Susan Griffin

Susan Griffin


Born
in Los Angeles, California, The United States
January 26, 1943

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Susan Griffin is an award winning poet, writer, essayist and playwright who has written nineteen books, including A Chorus of Stones, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award. Named by Utne reader as one of the top hundred visionaries of the new millenium, she is the recipient of an Emmy for her play Voices, an NEA grant and a MacArthur Grant for Peace and International Cooperation. Her latest work, Wrestling with the Angel of Democracy, on being an American Citizen has been called "fresh, probing" and "incisive" by Booklist.

Average rating: 3.83 · 2,348 ratings · 180 reviews · 29 distinct worksSimilar authors
The Book of the Courtesans:...

3.47 avg rating — 982 ratings — published 2001 — 11 editions
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Woman and Nature: The Roari...

4.20 avg rating — 496 ratings — published 1978 — 11 editions
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A Chorus of Stones: The Pri...

4.22 avg rating — 354 ratings — published 1992 — 6 editions
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The Eros of Everyday Life: ...

4.03 avg rating — 79 ratings — published 1995 — 4 editions
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Pornography and Silence: Cu...

3.85 avg rating — 72 ratings — published 1981 — 5 editions
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What Her Body Thought: A Jo...

3.68 avg rating — 60 ratings — published 1999 — 4 editions
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Wrestling with the Angel of...

3.58 avg rating — 26 ratings — published 2005 — 4 editions
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Rape: The Politics of Consc...

4.35 avg rating — 17 ratings — published 1986 — 5 editions
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Made from this earth: An an...

4.07 avg rating — 14 ratings — published 1983 — 3 editions
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Bending Home: New & Collect...

4.57 avg rating — 7 ratings — published 1998 — 2 editions
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“In the cage is the lion. She paces with her memories. Her body is a record of her past. As she moves back and forth, one may see it all: the lean frame, the muscular legs, the paw enclosing long sharp claws, the astonishing speed of her response. She was born in this garden. She has never in her life stretched those legs. Never darted farther than twenty yards at a time. Only once did she use her claws. Only once did she feel them sink into flesh. And it was her keeper's flesh. Her keeper whom she loves, who feeds her, who would never dream of harming her, who protects her. Who in his mercy forgave her mad attack, saying this was in her nature, to be cruel at a whim, to try to kill what she loves. He had come into her cage as he usually did early in the morning to change her water, always at the same time of day, in the same manner, speaking softly to her, careful to make no sudden movement, keeping his distance, when suddenly she sank down, deep down into herself, the way wild animals do before they spring, and then she had risen on all her strong legs, and swiped him in one long, powerful, graceful movement across the arm. How lucky for her he survived the blow. The keeper and his friends shot her with a gun to make her sleep. Through her half-open lids she knew they made movements around her. They fed her with tubes. They observed her. They wrote comments in notebooks. And finally they rendered a judgment. She was normal. She was a normal wild beast, whose power is dangerous, whose anger can kill, they had said. Be more careful of her, they advised. Allow her less excitement. Perhaps let her exercise more. She understood none of this. She understood only the look of fear in her keeper's eyes. And now she paces. Paces as if she were angry, as if she were on the edge of frenzy. The spectators imagine she is going through the movements of the hunt, or that she is readying her body for survival. But she knows no life outside the garden. She has no notion of anger over what she could have been, or might be. No idea of rebellion.

It is only her body that knows of these things, moving her, daily, hourly, back and forth, back and forth, before the bars of her cage.”
Susan Griffin, Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her

“He says that woman speaks with nature. That she hears voices from under the earth. That wind blows in her ears and trees whisper to her. That the dead sing through her mouth and the cries of infants are clear to her. But for him this dialogue is over. He says he is not part of this world, that he was set on this world as a stranger. He sets himself apart from woman and nature.

And so it is Goldilocks who goes to the home of the three bears, Little Red Riding Hood who converses with the wolf, Dorothy who befriends a lion, Snow White who talks to the birds, Cinderella with mice as her allies, the Mermaid who is half fish, Thumbelina courted by a mole. (And when we hear in the Navaho chant of the mountain that a grown man sits and smokes with bears and follows directions given to him by squirrels, we are surprised. We had thought only little girls spoke with animals.)

We are the bird's eggs. Bird's eggs, flowers, butterflies, rabbits, cows, sheep; we are caterpillars; we are leaves of ivy and sprigs of wallflower. We are women. We rise from the wave. We are gazelle and doe, elephant and whale, lilies and roses and peach, we are air, we are flame, we are oyster and pearl, we are girls. We are woman and nature. And he says he cannot hear us speak.

But we hear.”
Susan Griffin, Woman and Nature: The Roaring Inside Her

“The mind can forget what the body, defined by each breath, subject to the heart beating, does not.”
Susan Griffin, A Chorus of Stones: The Private Life of War

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