they used women to get and consolidate power,
they used women for sex and for menial labor, they used women up; recognizing that
rape was a matter of utter indifference to these brother‐lovers‐‐they took it any way
they could get it; and recognizing that all the work for justice had been done on the
backs of sexually exploited women within the movement. "But surely," wrote Robin
Morgan in 1968, "even a male reactionary on this issue can realize that it is really
mind‐blowing to hear some young male 'revolutionary'‐‐supposedly dedicated to
building a new, free social order to replace this vicious one under which we live‐‐turn
around and absent‐mindedly order his 'chick' to shut up and make supper or wash his
socks‐‐he's talking now. We're used to such attitudes from the average American clod,
but from this brave new radical?" 8
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It was the raw, terrible realization that sex was not brother‐sister but master‐servant‐
‐that this brave new radical wanted to be not only master in his own home but pasha
in his own harem‐‐that proved explosive. The women ignited with the realization that
they had been sexually used. Going beyond the male agenda on sexual liberation, these
women discussed sex and politics with one another‐‐something not done even when
they had shared the same bed with the same man‐‐and discovered that their
experiences had been staggeringly the same, ranging from forced sex to sexual
humiliation to abandonment to cynical manipulation as both menials and pieces of
ass. And the men were entrenched in sex as power: they wanted the women for
fucking, not revolution: the two were revealed to be different after all. The men
refused to change but even more important they hated the women for refusing to
service them anymore on the old terms‐‐there it was, revealed for what it was. The
women left the men‐‐in droves. The women formed an autonomous women's
movement, a militant feminist movement, to fight against the sexual cruelty they had
experienced and to fight for the sexual justice they had been denied.
From their own experience‐‐especially in being coerced and in being exchanged‐‐the
women found a first premise for their political movement: that freedom for a woman
was predicated on, and could not exist without, her own absolute control of her own
body in sex and in reproduction. This included not only the right to terminate a
pregnancy but also the right to not have sex, to say no, to not be fucked. For women,
this led to many areas of sexual discovery about the nature and politics of their own
sexual desire, but for men it was a dead end‐‐most of them never recognized feminism
except in terms of their own sexual deprivation; feminists were taking away the easy
fuck. They did everything they could to break the back of the feminist movement‐‐and
in fact they have not stopped yet. Especially significant has been their change of heart
and politics on abortion. The right to abortion defined as an intrinsic part of the sexual
revolution was essential to them: who could bear the horror and cruelty and stupidity
of illegal abortion? The right to abortion defined as an intrinsic part of a woman's
right to control her own body, in sex too, was a matter of supreme indifference.
Material resources dried up. Feminists fought the battle for decriminalized abortion‐‐
no laws governing abortion‐‐on the streets and in the courts with severely diminished
male support. In 1973, the Supreme Court gave women legalized abortion: abortion
regulated by the state.
If before the Supreme Court decision in 1973 leftist men expressed a fierce
indifference to abortion rights on feminist terms, after 1973 indifference changed to
overt hostility: feminists had the right to abortion and were still saying no‐‐no to sex
on male terms and no to politics dominated by these same men. Legalized abortion
did not make these women more available for sex; on the contrary, the women's
movement was growing in size and importance and male sexual privilege was being
challenged with more intensity, more commitment, more ambition. The leftist men
turned from political activism: without the easy lay, they were not prepared to engage
in radical politics. In therapy they discovered that they had had personalities in the
womb, that they had suffered traumas in the womb. Fetal psychology‐‐tracing a grown
man's life back into the womb, where, as a fetus, he had a whole human self and
psychology‐‐developed on the therapeutic Left (the residue of the male counterculture
Left) before any right‐wing minister or lawmaker ever thought to make a political
stand on the right of fertilized eggs as persons to the protection of the Fourteenth
Amendment, which is in fact the goal of antiabortion activists. * The argument that
abortion was a form of genocide directed particularly at blacks gained political
currency, even though feminists from the first based part of the feminist case on the
real facts and figures‐‐black and Hispanic women died and were hurt
disproportionately in illegal abortions. As early as 1970, these figures were available
in Sisterhood Is Powerful: "4.7 times as many Puerto Rican women, and 8 times as
many black women die of the consequences of illegal abortions as do white women . . .
In New York City, 80 percent of the women who die from abortions are black and
brown." 9 And on the nonviolent Left, abortion was increasingly considered murder‐‐
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murder in the most grandiose terms. "Abortion is the domestic side of the nuclear
arms race," 10 wrote one male pacifist in a 1980 tract not at all singular in the scale
and tone of its denunciation. Without the easy fuck, things sure had changed on the
Left.
The Democratic Party, establishment home of many Left groups, especially since the
end of the 1960s ferment, had conceded abortion rights as early as 1972, when
George McGovern ran against Richard Nixon and refused to take a stand for abortion
so that he could fight against the Viet Nam War and for the presidency without
distraction. When the Hyde Amendment cutting off Medicaid funding for abortions
was passed in 1976, ** it had Jesse Jackson's support: he had sent telegrams to all
members of Congress supporting the cutoff of funds. Court challenges delayed the
implementation of the Hyde Amendment, but Jimmy Carter, elected with the help of
feminist and leftist groups in the Democratic Party, had his man, Joseph A. Califano, Jr.,
head of the then Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, halt federal funding of
abortion by administrative order. By 1977 the first documented death of a poor
woman (Hispanic) from an illegal abortion had occurred: illegal abortion and death
were again realities for women in the United States. In the face of the so‐called
human‐life amendment and human‐life statute‐‐respectively a constitutional
amendment and a bill of law defining a fertilized egg as a human being‐‐the male Left
has simply played dead.
The male Left abandoned abortion rights for genuinely awful reasons: the boys were
not getting laid; there was bitterness and anger against feminists for ending a
movement (by withdrawing from it) that was both power and sex for the men; there
was also the familiar callous indifference of the sexual exploiter‐‐if he couldn't screw
her she wasn't real.
The hope of the male Left is that the loss of abortion rights will drive women back into
the ranks‐‐even fear of losing might do that; and the male Left has done what it can to
assure the loss. The Left has created a vacuum that the Right has expanded to fill‐‐this
the Left did by abandoning a just cause, by its decade of quietism, by its decade of
sulking. But the Left has not just been an absence; it has been a presence, outraged at
women's controlling their own bodies, outraged at women's organizing against sexual
exploitation, which by definition means women also organizing against the sexual
values of the Left. When feminist women have lost legal abortion altogether, leftist
men expect them back‐‐begging for help, properly chastened, ready to make a deal,
ready to spread their legs again. On the Left, women will have abortion on male terms,
as part of sexual liberation, or women will not have abortion except at risk of death.
And the boys of the sixties did grow up too. They actually grew older. They are now
men in life, not just in the fuck. They want babies. Compulsory pregnancy is about the
only way they are sure to get them.
[...]
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
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Copyright © 1983 by Andrea Dworkin.
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by
Andrea Dworkin
Part II
WORDS
A part of this essay was published as an Afterword to both the British and German
editions of Pornography: Men Possessing Women. In the United States, the whole
essay was published in a small literary review. I wonder if even a thousand people
had the opportunity to read it. It took me a year to find that small outlet. Looking
back on this essay now, I can only say that I considerably understated the effects
pornography has had on me; no doubt I was afraid of being ridiculed. I know some
of the most brilliant, and certainly the strongest, women of my time, and there is
nothing unique in pornography's effect on me.
Writing is not a happy profession. The writer lives and works in solitude, no matter
how many people surround her. Her most intensely lived hours are spent with herself.
The pleasures and pains of writing are talked around or about but not shared. Her
friends do not know what she does or how she does it. Like everyone else, they see
only the results. The problems of her work are unique. The solution to one sentence is
not the solution to any other sentence. No one else knows where she is going until she
herself has gotten there. When others are contemplating the results, she is on her next
project, all alone again. Her colleagues and competitors for the most part are dead.
The work itself involves using the mind in an intense and punishing way. The solitude
demanded by the work is extreme in and of itself. Others rarely live so alone, so self‐
created. She is not a male writer, which means that she cleans her own toilet and does
her own laundry. If she is ruthless and singleminded, she does only her own portion of
the housework, not his or theirs. The rewards of her work are in her work. There are
no weekly wages, no health benefits, no promotions, no cost of living raises, no job
descriptions. When she does actually earn money, it will be in a lump sum that must
presumably last forever. If she becomes a "celebrity" or even "famous," she may gain
easier access to print or to money but lose that honest sense of privacy without which
even solitude is meaningless. As more and more people know her writing, they think
they know her. Her writing goes out into the world brazen and intractable as she faces
the blank page in what at best is a room of her own. Her mind and imagination grind
on, facing life, facing knowledge, facing creation, while the world around her spits on
or chatters about what she has already done and nearly forgotten. Writing is
absolutely extreme, at once irredeemably individual and irredeemably social. No
writer can explain how she does what she does so that another can replicate the
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process and come up with the same results; at the same time, only through reading
brave and original writers can one learn how to write.
When I go into a bookstore, especially a women's bookstore, I try to stand the lives
behind the books in a line: add up the years it took to write all those books, the days
and hours spent, the minds used and used, the material resources gone through, the
mental trouble, the difficulty of the lives, the sorrow, the great battles behind the
books even before the battle for publication could begin. And also the pleasure. The
pleasure of the writing, of moving from here to there, of going deeper, of seeing and
knowing, of showing. Despite the sexual hysteria of our time, a woman writer's
pleasure is not to be measured in orgasms but in writing. It is a pleasure that cannot
be shared. The reader's pleasure is different and cheaper.
Each book in a writer's life is another circle of hell: and people choose hell because
they love pleasure. A writer's hell is a writer's pleasure not because writers are
simple‐minded masochists but because writers, whatever their ideologies or
protestations, are worldly: mired in time and meaning; not just entranced by the
display of the material world or, in contemporary jargon, "the games people play," but
infatuated and obsessed with the muck of real life. Writers are arrogant and greedy
and ambitious in that experience is not enough, sensation is not enough, knowledge is
not enough: one must remake it all, have it all one more time but in another way, a
way that cannot be translated or described, only done and experienced . Writing is not
one step removed from life; it is as intense and consuming as anything life has to offer.
But love happens, earthquakes happen: one must decide to write. It is not an accident.
It is willed and it sets one apart. Especially if one is a woman, one is set apart. It is in
the privacy and the greed and the punishment of the writing itself that one is set
apart.
In writing my new book, I experienced the most intense isolation I have known as a
writer. I lived in a world of pictures‐‐women's bodies displayed, women hunched and
spread and hanged and pulled and tied and cut‐‐and in a world of books‐‐gang rape,
pair rape, man on woman rape, lesbian rape, animal on woman rape, evisceration,
torture, penetration, excrement, urine, and bad prose. I worked on the book for three
years. After the first year a friend entered my room and remarked that she was more
at ease in the local porn stores. A half a year later, the friend with whom I lived asked
me quietly and sincerely to refrain from showing him any material I might be working
on and also, please, to keep it out of any room other than my own. I have good and
kind friends. Their nerves could not withstand even the glimpses they got. I was
immersed in it.
Under the best of circumstances, I do not have pleasant dreams. I work while I sleep.
Life goes on, awake or asleep. I spent eight months studying the Marquis de Sade. I
spent eight months dreaming Sadean dreams. Let the men joke: these were not
"erotic" dreams; dreams of torture are dreams of hate, in this case the hate being used
against female bodies, the instruments of hate (metal or flesh) being used to maim.
Only one woman understood me. She had worked as an editor on the collected
volumes of Sade's work at Grove Press. After completing the editing of the first
volume, she attended an editorial meeting where plans were being made to do a
second volume. She explained that she couldn't stand the nightmares. "We should
start making movies of your nightmares," the chief editor told her. They did.
But the nightmares were the least of it. The reading itself made me physically sick. I
became nauseous‐‐if I were male, I might dare to say full of fear and trembling and
sick unto death. The President's Commission on Pornography and Obscenity (1970)
reported this as a frequent effect of pornography on women and then concluded that
pornography had no harmful consequences. Personally I consider nausea a harmful
consequence, not trivial when the life involved is one's own. I became frightened and
anxious and easily irritable. But the worst was that I retreated into silence. I felt that I
could not make myself understood, that no one would know or care, and that I could
210
not risk being considered ridiculous. The endless struggle of the woman writer to be
taken seriously, to be respected, begins long before any work is in print. It begins in
the silence and solitude of her own mind when that mind must diagram and dissect
sexual horror.
My work on Sade came to an end, but not before I nearly collapsed from fatigue:
physical fatigue because I hated to sleep; physical fatigue because I was often
physically sick from the material; mental fatigue because I took on the whole male
intellectual tradition that has lionized Sade; but also moral fatigue, the fatigue that
comes from confronting the very worst sexual aspirations of men articulated by Sade
in graphic detail, the fatigue engendered by sexual cruelty.
The photographs I had to study changed my whole relationship to the physical world
in which I live. For me, a telephone became a dildo, the telephone wire an instrument
of bondage; a hair dryer became a dildo‐‐those hair dryers euphemistically named
"pistols", scissors were no longer associated with cutting paper but were poised at the
vagina's opening. I saw so many photographs of common household objects being
used as sexual weapons against women that I despaired of ever returning to my once
simple ideas of function. I developed a new visual vocabulary, one that few women
have at all, one that male consumers of pornography carry with them all the time: any
mundane object can be turned into an eroticized object‐‐an object that can be used to
hurt women in a sexual context with a sexual purpose and a sexual meaning. This
increased my isolation significantly, since my friends thought I was making bad jokes
when I recoiled at certain unselfconscious manipulations of a hair dryer, for instance.
A male friend handed me a telephone in an extremely abrupt way. "Don't you ever
push that thing at me again," I said in real alarm, knowing whereof I spoke. He, hating
pornography, did not.
I had to study the photographs to write about them. I stared at them to analyze them.
It took me a long time to see what was in them because I never expected to see what
was there, and expectation is essential to accurate perception. I had to learn. A
doorway is a doorway. One walks through it. A doorway takes on a different
significance when one sees woman after woman hanging from doorways. A lighting
fixture is for light until one sees woman after woman hung from lighting fixtures. The
commonplace world does not just become sinister; it becomes disgusting, repellent.
Pliers are for loosening bolts until one sees them cutting into women's breasts. Saran
Wrap is for preserving food until one sees a person mummified in it.
Again, the nausea, the isolation, the despair. But also, increasingly, a rage that had
nowhere to go, and a sense of boredom through it all at the mindless and endless
repetition in the photographs. No matter how many times women had been hung from
light fixtures or doorways, there were always more magazines with more of the same.
A friend once said to me about heroin: "The worst thing about it is the endless
repetition." One can say the same about pornography, except that it goes beyond
anything that one can repeatedly do to oneself: pornography is what men do to
women. And the mundane world in which men live is full of doorways and light
fixtures and telephones, which may be why the most pervasive abuse of women takes
place in the home.
But the worst effect on me was a generalized misanthropy: I could no longer trust
anyone's enthusiasms, intellectual, sexual, esthetic, political. Underneath, who were
they and would the woman hanging in the doorway matter to them? I felt as if I had
walked out on to a sandbar not knowing it to be a sandbar, thinking it merely the
shore. Time passed and the sea crept up all around, and I did not see it because I had
learned to hate the shore. If I swam and swam and swam to save myself, what would I
find if I reached the shore? Would there be anyone there? Or would it be desolation? A
smartass remark about pornography was desolation. A trivialization of pornography
was desolation. An enthusiasm for pornography was desolation. A detachment from
pornography was desolation. An indifference to pornography was desolation. Men
211
made clever small talk. Women did not know. It took everything I had sometimes to
dare to talk to a friend about what I had seen. I had been a hopeful radical. Now I am
not. Pornography has infected me. Once I was a child and I dreamed of freedom. Now I
am an adult and I see what my dreams have come to: pornography. So, while I cannot
help my sleeping nightmares, I have given up many waking dreams. As a worldly
writer‐‐mired in time and meaning, infatuated and obsessed with the muck of real life‐
‐I decided that I wanted women to see what I saw. This may be the most ruthless
choice I have ever made. But in the privacy of writing, it was the only choice that gave
me the pleasure of writing, that greedy, arrogant pleasure: it was the only choice that
enabled me to triumph over my subject by showing it, remaking it, turning it into
something that we define and use rather than letting it remain something that defines
and uses us. Writing is not a happy profession. It is viciously individual: 1, the author,
insist that I stand in for us, women. In so doing, I insist on the ultimate social meaning
of writing: in facing the nightmare, I want another generation of women to be able to
reclaim the dreams of freedom that pornography has taken from me.
"A Woman Writer and Pornography," first published in San Francisco Review of
Books, Vol. VI, No. 5, March‐April 1981. Copyright © 1980 by Andrea Dworkin. All
rights reserved.
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LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by
Andrea Dworkin
Part III
TAKE BACK THE DAY
Last December in the midst of a blizzard, I had to fly from a small airport in New
England to Rochester, New York, to do a benefit for four women charged with
committing a felony: breaking a window to tear down a poster advertising the
sadistic, pornographic film, Snuff, which had been playing in a cinema adjacent to and
owned by a local Holiday Inn. The women neither admitted nor denied committing the
dastardly act, though the evidence against them is ephemeral, because they were
convinced, as was the whole Rochester feminist community, that the act needed doing.
And a felony charge, with a maximum sentence of four years, was transparently more
vendetta than justice. Being intelligent and sensitive women given to fighting for the
rights of women, they had noticed that the law enforcement officials in Rochester
were singularly indifferent to the presence of a film that celebrates the
dismemberment of a woman as an orgasmic act; and that these same officials were
highly disturbed, to the point of vengeance, by the uppity women who made a stink
about the casual exhibition of this vicious film.
Airports are not congenial places for women traveling alone, especially on snowy days
when planes are delayed interminably. Most of the bored passengers‐to‐be are men.
As men wait, they drink. The longer they wait, the more they drink. After a few hours,
an airport on a stormy day is filled with drunken, cruising men who fix their sloppy
attention on the few lone women. Such a situation may or may not be dangerous, but
it is certainly unpleasant. Having been followed, harassed, and "seductively" called
dirty names, I was pleased to notice another lone female traveler. We looked at each
other, then around at the ready‐to‐pounce men, and became immediate and fast
friends. My new traveling companion was a student, perhaps twenty, who was
studying theater at a small liberal arts college. She was on her way to Rochester to
visit friends. We discussed books, plays, work, our aspirations, and the future of
feminism. In this warm and interesting way, time passed, and eventually we arrived in
Rochester. Exiting from the plane, I was, in the crush, felt up quickly but definitively
by one of the men who had been trailing me. My friend and I anguished over "the little
rapes" as we parted.
In subsequent months, back in New England, I sometimes ran into my friend in the
small town where I live. We had coffee, conversation.
The season changed. Spring blossomed. In Rochester, feminists had spent these
months preparing for the trial. Because of their effective grassroots organizing and a
firm refusal by the defendants to plea‐bargain, the district attorney had been forced to
reduce the charge to a misdemeanor, which carries a maximum sentence of one year.
213
Then, one day, I received a letter from a Rochester feminist. The trial date was set.
Expert witnesses were lined up to testify to the fact that violent pornography does
verifiable harm to women. Money had been raised. Everyone, while proud of what had
been accomplished, was exhausted and depleted. They wanted me to come up and
stay for the duration of the trial to give counsel, comfort, and encouragement. On this
same day, I took a walk and saw my friend, but she had changed. She was somehow
frail, very old even in her obvious youth, nearly shaking. She was sitting alone,
preoccupied, but, even observed from a distance, clearly drained and upset.
How are things, I asked. Well, she had left school for a month, had just returned.
Silence. No intimacy or eager confidence. I asked over and over: why? what had
happened? Slowly, terribly, the story came out. A man had attempted to rape her on
the college campus where she lived. She knew the man, had gone to the police, to the
president of the college. She had moved off campus, in fear. Had the police found the
man? No, they had made no attempt to. They had treated her with utter contempt. And
what had the president of the college, a woman, done? Well, she had said that publicity
would not be "good for the college." Entirely undermined by the callous indifference
of those who were supposed to help and protect her, she had left school, to recover as
best she could. And the worst of it, she said, was that people would just look right
through her. Well, at least he didn't rape you, they said, as if, then, nothing had really
happened. She did not know where the man was. She was hoping desperately that he
had left the area. In her mind, she took a gun and went to find him and shot him. Over
and over. She could not quiet herself, or study, or concentrate, or recover. She knew
she was not safe anywhere. She thought she might leave school, but where would she
go and what would she do? And how would she ever regain her self‐confidence or
sense of well‐being? And how would she ever contain or discipline her anger at the
assault and then the betrayal by nearly everyone?
In Rochester, the trial of four feminists for allegedly breaking a window was
postponed, dragging out the ordeal more months. In a small New England town, one
young woman quaked and raged and tried to do simple things: drink coffee, study,
forget. And somewhere, one aspiring rapist with nothing to fear from the law or
anyone is doing who knows what.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"A True and Commonplace Story," copyright © 1978 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights
reserved.
214
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by
Andrea Dworkin
Part III
TAKE BACK THE DAY
Copyright © 1978, 1988, 1993 by Andrea Dworkin.
All rights reserved.
One must talk, after all; share interests
with the people one's surrounded by. What
kind of humbug, in a city of rapists, holds out
for the dignity of womanhood?
‐‐John Gardner, Shadows
It's hard to fight liberals. They slip and slide. Jimmy Carter had a human rights
dimension to his foreign policy so that South Africa was held accountable for its
racism. Countries that systematically segregate women, like Saudi Arabia, had nothing
to fear from this human rights president. Now that Reagan's support of apartheid is
Amerikan foreign policy, people may think the points made in this essay are glib or
cheap. I hate apartheid, in South Africa and in Saudi Arabia, on the basis of race or on
the basis of sex. Do women matter or not? Is there a single standard of human rights
that includes women or not?
Sometimes I cannot believe the world I live in. Usually I go along, believing. As a
feminist and a writer, I study rape, pornography, wife‐beating. I see the abused bodies
of women, in life and in newspapers. I meet, in life and in books, the torn minds, the
locked‐in victims. I grieve, I rage, but through it all, I believe. This ability to believe
comes, no doubt, from hearing as a child the desperate memories of those, some in my
own family, who survived Nazi concentration camps and Russian pogroms. Being a
Jew, one learns to believe in the reality of cruelty and one learns to recognize
indifference to human suffering as a fact.
Sometimes though, my credulity is strained. The fact that women, after over half a
century of struggle, apparently will not have equal rights under the law in this country
is difficult to believe, especially on those grotesque days when Mr Carter makes
impassioned statements on the importance of human rights elsewhere. Disbelief leads
me to wonder why the plight of male dissidents in Russia overtakes Mr Carter's not
very empathetic imagination when women in this country are in mental institutions
or lobotomized or simply beaten to death or nearly to death by men who do not like
215
the way they have done the laundry or prepared dinner. And on days when this
sanctimonious president makes certain that poor women will not have access to life‐
saving abortion, and tells us without embarrassment that "life is unfair," my disbelief
verges on raw anguish. I ask myself why the pervasive sexual tyranny in this country‐‐
the tyranny of men over women, with its symptomatic expression in economic
deprivation and legal discrimination‐‐is not, at least, on the list of human rights
violations that Mr Carter keeps on the tip of his forked tongue.
But mostly, inability to believe surfaces on days when Mr Carter and his cronies‐‐and
yes, I must admit, especially Andrew Young‐‐discuss our good friend, Saudi Arabia.
That is, their good friend, Saudi Arabia. I hear on newscasts that Mr Carter was
enchanted by Saudi Arabia, that he had a wonderful time. I remember that Mrs Carter
used the back door. I remember that the use of contraceptives in Saudi Arabia is a
capital crime. I remember that in Saudi Arabia, women are a despised and imprisoned
caste, denied all civil rights, sold into marriage, imprisoned as sexual and domestic
servants in harems. I remember that in Saudi Arabia women are forced to breed
babies, who had better be boys, until they die.
Disbelief increases in intensity as I think about South Africa, where suddenly the
United States is on the side of the angels. Like most of my generation of the proud and
notorious sixties, a considerable part of my life has been spent organizing against
apartheid, there and here. The connections have always been palpable. The ruthless
economic and sexual interests of the exploiters have always been clear. The
contemptuous racism of the two vile systems has hurt my heart and given me good
reason to think "democracy" a psychotic lie. Slowly activists have forced our
government, stubborn in its support of pure evil, to acknowledge in its foreign policy
that racist systems of social organization are abhorrent and intolerable. The
shallowness of this new commitment is evident in the almost comical slogan that
supposedly articulates the aspirations of the despised: One Man, One Vote. Amerikan
foreign policy has finally caught up, just barely, with the human rights imperatives of
the early nineteenth century, rendered reactionary if not obsolete by the Seneca Falls
Convention in 1848.
Seductive mirages of progress notwithstanding, nowhere in the world is apartheid
practiced with more cruelty and finality than in Saudi Arabia. Of course, it is women
who are locked in and kept out, exiled to invisibility and abject powerlessness within
their own country. It is women who are degraded systematically from birth to early
death, utterly and totally and without exception deprived of freedom. It is women who
are sold into marriage or concubinage, often before puberty; killed if their hymens are
not intact on the wedding night; kept confined, ignorant, pregnant, poor, without
choice or recourse. It is women who are raped and beaten with full sanction of the
law. It is women who cannot own property or work for a living or determine in any
way the circumstances of their own lives. It is women who are subject to a despotism
that knows no restraint. Women locked out and locked in. Mr Carter, enchanted with
his good friends, the Saudis. Mr Carter, a sincere advocate of human rights. Sometimes
even a feminist with a realistic knowledge of male hypocrisy and a strong stomach
cannot believe the world she lives in.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"A Feminist Looks at Saudi Arabia," copyright © 1978 by Andrea Dworkin. All rights
reserved.
216
LETTERS FROM A WAR ZONE
WRITINGS 1976‐1989
by
Andrea Dworkin
Part III
TAKE BACK THE DAY
This essay is now ten years old. Wife‐beating is the most commonly committed violent
crime in the United States, according to the FBI. In New Hampshire, I meet eighteen‐
year‐old women who work in a battered women's shelter. One talks about how she
feels when women decide to go home and she has to drive them. In Toronto, I meet
two women who travel through rural Canada in the dead of winter to find and help
battered women. In a project called "Off the Beaten Path," Susan Faupel is walking 600
miles‐‐from Chicago, Illinois, to Little Rock, Arkansas‐‐for battered women. In a
southern state, I am driven to the airport by an organizer of the rally I have just
spoken at; the car keeps veering off the road as she says she is being battered now;
when? I keep asking; now, now, she says; she has gone to the organizing meetings for
the antipornography demonstrations with make‐up covering the bruises on her face.
In the South especially I meet lesbians, married with children, who are being beaten
by their husbands‐‐afraid to leave because they would lose their children, battered
because they are lesbian. In Seattle, I find safe houses, secret from most feminists, for
women being beaten by their women lovers. In small towns where there are no
shelters, especially in the North and Midwest, I find safe houses organized like an
underground railroad for women escaping battery.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch‐‐
Emily Dickinson
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
217
In a few days, I will turn thirty‐one. I am filled with both pride and dread.
The pride comes from accomplishment. I have done what I wanted to do more than
any other thing in life. I have become a writer, published two books of integrity and
worth. I did not know what those two books would cost me, how very difficult it
would be to write them, to survive the opposition to them. I did not imagine that they
would demand of me ruthless devotion, spartan discipline, continuing material
deprivation, visceral anxiety about the rudiments of survival, and a faith in myself
made more of iron than innocence. I have also learned to live alone, developed a
rigorous emotional independence, a self‐directed creative will, and a passionate
commitment to my own sense of right and wrong. This I had to learn not only to do,
but to want to do. I have learned not to lie to myself about what I value‐‐in art, in love,
in friendship. I have learned to take responsibility for my own intense convictions and
my own real limitations. I have learned to resist most of the forms of coercion and
flattery that would rob me of access to my own conscience. I believe that, for a woman,
I have accomplished a great deal.
The dread comes from memory. Memory of terror and insupportable pain can
overpower the present, any present, cast shadows so dark that the mind falters,
unable to find light, and the body trembles, unable to find any solid ground. The past
literally overtakes one, seizes one, holds one immobile in dread. Each year, near my
birthday, I remember, involuntarily, that when I was twenty‐five I was still a battered
wife, a woman whose whole life was speechless desperation. By the time I was
twenty‐six I was still a terrorized woman. The husband I had left would come out of
nowhere, beat or hit or kick me, disappear. A ghost with a fist, a lightning flash
followed by riveting pain. There was no protection or safety. I was ripped up inside.
My mind was still on the edge of its own destruction. Smothering anxiety, waking
nightmares, cold sweats, sobs that I choked on were the constants of my daily life. I
did not breathe; I gulped in air to try to get enough of it each minute to survive a blow
that might come a second, any second, later. But I had taken the first step: he had to
find me; I was no longer at home waiting for him. On my twenty‐fifth birthday, when I
had lived one quarter of a century, I was nearly dead, almost catatonic, without the
will to live. By my twenty‐sixth birthday, I wanted more than anything to live. I was
one year old, an infant born out of a corpse, still with the smell of death on her, but
hating death. This year I am six years old, and the anguish of my own long and
dreadful dying comes back to haunt me. But this year, for the first time, I do more than
tremble from the fear that even memory brings, I do more than grieve. This year, I sit
at my desk and write.
Rape is very terrible. I have been raped and I have talked with hundreds of women
who have been raped. Rape is an experience that pollutes one's life. But it is an
experience that is contained within the boundaries of one's own life. In the end, one's
life is larger.
Assault by a stranger or within a relationship is very terrible. One is hurt,
undermined, degraded, afraid. But one's life is larger.
A battered wife has a life smaller than the terror that destroys her over time.
Marriage circumscribes her life. Law, social convention, and economic necessity
encircle her. She is roped in. Her pride depends on projecting her own satisfaction
with her lot to family and friends. Her pride depends on believing that her husband is
devoted to her and, when that is no longer possible, convincing others anyway.
The husband's violence against her contradicts everything she has been taught
about life, marriage, love, and the sanctity of the family. Regardless of the
circumstances in which she grew up, she has been taught to believe in romantic love
and the essential perfection of married life. Failure is personal. Individuals fail
because of what is wrong with them. The troubles of individuals, pervasive as they
218
are, do not reflect on the institution of marriage, nor do they negate her belief in the
happy ending, promised everywhere as the final result of male‐female conflict.
Marriage is intrinsically good. Marriage is a woman's proper goal. Wife‐beating is not
on a woman's map of the world when she marries. It is, quite literally, beyond her
imagination. Because she does not believe that it could have happened, that he could
have done that to her, she cannot believe that it will happen again. He is her husband.
No, it did not happen. And when it happens again, she still denies it. It was an accident,
a mistake. And when it happens again, she blames the hardships of his life outside the
home. There he experiences terrible hurts and frustrations. These account for his
mistreatment of her. She will find a way to comfort him, to make it up to him. And
when it happens again, she blames herself. She will be better, kinder, quieter, more of
whatever he likes, less of whatever he dislikes. And when it happens again, and when
it happens again, and when it happens again, she learns that she has nowhere to go, no
one to turn to, no one who will believe her, no one who will help her, no one who will
protect her. If she leaves, she will return. She will leave and return and leave and
return. She will find that her parents, doctor, the police, her best friend, the neighbors
upstairs and across the hall and next door, all despise the woman who cannot keep
her own house in order, her injuries hidden, her despair to herself, her smile amiable
and convincing. She will find that society loves its central lie‐‐that marriage means
happiness‐‐and hates the woman who stops telling it even to save her own life.
The memory of the physical pain is vague. I remember, of course, that I was hit, that I
was kicked. I do not remember when or how often. It blurs. I remember him banging
my head against the floor until I passed out. I remember being kicked in the stomach. I
remember being hit over and over, the blows hitting different parts of my body as I
tried to get away from him. I remember a terrible leg injury from a series of kicks. I
remember crying and I remember screaming and I remember begging. I remember
him punching me in the breasts. One can remember that one had horrible physical
pain, but that memory does not bring the pain back to the body. Blessedly, the mind
can remember these events without the body reliving them. If one survives without
permanent injury, the physical pain dims, recedes, ends. It lets go.
The fear does not let go. The fear is the eternal legacy. At first, the fear infuses
every minute of every day. One does not sleep. One cannot bear to be alone. The fear is
in the cavity of one's chest. It crawls like lice on one's skin. It makes the legs buckle,
the heart race. It locks one's jaw. One's hands tremble. One's throat closes up. The fear
makes one entirely desperate. Inside, one is always in upheaval, clinging to anyone
who shows any kindness, cowering in the presence of any threat. As years pass, the
fear recedes, but it does not let go. It never lets go. And when the mind remembers
fear, it also relives it. The victim of encapsulating violence carries both the real fear
and the memory of fear with her always. Together, they wash over her like an ocean,
and if she does not learn to swim in that terrible sea, she goes under.
And then, there is the fact that, during those weeks that stretch into years when
one is a battered wife, one's mind is shattered slowly over time, splintered into a
thousand pieces. The mind is slowly submerged in chaos and despair, buried broken
and barely alive in an impenetrable tomb of isolation. This isolation is so absolute, so
killing, so morbid, so malignant and devouring that there is nothing in one's life but it,
it. One is entirely shrouded in a loneliness that no earthquake could move. Men have
asked over the centuries a question that, in their hands, ironically becomes abstract:
"What is reality?" They have written complicated volumes on this question. The
woman who was a battered wife and has escaped knows the answer: reality is when
something is happening to you and you know it and can say it and when you say it
other people understand what you mean and believe you. That is reality, and the
battered wife, imprisoned alone in a nightmare that is happening to her, has lost it and
cannot find it anywhere.
I remember the isolation as the worst anguish I have ever known. I remember the
pure and consuming madness of being invisible and unreal, and every blow making
219
me more invisible and more unreal, as the worst desperation I have ever known. I
remember those who turned away, pretending not to see the injuries‐‐my parents,
dear god, especially my parents; my closest female friend, next door, herself
suffocating in a marriage poisoned by psychic, not physical, violence; the doctor so
officious and aloof; the women in the neighborhood who heard every scream; the men
in the neighborhood who smiled, yes, lewdly, as they half looked away, half stared,
whenever they saw me; my husband's family, especially my mother‐in‐law, whom I
loved, my sisters‐in‐law, whom I loved. I remember the frozen muscles of my smile as
I gave false explanations of injuries that no one wanted to hear anyway. I remember
slavishly conforming to every external convention that would demonstrate that I was
a "good wife," that would convince other people that I was happily married. And as the
weight of social convention became insupportable, I remember withdrawing further
and further into that open grave where so many women hide waiting to die‐‐the
house. I went out to shop only when I had to, I walked my dogs, I ran out screaming,
looking for help and shelter when I had the strength to escape, with no money, often
no coat, nothing but terror and tears. I met only averted eyes, cold stares, and the
vulgar sexual aggression of lone, laughing men that sent me running home to a danger
that was‐‐at least familiar and familial. Home, mine as well as his. Home, the only place
I had. Finally, everything inside crumbled. I gave up. I sat, I stared, I waited, passive
and paralyzed, speaking to no one, minimally maintaining myself and my animals, as
my husband stayed away for longer and longer periods of time, slamming in only to
thrash and leave. No one misses the wife who disappears. No one investigates her
disappearance. After awhile, people stop asking where she is, especially if they have
already refused to face what has been happening to her. Wives, after all, belong in the
home. Nothing outside it depends on them. This is a bitter lesson, and the battered
wife learns it in the bitterest way.
The anger of the survivor is murderous. It is more dangerous to her than to the one
who hurt her. She does not believe in murder, even to save herself. She does not
believe in murder, even though it would be more merciful punishment than he
deserves. She wants him dead but will not kill him. She never gives up wanting him
dead.
The clarity of the survivor is chilling. Once she breaks out of the prison of terror
and violence in which she has been nearly destroyed, a process that takes years, it is
very difficult to lie to her or to manipulate her. She sees through the social strategies
that have controlled her as a woman, the sexual strategies that have reduced her to a
shadow of her own native possibilities. She knows that her life depends on never
being taken in by romantic illusion or sexual hallucination.
The emotional severity of the survivor appears to others, even those closest to her,
to be cold and unyielding, ruthless in its intensity. She knows too much about
suffering to try to measure it when it is real, but she despises self‐pity. She is self‐
protective, not out of arrogance, but because she has been ruined by her own fragility.
Like Anya, the survivor of the Nazi concentration camps in Susan Fromberg
Schaeffer's beautiful novel of the same name, she might say: "So what have I learned? I
have learned not to believe in suffering. It is a form of death. If it is severe enough it is
a poison; it kills the emotions." She knows that some of her own emotions have been
killed and she distrusts those who are infatuated with suffering, as if it were a source
of life, not death.
In her heart she is a mourner for those who have not survived.
In her soul she is a warrior for those who are now as she was then.
In her life she is both celebrant and proof of women's capacity and will to survive,
to become, to act, to change self and society. And each year she is stronger and there
are more of her.
220
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
"A Battered Wife Survives," first published under the title "The Bruise That Doesn't
Heal" in Mother Jones, Vol. III, No. VI, July 1978. Copyright © 1978 by Andrea
Dworkin. All rights reserved.
221
And here's one more, it's both unflinching and unsensational, quite a feat
with this subject. Includes pictures and a rare interview with her
husband, John Stoltenberg. Once the ezboard restoral is complete I'll
add this to the existing thread but just wanted to get it up now.
A victim of abuse as a child, briefly a prostitute as a young woman, Andrea Dworkin married a
gay man and spent three decades fighting hypersexualized America. She lost.
When John Stoltenberg, the widower of the feminist writer and anti‐pornography activist
Andrea Dworkin, the woman whom Gloria Steinem called the feminist movement’s “Old
Testament prophet,” first met his spouse, he remembers feeling “like we had walked off a
cliff.” As if the force of their connection had rendered the world weightless beneath his feet.
He was 29 and she was 27, and they started talking out on the street in the West Village after
they’d both walked out of a benefit for the War Resisters League because they thought the
protest songs were sexist. They started spending most of their time together. Dworkin and
Stoltenberg both considered themselves gay. “She said, ‘I met someone,’ ” remembers
Dworkin’s lifelong agent, Elaine Markson, “ ‘and it’s a man.’ ”
It was 1974. “There was a party at the apartment where I was staying,” says Stoltenberg.
“She was there, and I think we were dancing, and then I think I passed out because I had had
a lot to drink. And this could be a little bit of revisionism, but I remember coming to
consciousness with clarity that I couldn’t imagine life without her.” Now, 31 years later,
almost to the day, he has been forced to. Dworkin died on April 9 at the age of 58 in her bed
in the Washington, D.C., apartment she and Stoltenberg had moved to about a year ago.
They’d moved from New York so he could take a job as the managing editor of AARP The
Magazine. (When we met, Stoltenberg had a red rubber bracelet on his wrist that said I LOVE
SOCIAL SECURITY.) Friends say Dworkin had loved their previous home, a Park Slope
brownstone, but it had become difficult for her to manage its stairs because of severe
osteoarthritis in her knees, exacerbated by years of obesity.
222
Their big, bright apartment in D.C., in a Deco building with a vaguely old‐Hollywood feel, is
all on one level, so it was easier for Dworkin to get around, and she had started to settle into
the area. She’d been reaching out to other writers and had gone to dinner at Christopher
Hitchens and Carol Blue’s apartment, where Dworkin and Stoltenberg were joined by the
former George W. Bush speechwriter David Frum and his wife, Danielle Crittenden. “Andrea
had fun that night—she had wicked fun,” says Stoltenberg. They found common ground
talking about how much they hated Bill Clinton and how they thought he was a rapist.
Friends say Dworkin felt clear‐headed enough to write for only a few hours a day, the toll of
a lifetime of insomnia and all the pain medication she was taking for her knees, but Dworkin
had just finished a proposal for a book of literary criticism. In her bedroom, on the worn red
chair she used to sit on, Stoltenberg has left untouched the yellow legal pad on which she’d
been taking notes: “Use against Hemingway, Hitler and Bush,” it says in red pen. “The real
America hates war.” Her desk is in another room, where there is a poster that says DEAD
MEN DON’T RAPE.
“We had no idea she was near death,” says Stoltenberg, who is wearing black jeans and a
black sweater and has the sunken eyes of a man in mourning. “I forbade her to die first. I
mean, that’s kind of a joke—if you knew Andrea, you knew that was just a dare.” He laughs.
“They never tell you when you fall in love with somebody that the odds are that one of you
will go first. I’ve been trying to remember when I realized—it had to have been in the first
year or two—that my life’s work . . . what John Stoltenberg is here for . . . ” He starts to sob.
“I’m sorry . . . is to make sure that her life’s work be done. I’ve done other things—things I
like to do, things I’m good at—but I have never conceived of my life’s work other than as the
home, the rock, the means, the support, the harbor, the net, the comfort, the embrace,
whatever was needed so she could go on. ’Cause I figured it out real early that she was
brilliant. I knew I was in the presence of somebody who had greatness.”
When most people think of Andrea Dworkin, they think of two things: overalls and the idea
that all sex is rape. This is the popular interpretation of her 1987 polemic Intercourse, and
while she didn’t exactly say that, she didn’t exactly not say it either. She wrote that
intercourse is a “means of physiologically making a woman inferior,” which is pretty easy to
take issue with, but then she also wrote that “in fucking, the deepest emotions one has about
life as a whole are expressed, even with a stranger, however random or impersonal the
encounter. Rage, hatred, bitterness, joy, tenderness, even mercy, all have their home in this
passion, in this act,” which is pretty right on.
Once she found a home for her rage in the anti‐pornography sect of the women’s movement,
Dworkin became America’s least likely superstar—a kind of inverted sex symbol. There
were other feminists who were as zealous in their conviction that pornography was the
“undiluted essence of anti‐female propaganda,” as Susan Brownmiller once put it, but
nobody else could elicit the same disgust and fascination from the public as Andrea
Dworkin—they didn’t have her overalls or her anger; they weren’t as big.
Dworkin elicited intense reactions from people—they didn’t just disagree with her, they
hated her. To her detractors, she was the horror of women’s lib personified, the angriest
woman in America—large, furious, ranting. And it wasn’t all a concoction. She really did say
that romance is “rape embellished with meaningful looks” (in a speech she gave in Bryant
Park at a “Take Back the Night” march in 1979) and that “men are shits and take pride in it”
(in her memoir, Heartbreak). She really would yell at her audiences: “The First Amendment
was written by slave traders!”
Dworkin wasn’t big on compromise, and she wasn’t one for looking on the bright side. Much
of society is set up specifically to assist people in their process of ignoring the horrors of the
world. Dworkin’s agenda was the opposite. She had little sympathy for anyone with too
weak a stomach to dwell with her in the darkness. “The worst immorality,” she wrote, “is in
223
living a trivial life because one is afraid to face any other kind of life—a despairing life or an
anguished life or a twisted and difficult life.”
Dworkin was molested or raped at around age 9—the details, in her writing, and according
to her closest friends, are murky, but something bad happened then. In 1965, when Dworkin
was 18 and a freshman at Bennington, she was arrested after participating in a march
against the Vietnam War and was taken to the Women’s House of Detention in Greenwich
Village, where she was subjected to a nightmarish internal exam by prison doctors. She bled
for days afterward; her family doctor looked at her injuries and started to cry. Dworkin’s
response to this incident was her first act of purposeful bravery: She wrote scores of letters
to newspapers detailing what had happened, and the story was reported in the New York
Times, among other papers, which led to a government investigation of the prison. It was
eventually torn down, and in its place today is the idyllic flower garden at the foot of the
Jefferson Market clock tower on Sixth Avenue.
Like many members of the women’s movement, Dworkin started out as an antiwar activist
and found her way to feminism when she became disillusioned with the men of the New Left.
She wrote about the experience in Mercy, a book of “fiction” about a girl named Andrea, who,
like Dworkin, was from Camden, New Jersey, and was molested at around 9, protested the
war, and was jailed and sexually assaulted in a New York City prison. “I went to the peace
office and instead of typing letters for the peace boys I wrote to newspapers saying I had
been hurt and it was bad and not all right and because I didn’t know sophisticated words I
used the words I knew and they were very shocked to death; and the peace boys were in the
office and I refused to type a letter for one of them because I was doing this and he read my
letter out loud to everyone in the room over my shoulder and they all laughed at me, and I
had spelled America with a “k” because I knew I was in Kafka’s world, not Jefferson’s, and I
knew Amerika was the real country I lived in.”
Because she wanted adventure and experience, and because she wanted to escape all the
media attention following her battle against the prison, and because her family—her mother
in particular—was deeply ashamed that she had been jailed, Dworkin decided to leave
Amerika for Europe when she was 19.
More bad things happened there. She ran out of money and turned some tricks. For a time,
she had a passionate romance with a man in Crete—“We’re so much joined in the flesh that
strangers feel the pain if we stop touching,” she wrote—but somehow she left her beloved
perch above the “gem‐like surface” of the Aegean and married a Dutchman, an anarchist,
who beat the living shit out of her.
Years later, Dworkin’s comrade Susan Brownmiller, the author of the radical feminist classic
Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape, spoke out against Hedda Nussbaum’s complicity in
the murder of her daughter, Lisa Steinberg. In response, Dworkin published a piece in the
Los Angeles Times called “What Battery Really Is,” in which she tried to explain her
experience—Nussbaum’s too, she asserted. “When I would come to after being beaten
unconscious, the first feeling I would have was an overwhelming sorrow that I was alive. I
would ask God please to let me die now. My breasts were burned with lit cigarettes. He beat
my legs with a heavy wood beam so that I couldn’t walk. I was present when he did immoral
things to other people. I didn’t help them. Judge me, Susan.”
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Dworkin in her twenties, 1972.(Photo credit: Courtesty of John Stoltenberg)
These experiences formed the basis of Dworkin’s worldview. She wrote about them in her
first book, Woman Hating, and in some way or other, these nightmarish pieces of her reality
were picked over, deconstructed, and retold in everything she ever wrote. If you have never
experienced such things, it can be very difficult to relate to Dworkin’s world, with its
incessant images of nuclear war and the Holocaust. Sometimes, when you are reading her
work, it can be almost impossible to reconcile the world around you with the world on the
page.
But for many of the women who would show up to hear her lectures, these were the
mundane details of life as a woman who’d been battered or molested or raped. Dworkin
offered an unmitigated conception of the victim—a word, she said, that had a taint, but
shouldn’t. There was no such thing for Dworkin as a “prostitute,” for example, there were
only “prostituted women.” For them, Dworkin was a savior goddess, a knight in shining
armor, and part of that armor was fat. Dworkin would stand before her followers onstage,
huge and hollering, an evangelical, untouchable preacher for the oppressed.
Dworkin was a one‐dimensional public persona, but she was a nuanced writer, with a gift for
conveying abstract concepts through acute, unusual metaphors. “It’s not as if there’s an
empty patch that one can see and so one can say, ‘There’s my ignorance; it’s about ten by ten
and a dozen feet high and someday someone will fill in the empty patch,” she wrote in
Heartbreak. (She was talking about male writers.) She could be lyrical in her descriptions;
Bessie Smith’s voice “tramped through your three‐dimensional body but gracefully, a
spartan, bearlike ballet.” And she could be funny. Of a grade‐school teacher who gave her
trouble, Dworkin says, “I knew I’d get her someday and this is it: eat shit, bitch. No one said
that sisterhood was easy.”
Another surprise about Dworkin, given her reputation as an anti‐sex man‐hater, is how
frequently and passionately she wrote about men—male writers, male lovers, male family
members (her father in particular, whom she frequently referred to in conversation as
“thatdearsweetwonderfulman,” as if it were his title). And she wrote about sex constantly.
To say that she was anti‐sex misses the point: She was obsessed with sex. Book after book,
page after page of “cunt,” “fucking,” “penetration,” “penis,” “sucking,” “balls,” and so on.
Often, Dworkin was offering lurid, excruciatingly precise accounts of something sexually
hideous, as in this description of her uncle: “He stuck his penis down the throats of at least
two of his children when they were infants—I assume to elicit the involuntary sucking
response.” Another writer might simply have called him a child molester.
225
Dworkin’s treatment of sex was frequently garish and grim, but sometimes—whether or not
she intended it to be—her writing on the subject was much more ambiguous. The writer and
sex radical Susie Bright has pointed out that Dworkin’s first novel, Ice and Fire, is an
undeniable retelling of the Marquis de Sade’s Juliette. Dworkin hated De Sade; she devoted
an entire chapter to his personal and literary crimes in one of her most famous books,
Pornography: Men Possessing Women (in which she asserted, “He both embodies and defines
male sexual values”). In that same book, Dworkin described in painstaking detail the goings‐
on in various examples of smut, including the book Whip Chick: “Pete fucks Cora. She has the
bum suck her ass, then her cunt while Pete fucks her in the ass. After all have come, Cora
orders the bum to clean Pete’s genitals.” This goes on for pages. Sometimes, when you’re
reading Dworkin, it can be difficult to determine whether you are supposed to be offended or
masturbating.
Dworkin herself would say that this kind of a reaction was evidence of a mind that’s
absorbed the propaganda of the patriarchy and eroticized the subjugation of women. “If, for
example, she writes about a violent rape and a reader finds it arousing, it means that the
socialization process she writes about—the sexualizing of the domination of women and our
own annihilation—has worked,” says Catharine MacKinnon, with whom Dworkin famously
crafted legislation that would allow people to sue pornographers for damages if they could
show they’d suffered harm from pornography’s making or use. In the eighties, their
ordinance was twice passed in Minneapolis and vetoed by the mayor. It passed in
Indianapolis but was overturned by federal courts. That legislation still serves as a
foundation of a Canadian supreme‐court ruling on obscenity that has been used to attack gay
bookstores and even to ban Dworkin’s own work.
Dworkin was a sexual utopian, and the republic she imagined still has at least one citizen.
John Stoltenberg says Dworkin’s first book, Woman Hating, “saved my life.” When he met
Dworkin, Stoltenberg considered himself gay, and does to this day, although he preferred the
word queer before it got trendy. Dworkin’s dissection of gender in that book, her assertion
that “ ‘man’ and ‘woman’ are fictions, caricatures, cultural constructs . . . reductive,
totalitarian, inappropriate to human becoming,” was to Stoltenberg a revelation, and he
quoted that passage in a book he published in 1989 called Refusing to Be a Man, which he
dedicated to her. Stoltenberg did his own riff on her theme, writing about a version of Earth
that the inhabitants “find amazing and precious . . . that because everyone’s genitals stem
from the same embryonic tissue, the nerves inside all their genitals got wired very much
alike, so these nerves of touch just go crazy upon contact in a way that resonates completely
between them. ‘My gosh,’ they think, ‘you must feel something in your genital tubercle that
intensely resembles what I’m feeling in my genital tubercle.’ ” His ideal world is a place
where people “have sex. They don’t have a sex.” Whereas here on planet Earth, “we are
sorted into one category or another at birth based solely on a visual inspection of our groins,
and the only question that’s asked is whether there’s enough elongated tissue around your
urethra so you can pee standing up.” In Refusing to Be a Man, instead of saying “boy,”
Stoltenberg sometimes refers to a little male as a “child‐with‐a‐penis.”
In addition to his magazine editing, Stoltenberg was himself an anti‐pornography activist,
and he used to facilitate “Pose Workshops” at colleges, in which male students were asked to
assume the positions in which women are photographed for pornography—legs spread,
pelvis raised, and so on. “I would try to help people understand what was wrong with the
language of sexual orientation: bisexual, homosexual,” he says. “I said, ‘Think of yourself as
being Janesexual. Or Robbiesexual. It’s not about gender, it’s about a person.’ ” When he met
Dworkin, it didn’t matter to Stoltenberg that he was gay or that she didn’t have enough
elongated tissue around her urethra to pee standing up.
Another of Dworkin’s closest friends had a different take on the matter of Dworkin’s
sexuality: “In 30‐plus years of knowing her, I’ve never heard of a single romance with a
woman—not one.”
226
Many of Dworkin’s friends did not find out that she and Stoltenberg were legally married
until they read her obituary in the newspapers. “We hated being called husband and wife,”
he says. “When pressed, we would say ‘spouse.’ Spouse or life partner are words that we
used.” Friends knew, of course, that the two had lived together for more than 30 years, but
there are various reasons why Dworkin would not have wanted her marriage to a man to be
public information. For one thing, there was the matter of her being a lesbian.
Dworkin spoke about this many times. At a rally for Lesbian Pride Week in Central Park in
1975—when she was already living with Stoltenberg—she said, “This love of women is the
soil in which my life is rooted.” She went on to talk about “erotic passion and intimacy”
among women, and a “wild, salty tenderness,” but this is harder to get your head around if
you are familiar with her oeuvre. In her writings, there are too many smoldering de*****ions
of heterosexual sex to count, but the mentions of lesbianism are either bloodless—“There is
pride in the nurturant love which is our common ground”—or funny: “Q: There are a lot of
rumors about your lesbianism. No one quite seems to know what you do with whom. A:
Good.” (As she wrote in a satiric piece called “Nervous Interview.”)
MacKinnon says, “Lesbian is one of the few words you’ve got to make a positive claim about
identifying with women, to say I’m with women. It doesn’t necessarily mean without men.
Women are socially defined sexually as an inferior class. Lesbian is a sexual word; that’s why
it’s stigmatized. In addition to her history and feelings, that’s a lot of why Andrea identified
by it, I think.”
Stoltenberg, however, continued to have romances with men throughout his marriage.
“Yeah, I did have male lovers. Sexual partners. Companions,” he says. “Yeah. I think as
regards Andrea and me, neither she nor I had a concept of sexual faithfulness, but we had a
strong conception of truth‐telling. The betrayal was never the sex, the betrayal was not
telling the truth.”
I ask if he and Dworkin had a sexual relationship. He thinks about it for a minute, and then
his face contorts with pain, and when his voice returns it’s a whisper. “We were really close.”
With the possible exception of the Shakers, it is difficult to think of an American movement
that has failed more spectacularly than anti‐pornography feminism. In the late seventies,
when a prominent faction of the women’s‐liberation movement—including Brownmiller,
Dworkin, Audre Lorde, Robin Morgan, Grace Paley, Adrienne Rich, and Gloria Steinem—
turned their attention to fighting pornography, porn was still something marginalized, as
opposed to what it is now: a source of inspiration for all of popular culture. (See Jenna
Jameson, almost any reality‐television show, Brazilian bikini waxes, and go from there.) In
her new book, Women’s Lives, Men’s Laws, MacKinnon puts it like this: “The aggressors have
won.”
If the anti‐porn crusade was a losing battle, it was also a costly one: It divided, some would
say destroyed, the women’s movement. The term “sex‐positive feminist” was coined by
women who wanted to distance themselves from the anti‐porn faction. Of course, all
feminists thought they were being “sex‐positive” and fighting for freedom, but when it
comes to sex, freedom means different things to different people. Screaming fights became a
regular element of feminist conferences in the eighties, and perhaps the single most divisive
issue was the Dworkin‐MacKinnon ordinance.
The anti‐porn feminists were Dworkin’s chosen people—the like‐minded few who
experienced her rage as righteous, instead of threatening. Usually. Even within her sororal
battalion, Dworkin was frequently at the center of conflict. “She courted it,” says
Brownmiller. “She would hang herself on her own cross.”
227
“She lived with me for a while—she had nowhere to stay; that’s the way it was in those
days,” says the writer Grace Paley, now 83, to whom Dworkin dedicated Woman Hating. “I
really stuck with her for a long time and then we got into a fight about something really
stupid, and I have to say it could be more her fault because I don’t get mad at people. I think
she went through a very hard period, and I always felt I wasn’t there for her because of this
dumb fight.”
“She could be difficult,” says Robin Morgan, one of Dworkin’s best friends. “The same
ferocity of intellect could turn against you—very fast, you could become them.”
Morgan, still luminous at 64, is a former child star, editor‐in‐chief of Ms., one of the few
guests of Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show ever to walk off in the middle of an interview, a
poet, the author of twenty books, and a great coiner of slogans for the movement:
“Pornography is the theory, rape is the practice,” was one of hers; so too was “The personal
is political.” “That became rather well known,” she says drily, drinking wine in front of the
fireplace in her West Village apartment. “But for me it was always very true.”
Dworkin, by contrast, put up a wall between herself and the world. “I used to say to her,
‘You’re a funny, funny, hilarious person, but you never let it through in your public persona.
You never let the incredible gentleness and vulnerability of yourself through, and so
consequently people see this fierce person living totally in her head.’ ” Morgan had a
nickname for Dworkin: Creampuff. “Because she was so fragile.”
Morgan describes Dworkin as a “high maintenance” friend. “At one point, in 2001, she was
barely out of the hospital, and she and John were having difficulties. She called me one
afternoon, and she said, ‘I have to leave him and I have to come right now and stay with you,
and I know your apartment is so small, but I simply must.’ And I said, ‘Andrea? Do you
remember what happened this morning?’ ”
The date was September 11. “At that moment, my garden was filled with friends who had
walked up here to the West Village, covered with ash, and were sort of throwing up and
crying. I said, ‘Andrea, I cannot be here for you this time.’ She was pissed at first, but she did
forgive me.”
228
Dworkin and Stoltenberg at home in Brooklyn, 2003.(Photo credit: Courtesy of John
Stoltenberg)
And Dworkin’s friends could forgive her for her anger because of what it had earned her.
“This is dangerous but I will say it: I think Andrea was like our Malcolm. And people who—
feminists, even—raised their eyebrows at her supposed extremism or her intransigence or
her fire took secret glee from that. In the same way that the black community grieved
horribly and openly when King was assassinated, but when Malcolm was killed? Even some
of the people who said, ‘Well, he was always violent,’ they were devastated,” says Morgan.
“Remember where Malcolm X came from? Malcolm had been a pimp, Malcolm had been a
hustler, Malcolm had been a drug addict. It’s the militant voice, it’s the voice that would dare
say what nobody else was saying . . . and it can’t help but say it because it is speaking out of
such incredible personal pain.”
On June 2, 2000, Dworkin published an extremely disturbing piece in Britain’s Guardian. She
describes sitting in the garden of a Parisian hotel in 1999, drinking Kir royales and reading a
book on French Fascism, when she suddenly felt “sort of sickish or weakish or something,
and all I could think about was getting to my bed and not making a fool of myself in public
view.” She managed it, but felt sure her drink had been drugged. Then—somewhat oddly—
she ordered room service. “Then a boy was in the room with dinner. He had served me the
second drink. I tried to get up and I fell against the far wall because I couldn’t stand. I signed
the cheque, but could barely balance myself. I fell back on to the bed. I didn’t lock the door. I
came to four or five hours later. I didn’t know where I was. The curtains hadn’t been drawn.
Now it was dark.” She goes on to describe cuts on her leg, a strange bruise on her breast, and
internal pain. “I hurt deep inside my vagina,” she wrote, which made no sense to her because
“in my own life, I don’t have intercourse. That is my choice.” Her language is fevered and
murky. “I thought I had been drugged and raped, but I felt confused,” she wrote. “I couldn’t
remember, but I thought they had pulled me down toward the bottom of the bed so that my
vagina was near the bed’s edge and my legs were easy to manipulate.” Ultimately, she felt
certain that “the creatures drugged and raped me.” The last line of the piece was “I’m ready
to die.”
In response to this article, Susie Bright wrote on her blog, “By the time you finish reading it,
229
you know she has finally completely lost her mind.” Bright was no friend of Dworkin’s—they
had clashed over the years on various issues (porn, stripping, fisting)—but she wasn’t the
only one who found Dworkin’s account hard to accept. “John looked for any other
explanation than rape,” Dworkin wrote in the Guardian. “He abandoned me emotionally.”
“I thought they were gonna split up over that,” says Nikki Craft, a close friend of Dworkin’s
who managed her Website.
Stoltenberg, for his part, says, “It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her, it was that I didn’t want it
to be true. I didn’t want that to have happened. I completely concede that she may have
understood that as not believing her, but I was trying to find possibilities that would have
exempted her from this. She’d been raped enough.”
To not believe a woman who says she has been sexually assaulted is, of course, one of the
worst things you can do, according to feminist doctrine. It is something Dworkin wrote and
yelled about over and over: the unwillingness of the lucky, the unharmed, to believe the
grievous, nightmarish harm that befalls the unlucky. “It’s as if the story is too weird, too ugly,
too unsightly for an educated woman to believe,” she once wrote.
But this story proved too weird for even some of Dworkin’s closest allies. Two of her friends,
both important feminists who have written extensively about rape, told me they have
serious doubts about the veracity of her account and were more worried that she was having
a mental breakdown than that she’d been raped. Robin Morgan says simply, “I wish that
piece had never been published.” Dworkin blamed the rape for her ill health. In another
article for the Guardian—published after her death—she wrote, “Doctors tell me that there is
no medical truth to my notion that the rape caused this sickness or what happened after it. I
believe I am right: It was the rape. They don’t know because they have never looked.”
The friday night before Dworkin died, she and Stoltenberg were watching Will & Grace. “It
happened to be one that I didn’t like very much and I knew what was going to happen, so I
left her in her bed,” he says. (Stoltenberg has his own bedroom at the other end of the
apartment.) Dworkin had been taking a great deal of medication for pain. She had undergone
knee surgery in both legs and had had bariatric surgery in an effort to reduce her weight,
which was dangerous for her heart and terrible for her knees; by the end of her life, she was
quite thin. Her medications included Percocet, fentanyl patches, methadone, and, for three
years, Vioxx—since called off the market because it may cause heart attacks and strokes.
Stoltenberg had taken Dworkin to the emergency room the Sunday before her death because
of an “ebb and flow of symptoms” that they attributed to drug interaction. The doctors could
find nothing wrong. On the coroner’s report, the cause of Dworkin’s death is listed as
“pending.”
Stoltenberg rushed home from work on Friday afternoon after he called and found out that
she had fallen down in the apartment. “I asked her if she wanted me to sleep with her, and
she said very much. I got up around six A.M., and I left her sleeping in bed; she was sleeping
very soundly. I tried to wake her, actually, but she didn’t wake up, and I thought, Oh, that’s
so great.” A deep, untroubled sleep was, for Dworkin, exceedingly rare.
Sometime before eight o’clock, he felt something and went in to check on her. She had just
stopped breathing. “She was warm to her fingertips,” he says. “I know she died in her sleep,
peacefully; there was no struggle, there was no pain. It was the last thing I could do for her.”
230
Bibliography
(Thanks for ordering through this link! A portion of your Amazon.com purchase will
help support The Andrea Dworkin Web Site.)
BOOKS BY ANDREA DWORKIN
Life and Death: Unapologetic Writings on the Continuing War Against Women (New
York: The Free Press, 1997). Collected speeches and essays.
Mercy (New York: Four Walls Eight Windows, 1991; London: Secker & Warburg,
1990). Novel.
Letters From a War Zone (New York: Lawrence Hill Books, 1993; New York: Dutton,
1989; London: Secker & Warburg, 1988). Collected essays.
Pornography and Civil Rights: A New Day for Women's Equality (coauthored with
Catharine A. MacKinnon) (Minneapolis, Minnesota: Organizing Against Pornography,
1988). Nonfiction. [The complete text of this book is available on line.]
Intercourse (New York: The Free Press, 1987, 1997 [tenth‐anniversary edition];
London: Secker & Warburg, 1987). Nonfiction.
Ice and Fire (New York: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1987; London: Secker & Warburg,
1986). Novel.
Rightwing Women (New York: Coward, McCann & Geoghegan/Perigee, 1983; London:
The Women's Press, 1988). Nonfiction.
Pornography: Men Possessing Women (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1989; New York:
Putnam's/Perigee, 1981; London: The Women's Press, 1981). Nonfiction.
the new womans broken heart (East Palo Alto, California: Frog In The Well, 1980).
Short stories.
Our Blood: Prophecies and Discourses on Sexual Politics (New York: Harper & Row,
1976). Collected lectures.
Woman Hating (New York: Dutton, 1974). Nonfiction.
Morning Hair (designed, printed, and published by the author, handset type,
handbound, 1968, Philadephia). Poems and fiction.
Child (privately published, 1966, Crete). Poems.
CONTRIBUTIONS TO ANTHOLOGIES
"Antifeminism," in Issues in Feminism: An Introduction to Women's Studies (Third
Edition), Sheila Ruth, ed. (Mountain View, California: Mayfield Publishing Company,
1995).
"Biological Superiority: The World's Most Dangerous and Deadly Idea," in The Gay &
Lesbian Literary Companion, Sharon Malinowski and Christa Brelin, eds. (Detroit:
Visible Ink, 1995).
"Pornography Happens to Women," in The Price We Pay: The Case Against Racist
Speech, Hate Propaganda, and Pornography, Laura Lederer and Richard Delgado, eds.
(New York: Hill and Wang, 1995).
"Pornography and Male Supremacy," in Race and Class in Mass Media Studies, Gail
Dines and Jean M. Humez, eds. (Thousand Oaks, California: Sage, 1995).
231
"Pornography: Men Possessing Women," in Feminism in Our Time: The Essential
Writings, World War II to the Present, Miriam Schneir, ed. (New York: Vintage Books,
1994).
"the wild cherries of lust," in Wild Women: Contemporary Short Stories by Women
Celebrating Women, Sue Thomas, ed. (Woodstock, New York: The Overlook Press,
1994).
"Pornography," in The Woman Question (Second Edition), Mary Evans, ed. (Thousand
Oaks, California: Sage, 1994).
"Against the Male Flood: Censorship, Pornography, and Equality," in Feminist
Jurisprudence, Patricia Smith, ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993).
"Questions and Answers" (coauthored with Catharine A. MacKinnon), in Making
Violence Sexy: Feminist Views on Pornography, Diana E. H. Russell, ed. (New York:
Teachers College Press, 1993).
"I Want a Twenty‐Four Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape," in Transforming
a Rape Culture, Emilie Buchwald, Pamela R. Fletcher, and Martha Roth, eds.
(Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 1993).
"Living in Terror, Pain: Being a Battered Wife," in Violence Against Women: The Bloody
Footprints, Pauline B. Bart and Eileen Geil Moran (Newbury Park, California: Sage,
1993).
"Against the Male Flood: Censorship, Pornography and Equality," in Pornography:
Women, Violence and Civil Liberties, Catherine Itzin, ed. (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1992).
"Women in the Public Domain: Sexual Harassment and Date Rape," introduction to
Sexual Harassment: Women Speak Out, Amber Coverdale Sumrall and Dena Taylor, eds.
(Freedom, California: The Crossing Press, 1992).
"In October 1973 (Age 27)," in The Female Body: Figures, Styles, Speculations, Laurence
Goldstein, ed. (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1991).
"Woman‐Hating Right and Left," in The Sexual Liberals and the Attack on Feminism,
Dorchen Leidholdt and Janice G. Raymond, eds. (New York: Pergamon Press, 1990).
"Gynocide: Chinese Footbinding," in Feminist Frontiers II: Rethinking Sex, Gender, and
Society, Laurel Richardson and Verta Taylor, eds. (New York: Random House, 1989).
"The Sexual Mythology of Anti‐Semitism," in A Mensch Among Men: Explorations in
Jewish Masculinity, Harry Brod, ed., (Freedom, California: The Crossing Press, 1988).
"Why So‐Called Radical Men Love and Need Pornography," "For Men, Freedom of
Speech; for Women, Silence Please," "Pornography and Grief," in Take Back the Night:
Women on Pornography, Laura Lederer, ed. (New York: William Morrow, 1980).
"First Love," in The Woman Who Lost Her Names: Selected Writings by American Jewish
Women, Julia Wolf Mazow, ed. (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1980).
"A Letter to M," in Lavender Culture, Karla Jay and Allen Young, eds. (New York:
Jove/HBJ, 1978; New York: New York University Press, 1994).
"bertha schneiders existential edge," in Bitches and Sad Ladies: An Anthology of Fiction
by and about Women, Pat Rotter, ed., (New York: Harper's Magazine Press, 1975).
...and others, including several legal casebooks.
WORKS TRANSLATED
Books and articles by Andrea Dworkin have been translated into French, German,
Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish, Spanish, Russian, Hebrew, Japanese, Korean, Chinese,
Lithuanian, and other languages. Her books are sold in English all over the world.
CONTRIBUTIONS TO PERIODICALS
232
Articles by Andrea Dworkin have appeared in The American Voice, America Report,
Berkeley Barb, The Body Politic, Broadside, Canadian Women's Studies, City Limits,
Christopher Street, Chrysalis, Emma, Feminist Review, Feminist Studies, Gay Community
News, Harvard Women's Law Journal, Healthsharing, Heresies, Hot Wire, The (London)
Guardian, The (London) Sunday Times, The (London) Times Educational Supplement,
The Los Angeles Times, Maenad, Michigan Journal of Gender & Law, Michigan Quarterly
Review, Mother Jones, Mother Jones, Ms., New Political Science, New York Native, New
York Newsday, The New York Times Book Review, The New Women's Times, off our
backs, On the Issues, San Francisco Review of Books, The Second Wave, Sinister Wisdom,
Social Policy, Soho Weekly News, Sojourner, Trouble and Strife, La Vie En Rose, Village
Voice, Win, Woman of Power, The Women's Review of Books, and others.