The Political Memoir of a Feminist Militant

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long enough and could afford the rewards of a purely aesthetic life, aggressive self-publication and promotion would not necessarily fol ow: her secret masterpiece would be just that -

secret, yet no les a masterpiece. The tree fel ; no one heard it

or ever wil ; it exists.

In our day, a published woman’s reputation, if she is alive,

wil depend on many small conformities - in her writing but

especial y in her life. Does she practice the expression of gender in a good way, which is to say, does she convince, in her person, that she is female down to the very mar ow of her

bones? Her supplications may be modest, but most often they

are not. Her lips wil blaze red even if she is old and gnarled.

It’s a declaration: I won’t hurt you; I am deferential; al those

unpleasant things I said, I didn’t mean one of them. In our

benumbed era, which tries for a semblance of civilized, voluntary order after the morbid, systematic chaos of Hitler, Stalin, and Mao - after Pol Pot and the unspeakable starving of Africa

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