How Withered Away One Can Be From

Leaning Her Silly, Beautiful, Drunken Head On My Shoulder, She Said, "oh, Esther, I Don't Want To Be A Feminist. I Don't Enjoy It. It's No Fun." "i Know," I Said. "i Don't Either." People Think You Decide To Be A "radical," For God's Sake, Like Deciding To Be A Librarian Or A Ship's Chandler. You "make Up Your Mind," You "commit Yourself" (sounds Like A Mental Hospital, Doesn't It?). I Said Don't Worry, We Could Be Buried Together And Have Engraved On Our Tombstone The Awful Truth, Which Some Day Somebody Will Understand: We Wuz Pushed.

And Middle-class Women, Although Taught To Value Established Forms, Are In The Same Position As The Working Class: Neither Can Use Established Forms To Express What The Forms Were Never Intended To Express (and May Very Well Operate To Conceal).

To Die On A Dying Earth - I'd Live, If Only To Weep

To Act In A Way Both Sexist And Racist, To Maintain One's Class Privilege, It Is Only Necessary To Act In The Customary, Ordinary, Usual, Even Polite Manner.

Long Before I Became A Feminist In Any Explicit Way, I Had Turned From Writing Love Stories About Women In Which Women Were Losers, And Adventure Stories About Men In Which The Men Were Winners, To Writing Adventure Stories About A Woman In Which The Woman Won. It Was One Of The Hardest Things I Ever Did In My Life.