[T]here is no progress in love. It will always be a surprise.
--from Pascal Bruckner's new book, The Paradox of Love, reviewed here; want to pay me to review this?

I'M ON A SUBMARINE MISSION FOR YOU, BABY: A series of stupid thoughts about the Michelle Bachmann "wifely submission" question. These are really just kind of starting points for thought, not actual thoughts, but I haven't seen them anywhere else yet, so hey.

1. Obviously this whole conversation would be so different if most American Christians genuinely believed that submission is a privileged, honored position. It was rarely the eldest sons who inherited the king's mantle, you know? Exaltavit humiles.

2. If husband = Jesus and wife = Church, then by transitivity wife = Mary... whom Jesus did actually listen to. Which suggests not that Mary is God but that "submission" in a Christian context is more complicated than simply an army-like command structure in which He gives the orders and she follows them. There is some kind of interweaving in which both are necessary to hear and understand God's will. I think that's a possible Catholic understanding of Bachmann's "lol, really?!" respect-based answer to this question.

The other thing you could say is that nuns are the Brides of Christ in a really obvious way, and yet they are not known for a lack of feistiness.

So again, maybe the hermeneutic here is more complex than just "I am a computer which runs program DOMINION when my husband presses the ENTER key."

3. I was really intensely struck by this passage from an MSNBC "Meet the Press" interview with Bachmann:

MR. GREGORY: But you said that Gald — God called me to run for Congress. God has said certain things about, you know, going to law school, about pursuing other decisions in your life. There’s a difference between God as a sense of comfort and safe harbor and inspiration, and God telling you to take a particular action.

Because... I don't remember what Bachmann answered, and I can guarantee it wasn't what I'm about to say. But this whole question is just so far from what I understand.

God is not a sense of comfort. God is not a "sense of" anything, actually, He is a source of joy or peace or what have you but not the internal sense of it. But okay whatever, I've totally said ridiculously dumb things in live interviews. Move on.

When I follow God I find peace.

That does not mean that I find happiness or comfort. I think I was well served by reading Dorothy Day's autobiography early in my conversion, because Day makes it clear that peace is not comforting or nice or easy. Peace is the hard work of dragging each moment into place like a giant brick. Peace is grueling. Peace is debilitating and you feel stupid and boring and dumb and worthless every time you drag another stupid boring brick up to its place.

Peace is about finding your place.

Your place may not be comfortable. It may not be pretty; maybe part of your vocation is to make this kind of Christian life beautiful! Maybe you have the painful crown of the pioneer.

But Christ will move you past happiness, past comfort, into the hard work of peace.

I like my human experience served up with a little silence and restraint. Silence makes experience go further and, when it does die, gives it that dignity common to a thing one had touched and not ravished.
--Djuna Barnes, quoted in Philip Herring, Djuna: The Life and Work of Djuna Barnes; I'm against seeking dignity for oneself as a general rule, but I liked this line a lot and I think it explains some of why I speak much more freely in fiction than in my occasional attempts at memoir-type writing.

"The Slav is never subject, not even to himself."

and "Queen Natalija was chaster than snow, she was as chaste as sleet."
--both via TKB and from Rebecca West, Black Lamb, Grey Falcon

PLAYING TO THE GODS: Last week I saw Venus in Fur, at the Studio Theater through July 10. Basic story: Pompous playwright/director who thinks nobody really feels passion anymore is auditioning actresses for the role of Wanda in his adaptation of Sacher-Masoch's novel (i.e. the one masochism is named for). A blowsy New Yorkeress stumbles across his transom in hooker heels, too late for her audition (which isn't on the schedule anyway), but insists on reading for him. She is more than she appears! An erotic game of cat-and-other-cat ensues as power shifts from director to actress and each one struggles for the upper hand--or are they really fighting to be the one who submits?

So far so cliched, really. The whole "topping from the bottom" power-shift dynamic seems really played to me at this point. It's so often presented as sexy and edgy and challenging when it's really a rejection of the idea of genuine submission, suffering, or unwanted self-knowledge. Four things raise Venus in Fur--by the same guy who wrote that Spinoza play I loved so much--above the old joke about the masochist who says "Beat me!" and the sadist who says "No!"

1. It's very funny! And it doesn't rely on faux shock or spray-on sexiness. The laughs allow the audience to relax enough that the genuine danger can sneak up on us.

2. Studio found two superb actors. Christian Conn is convincing as the playwright, whose shallowness hides hidden depths of his own, and Erica Sullivan is just terrific as the actress. She gnaws the scenery with aplomb! I loved watching her.

3. The power dynamics do come to a resolution, and it's not one which simply affirms the usual American preference for individuality, self-control, and self-acceptance.

4. This play made me think about the gods in a slightly new light. It suggests, or at least it suggested to me!, that genuine submission can only be submission to divinity, for two reasons. First, with any human-all-too-human beloved or master, there's a moment when it becomes obvious that their judgment is no more intrinsically or universally reliable than mine. There's a sort of "You're nothing but a pack of cards!" moment--when O ditches Rene for Sir Stephen, for example, giving the lie to the personae all three are pretending to embody. No merely human woman is going to know this playwright thoroughly enough to devote herself completely to his education. Actual humans make mistakes, say dumb things, miss their cues, fail to suss us out when we wish they would, and have their own agendas which are often pettier than the agendas we project onto them.

And then, too, any mortal beloved will be conquered by death. Death can in turn be conquered to some extent by art--this is one of the subtler themes of the play, surfacing now and then like a gilt thread in a big dark tapestry--but for real mastery you would need a real immortal.

Anyway I do recommend the play if it sounds at all interesting to you; it's very well done and I feel validated in my decision to make David Ives a playwright I watch for.

ECSTASY AS SOLACE: I really liked this quote from Fr. Alexander Schmemann, found via Wesley Hill:

Secularism is a religion because it has a faith, it has its own eschatology and its own ethics. And it “works” and it “helps.” Quite frankly, if “help” were the criterion, one would have to admit that life-centered secularism helps actually more than religion. To compete with it, religion has to present itself as “adjustment to life,” “counselling,” “enrichment,” it has to be publicized on subways and buses as a valuable addition to “your friendly bank” and all other “friendly dealers”: try it, it helps! And the religious success of secularism is so great that it leads some Christian theologians to “give up” the very category of “transcendence,” or in much simpler words, the very idea of “God.” This is the price we must pay if we want to be “understood” and “accepted” by modern man, proclaim the Gnostics of the twentieth century.

For it is here that we reach the heart of the matter. For Christianity, help is not the criterion. Truth is the criterion. The purpose of Christianity is not to help poeple by reconciling them with death, but to reveal the Truth about life and death i order that people may be saved by this Truth. Salvation, however, is not only not identical with help, but is, in fact, opposed to it. Christianity quarrels with religion and secularism not because they offer “insufficient help,” but precisely because they “suffice,” because the “satisfy” the needs of men. If the purpose of Christianity were to take away from man the fear of death, to reconcile him with death, there would be no need for Christianity, for other religions have done this, indeed, better than Christianity. And secularism is about to produce men who will gladly and corporately die — and not just live — for the triumph of the Cause, whatever it may be.

Christianity is not reconciliation with death. It is the revelation of death, and it reveals death because it is the revelation of Life. Christ is this Life. And only if Christ is Life is death what Christianity proclaims it to be, namely an enemy to be destroyed, and not a “mystery” to be explained.

more

So here are some random thoughts prompted by this quotation. Take home what resonates with you and discard the rest as the styrofoam peanuts of my stupidity!

One thing I like about this quote--I like a lot of things about it, but this is one--is that it may seem to contradict Augustine's famous line about how "our hearts are restless 'til we rest in Thee," and yet I really don't think it does. Just as the Desert Fathers often seem to contradict themselves (let alone one another!) because they're addressing very different seekers with radically divergent needs, weaknesses, and longings, so I think Schmemann is simply not addressing the same kind of person Augustine is. I suspect each of us is a Schmemann-addressee some of the time and an Augustine-addressee some of the time, although we'll sway more toward one end or the other (I'm much more an A-a, I think), so here are some scattered thoughts about Christ as comforter and as troubler of the waters.

First, Christ always stands against contentment. If you're satisfied you aren't a philosopher, let alone a Christian. Christ, like the James Bond franchise, tells us that The World Is Not Enough.

Sometimes we really need to hear that! Sometimes we are content to cultivate our gardens, to love the people we want to love and turn away from the shadow of death. An immense amount of basic, boring, necessary good gets done in the world by people who are contented... and yet that should never be enough for us.

Then there are those of us for whom the inadequacy of immanent beauty and everyday love is all too obvious. We're like the people in the AA slogan, for whom "one drink is too many and a hundred isn't enough." We're like the people in Chesterton's punchline, which was instrumental in my conversion: "The man who enters the whorehouse is seeking God." We're like the Bagthorpes, in Helen Cresswell's terrifically sardonic children's series, whose family motto might be Too Much Is Never Enough.

It's easy for those who can suffice themselves on the incredible loveliness of this life to look down on those of us who can't. They can accuse us of ingratitude and of pretension; who promised us a life in capital letters? And so they can remain where they are.

And it's easy for those of us who do feel that both ourselves and the world are radically insufficient to make do with "cheap grace," in the form of politics or alcohol or art or psychoanalysis, all of which are well enough in their own right and legitimate sources of insight and/or ekstasis but none of which are as big as the need. All of these possibilities are erotic in some sense, but none are as erotic as religious devotion. (But then, what is?) And so we, too, find a million ways to remain where we are.

Or to summarize this entire post in two sentences: A life without unconditional surrender is banal. Only in devotion to God can the ecstasy of surrender marry the solace of ethical love.

"NOBODY'S PERFECT": I realize none of you care, but I have spent the past five days watching every Christopher Bowman-related link on YouTube, so I have got to talk to someone about him. Internet to the rescue! Skip this post if you don't care about skating.

What I find most striking is the fact that while he definitely earned his "Bowman the Showman" nickname, and would often interrupt more introspective programs to play to the judges or the audience, he's as much an artist as an entertainer. His programs are often musical, sensitive, lyrical, and poignant. (The song "Maria" from West Side Story makes me want to punch puppies in the face, and yet he made a sublime, romantic purse from this saccharine sow's ear.) He spends a lot of time on his knees on the ice; and where unmusical skaters often try to make flailing arms compensate for random footwork, Bowman's feet and legs are usually where he really matches and carries the music. The replays here emphasize how lovely his jump exits often were, despite his struggles with the triple axel.

The more you watch him, the more you understand why Toller Cranston might have viewed him as a possible kindred soul--despite how horribly that particular coach/skater relationship crashed and burned. Bowman shares with Cranston his uniqueness, his angular positions, his musicality, and his straight-up weirdness. He was never the innovator Cranston was, but his style is unmistakable whether he's "going for Camera Six!" or doing a heartbreaking, introverted program (yeah, I saw the finger-gun; see above re: I don't care if he interrupts himself to be awesome).

In the great "Brian Orser or Brian Boitano?" debate, I'm pretty sure my answer will always be Bowman. I hope he's at peace now.

SUSIE THEN REMOVED HER MASK/AND CAUSED A MIGHTY STIR: Just so everyone's clear, 1. Here are some of my favorite posts by Helen Rittelmeyer. These posts in no way exhaust her awesomeness; they merely give you what Lady Holliday in The Great Muppet Caper would call "a soupcon--Marie, I don't think we should chew gum!"

"Decadence, Christianity, And Oscar Wilde's Conversion to Catholicism." My own senior essay changed my life. If mine hadn't, hers might've.

"Toward a Bioethics of Love"

In defense of shame (my post against; but you should read hers first)

A review of three books I read (in part) because she owned them.

All my posts tagged w/her name

2. Apparently Todd Seavey lived twenty-and-some years without ever meeting an agent provocateur until Helen. His naivete, while potentially endearing when played by Joseph Cotten, should in no way impair your reading of her actual work, which is much more Marlene Dietrich than Anne Hathaway.

IT'S ALL IN THE WRISTS. If you want to know what I mean when I use the phrase "la nouvelle Heloise," here's a visual aid. An icon of submission as command, that Mobius strip of self-possession I described in my Inside Catholic column on Abelard and Heloise.

But let us proclaim proudly that we are hypocrites, that we will stop at nothing, not even hypocrisy, in our struggle to take control of our lives.
--some manifesto or whatever

I am obviously always going to prefer surrendering control to taking it, and in general I don't think it will be hard for longtime readers to discern which bits of this manifesto I think are self-comforting relativism and which I think are necessary defenses of complicity (see here for a gnomic utterance!). But I liked this line a lot. Better a hypocrite than a heretic.

"I AGAINST I."

COMMAND PERFORMANCE: Once I've actually finished Second Skins I'll do a chapter-by-chapter. Like many academic works (e.g. Etienne Gilson's deeply-felt Heloise and Abelard) this book opens with its toughest and most jargon-riddled chapter. I hesitate even to comment on the Judith Butler critique since I am a) unschooled and b) desperately anti-sympathetic to Butler's project. I basically felt like Prosser was defending... you know... common sense--which isn't really accurate, and certainly isn't an especially useful interpretive lens, even though I agree with and appreciate Prosser's writing.

But I was struck by how Prosser's work sidled up to what I know or believe without ever engaging directly! I genuinely think Second Skins would be better if John Paul II's "theology of the body" were engaged: He offers a theology of sexual difference, rather than solely a cultural history of sexual difference, and he does so while clearly separating sexual identity from gender expression. JPII lets Augustine cry. And so he challenges us to view sex as a real symbol, an enfleshed reality whose expression is deeply culturally-contingent. He takes the body seriously, and still proclaims iconic womanhood. In these two respects he is basically the opposite of (Prosser's representation of) Butler, and I wish Prosser had gone mano-a-mano with him.

Moreover, I think the excision of conservatism from academic thought--or the conservative recoil from academia, I'm thinking it's both--badly limited the metaphors available for Prosser. His basic project in the early chapters (it sort of changes later on, so hold on for my chapter-by-chapter review) is to reclaim the body against the Gnostic, moralizing, dissolvingly analytic tendency of queer theory. That's totally right-on and well taken! But Prosser kind of can't analyze gender in itself, because he lacks metaphors which allow for cultural constructions to be better or worse.

Wow, that was an obscure and abstracted paragraph! But the conclusion is really simple: Gender is like a lot of things. If Prosser were able to say that gender is like manners, or gender is like art, or gender is like tradition... he'd be able to, I think, maintain and even strengthen his anthropology while accepting that some gender is better than others. Manners are culturally-contingent, yet not optional! They imply a moral stance. Art is notoriously difficult to delimit, yet I can actually name some forms of self-expression as beautiful and others as ugly, or distinguish between sublime and banal. Tradition is precisely the kind of repetition Prosser loves (and I love it too!), repetition as redescription... repetition in a new context as a simultaneous acknowledgment of, response to, and reshaping of that context. This is pretty much the second-most awesome thing about tradition. An aesthetic conservative vocabulary would, therefore, seriously help Prosser both explain his gender theory and give examples. ...I think.

And on a related note (I almost typed, "an elated note"!), I think Prosser is mounting an oblique and perhaps-unintentional challenge to the basic queer-theory stance where every constraint is abhorrent. Prosser actually echoes Maggie Gallagher's Enemies of Eros in his hints that the flesh truly does constrain us. Maggie goes on to say that we fear the fleshly constraints of sex because we fear the ultimate fleshly constraint of death. Whether or not she's right about that, she's at least able to articulate an anthropology--and, crucially, an understanding of womanhood--in which the flesh constrains our choices and that's good.

Every now and then I toy with the phrase, "I am a conservative because...." My favorite Mad Libs endings right now are, "...I believe suffering is a complex good, not a necessary evil," and "...submission is the best form of leadership."

AGAINST SAFEWORDS, PART II in a no-doubt-continuing series.

Part one.

AGAINST SAFEWORDS: I note that "safe, sane, and consensual" is an extraordinarily sincerist credo; its assumptions about our ability to know ourselves, and its assumption that self-knowledge and self-ownership form the core of morality, are basically my exact problems with the sincerist ideal.

Not to mention that s/s/c = three things vocation isn't.

ME: Where's this coming from? You were never cruel when you were alive. Not knowingly.

YOU: But now I sometimes wish I'd hurt you knowingly instead of accidentally. A deliberate kick is more real and intimate than an accidental one.
--Lives of the Circus Animals

FACEBOOK MEME: BOOKIE. 1) What author do you own the most books by? Probably Shakespeare--? I have a lot of Nietzsche (possibly all Nietzsche?), Angela Carter, and Agatha Christie. If we’re counting comics, definitely Los Bros. Hernandez.

2) What book do you own the most copies of? Two each of The Secret History and Story of O.

3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions? Nah, I’m easy.

4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with? The one who came to mind first is Grantaire--he loves the girls and he loves good wine, to the tune of “Vive Henri IV”!

5) What book have you read the most times in your life (excluding picture books read to children; i.e., Goodnight Moon does not count)? Hmm... candidates include The Last Unicorn, one of the Bruno and Boots books, or Dogsbody by Diana Wynne Jones. If things I read first as a child are excluded, probably *waves tentacles in embarrassment* The Closing of the American Mind (at least three times) or The Secret History, again, some more.

6) What was your favorite book when you were ten years old? The Borribles Go for Broke.

7) What is the worst book you've read in the past year? Since March ’08: Eh, I feel bad naming Catholic and Feminist: The Surprising History of the American Catholic Feminist Movement, because really I’m not sure that book could have been written in a way I would have found awesome. So I’ll say Generation Loss instead. 100 Selected Poems of E.E. CUMMINGS was also disappointing, since he’s able to do individual lines and even occasional whole poems that really hit me.

8) What is the best book you've read in the past year? Since January ’09: The Imitation of Christ (re-read) or Perfumes: The Guide. Welcome to the madness that is me.

9) If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be? Well, I’m not tagging anyone, though you should feel invited to play if you want to. You guys know which books I’m obsessed with.

10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature? Your mom. (I reject all Nobel things on principle.)

11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie? The Genealogy of Morals.

...OK, I’ll play for real: Hirokazu Kore-eda directs The Plague; Derek Jarman (requiescat in pace) directs Against Nature--not convinced this would be a good movie, but it would definitely be memorable!; Alfred Hitchcock (ditto) directs Wuthering Heights.

12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie? In general I’m leery of books-turned-movies.

13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character. Good grief, I can’t think of any! Too busy drinking from the keg of hatred every day, I guess.

14) What is the most low-brow book you've read as an adult? Harry Potter and the Deathly Adverbs.

15) What is the most difficult book you've ever read? Plato’s Parmenides, maybe. (And I tried to read Capital in fifth grade.)

16) What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you've seen? I don’t think I’ve seen any obscure ones! Lame.

17) Do you prefer the French or the Russians? Russians.

18) Roth or Updike? Rooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooth. (I mean, I haven’t read Updike, ever. But still: Roth!)

19) David Sedaris or Dave Eggers? Sorry, haven't read either.

20) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer? Shakespeare because duh, then Milton, one of the great “poets of women’s hair” (Harold Bloom, I think?). If there were a question about comics adaptations rather than movie adaptations, I’d definitely push for a comics Paradise Lost; the snaky, time-shifting, connotation-heavy lines are perfect for sequential art.

21) Austen or Eliot? Austen, though to be honest, she doesn’t really do it for me. I’m like the only chick in the marriage movement who finds it hard to care about Jane Austen.

22) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading? I have never read anything at all by the following authors: Gogol, Proust, Goethe, de Tocqueville, Edith Stein. I’ve never read Portrait of a Lady, or anything even remotely longish by James; ditto Pushkin.

From Aristotle I've read exactly one chapter of the Nicomachean Ethics (on akrasia), and I've never read Plato's Republic, nor have I read The City of God.

I neither speak nor read any language but English. That’s really the biggest gap.

23) What is your favorite novel? The Brothers Karamazov; but also, The Last Unicorn.

24) Play? Lear, but not onstage; for staging, honestly I think Beckett--either Endgame or Godot--because they’re great to read but gain so much from good staging. I’m not good at plays, though, unless they’re Shakespeare.

25) Poem? Eliot’s “Preludes.” I also really love Kathy Shaidle’s “Lobotomy Magnificat.”

26) Essay? I've read far too few essays (except by Orwell and Chesterton) to legitimately call this one; the Orwell essay I always return to is his review of Malcolm Muggeridge’s autobiography. For Chesterton, “The Architect of Spears.”

27) Short story? This one seems to shift around on me a lot. At the moment it might be something by Octavia Butler--probably the one where no one can communicate, the title of which I consistently forget (irony!). The most recent great short story I read was Eudora Welty, “Keela, The Outcast Indian Maiden,” which made me forgive her for the overpraised “Why I Live at the P.O.” Rebecca Brown’s collection The Terrible Girls was a big influence.

28) Work of non-fiction? Does the Symposium count? Autobiography definitely doesn’t count, so Augustine’s Confessions are right out.

29) Who is your favorite writer? Shakespeare doesn't count, so Dostoevsky vs. Nietzsche.

30) Who is the most overrated writer alive today? No clue. I don’t read new stuff unless I’m getting paid, pretty much. (Or unless the author is Tim Powers.)

31) What is your desert island book? Arrrrggghhhh! Maybe complete Emily Dickinson?? No, that’s crazy. We’re assuming complete Shakespeare is cheating, as is the Bible. Karamazov again?? The Gay Science???? I hate this question!

32) And... what are you reading right now? Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity. Highly recommended despite her consistent attacks on symbolism/iconicity.

And the Gospel of John.

And, since I began this meme I've finished the Serano (still highly recommended) and started Kenzaburo Oe, Rouse Up O Young Men of the New Age!

The young officer bowed with easy politeness. Being strong, he was graceful in his every movement.
--Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

INSIDE OF A CATHOLIC, IT'S TOO DARK TO READ: My book column for Inside Catholic is on Heloise and Abelard, in that order.

(And yes, I've been waiting to use this post title for weeks.)

"THUS WE KNOW THE SQUID'S SECRET GENDER.": Sexual Personae. I'm developing a theory that you can tell more about a work of literary criticism by what doesn't appear in its index than by what does. One tendril of this theory posits that any lit-crit work is fundamentally unsound if it devotes more than two sentences to de Sade and not a one to Pauline Reage (our true nouvelle Heloise). I find both the theory and its subtheory (...so to speak) vindicated by Camille Paglia's Sexual Personae, a big, weird, brilliant, silly book that sometimes seemed more lacuna than presence.

This is a big-idea book, revolving around the opposition of mother-nature-chaos and son-reason-linearity-order. (And yes, I know that's an oversimplification, but I'm trying to give people some sense of what they're getting into, here....) Each of the sexual personae turns out to be one attempt among many to negotiate or conquer this opposition.

If you want to get the best of this book, I'd suggest starting with the chapters on Spenser and Dickinson and then seeing if you want more. I really love both authors, and was not sure I wanted Paglia getting her lipstick all over them, but her readings in those chapters are terrific--violent, erotic, brash, but always rooted firmly in the awesome texts. I think there may have been one minor problem with the Spenser chapter--it's been almost a month since I finished the book, so I may be misremembering, but I vaguely recall insufficient attention being paid to The Faerie Queene as a narrative progression rather than a series of episodes or incidents--but in general, these were fantastic, challenging chapters.

Paglia is better at picking her battles than many academics working the same Everything Is Either Phallic Or Vaginal territory. Several times, I found myself saying, "Oh, c'mon, you're just being trendy with that reading--this bit really isn't about daemonic lesbians or whatever"... but then she'd quote a few more passages from the same work, and I'd have to say, "Uh... you know, she's kind of on to something here." That didn't always happen--her reading of De Profundis as Wilde's sentimental return to his mommy is just infuriatingly bad, more on this in a moment--but it happened often enough that I'd say she earned the benefit of the doubt with me.

My real problem with Paglia, I think, is that she and I consider different things interesting and important--worth taking the time to explore on their own terms and as fully as possible. I summarized this to Ratty as, "She'll go to the mat for the belief that cats have rich inner lives, but she doesn't seem to think the Crucifixion is worth talking about."

I'm pretty sure her lack of attention to the Crucifixion is related to her disdain for King Lear ("obvious"--well, yes, Camille, torture is generally obvious, that's kind of the point of torture) and to the bathos of her utterly annoying misreadings of Wilde. (I will say that her take on The Importance of Being Earnest is fun and mostly right. Her failure, which is large but not devastating, is that she doesn't take the play as a narrative of conflict and resolution. Paglia points out lots of interesting things about that conflict, but she swerves around the fact that it is resolved, and that it would be a much less satisfying play without that resolution.) Paglia's unwillingness to consider suffering and powerlessness as points of view is as ideological as any Randroid's. You can see it in her oh-so-edgy approving use of the term "fascism"--seriously, lady often sounds like a repressed homosexual with a crush on a skinhead, and it's not a good look for her--and it genuinely warps her criticism.

I feel like I should mention the strenuous overwriting, so... here I am, mentioning it. "The real honeyed crotch in which we all drown is the womb-tomb of mother nature"--that's a completely random example from the page opposite the squiddess--there's one of those on every other page, and you just have to resign yourself to it. I'm tempted to say that this stuff got into the book because Paglia was trying to import the techniques of classroom performance into writing, and written lit-crit requires different performance techniques; not sure if I'm giving her too much credit, there.

...Finally, the title of this post is entirely within context. Respect, y'all.

Comments, criticisms, howls of execration? Email me with your chthonic and/or fascist insights....