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Bitches & sad ladies: An anthology of fiction by and about women

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First edition, first printing. An anthology of fiction by and about women. Contributors include Joyce Carol Oates, Cynthia Ozick, Ann Beattie, Mary Betts, Edna O'Brien, Mary Sexton, Grace Paley, Ursula Le Guin, Anne Godwin, M.F.K.Fisher, Toni Cade Bambara, & Judith Rossner. Inscribed by Hilma Wolitzer, Ann Beattie & Beverly Lowry on the first page of their stories.

432 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1975

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Pat Rotter

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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
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139 reviews7 followers
August 20, 2009
There are more than the usual number of jewels in this particular collection. It is also unusual for me to really gravitate toward something so obviously geared toward my gender. But I have to admit that gravitate I did and still do. There is one story in particular about a woman's relationship to her morning swims that transports me every time I read it to a place I'm not sure I'm supposed to visit yet. A spontaneous buy in a used book store that turned out to be a loved addition to my library.
313 reviews2 followers
May 30, 2011
The title of the book caught my eye. I enjoy short stories because it is easier to put the book down. The stories also give me a taste of authors whose books I may enjoy reading.

This book was published in 1975. I'm guessing the writing style was popular then. Many of the stories are free-flowing, seemingly following the author's train of thought. There are non-ending sentences.

I appreciate the insights into the feministic times with the treatment of women as either "bitches" or sad ladies. While the open treatment of themes is refreshing, the honesty often borders on the disgusting. I admit I wasn't always compelled to dive into the deeper meanings in the writing. I did appreciate the hopes and dreams shared, as well as the analyses of daily life and relationships.

An Education Cynthia Ozick p. 68
Una had never considered this. It was logical, but it didn’t occur to her that anyone ever took logic seriously enough to live by it.

Re: femme Rosellen Brown p. 143
What I have always wanted to be. Besides who I am, you mean...Being alone, of course, is beside the point: No contest. Running unopposed in the third district. You can expect to learn nothing useful that way, except emotional sloth, which is not useful.

Re: femme Rosellen Brown p. 148
A slave is one who waits for someone else to free him.

Man in the Cellar Julia O’Faolain p. 164
But what do I not regret? And what use is regret? Embittered relationships pollute lives. Better dissolve them and recycle the elements. I am recycling myself. I'm orbiting off.

Man in the Cellar Julia O’Faolain p. 201
I had to fight back even if I knew I would fail. Failure is bearable. It is the inability to respond at all which dehumanizes.

The Enemy Jane Mayhall p. 271
No less substantial than guns and chairs, people’s lousy attitudes.

Judith Rossner On the Question of Being a Separate Human Being p. 343
My mother had the writer’s consciousness without the writer’s impulse. If she had been able to write she might have digested the ironies of her life instead of letting herself be poisoned by them. Writing is my survival kit. My independence.

Marcia Blumenthal Tearing p. 395
I want the tears to find new channels down my cheeks and the heels of my shoes to run over on the other side. Before I came here, I packed away my past in boxes, sealed and labeled them, and gave them to the Goodwill. Here I can live with no illusions, no memories, no pretenses, deep under my skin where it hurts. I want to write down the steps I take to reach wherever I’m going so that when I get there I can se the path I took. But not the path to here. I have made a terrific jump and landed in a field of clean snow with no footprints behind me. When the snowflake on my hand melts, at that moment I begin to live. Now.

Marcia Blumenthal Tearing p. 395
I didn’t bring any books. I can’t think with books in the room.

Marcia Blumenthal Tearing p. 399
It is better, anyway, than illusion and disappointment. People have the illusion of being together with another person, of being one, of loving. This is foolishness. If a person has need of love, then he isn’t worth the loving. He wants it only to make up for the deficiencies in himself, to feed his vanity And, if he has no deficiencies, then he does not need the loving, does not value it; it is a nuisance to him. I am glad to be here alone where there is no illusion of closeness.

Sherry Sonnett Dreamy p. 404
Imprecise sounds will filter through the heavy, old but newly laundered curtains, and I will hear each one separately and trace its source and understand it. I will listen to those sounds and know them.



Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews