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288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
...for now all changes would henceforth be, as they had been before, absolutely predictable.My ongoing class of philosophy hindered as much as helped my reception of this, for I am as familiar with Big Name's rhapsodizing on freedom and reality and metaphysical stuff as I am sick of their standardized tools of female objectification and other exotification. I will likely reread this further on so as to ensure as careful attention to throughout as, in this initial encounter, only came forward in the final pages. It is unlikely, though, increased inception will lead to instinctive appreciation, for a piece that makes its point through the sensationalized culture is only successful within a very restricted morass of the world's reality. I see the composer of all these myriad violations (of more often than not that of women) is both female and operating through structured imagination overtly acknowledged by the tome itself, but not all imperialists are men.
I would have hated him less if he had been less bored with his inventions.Many a review of this mentions feminism, enough that the inherent theoretical nature of this particular working of "feminism" carries through clear enough, a dry and gaping maw memorized in classrooms and beholden to none living by virtue of its coagulated citations. As near as I can get at it, the machinations of rape and debasement work towards a critique of the patriarchy, on one side sterile order and the other side exuberant torture with nary a space for humanity in between. Lorde illustrated this better with her insistence on sensuality, a self that draws strength from its connections and derives meaning from holistic interweaving, avoiding completely the splintered categories of "work", "play", all the patriarchally ordained sunderings of pain and pleasure as founded on the Male. This "better" of mine, of course, hinges on her use of the valuing the personal rather than desecrating the impersonal, but my dislike of girlfriends in refrigerators is and will remain consistent.
Therefore, every minute of the day, they were all, male and female alike, engrossed in weaving and embrodiering the rich fabric of the very world they lived in and, like so many Penelopes, their work was never finished.Carter's critique came through the clearest from the land of the centaurs on, as much for its warning of what this category of desire desired as for the author removing herself from Japan and indigenous people and whatever ideological fodder she stabilized through her sampled appropriation. Here, finally, was an eye on the so-called "West", where pain and destruction are sacrosanct on a very specific dichotomy, founded by science and painless propagation, fueled by circular reasoning and centric pathos, always and ever foundered by destiny of might makes right. Here was the Catholicism I knew so well, part Houyhnhnm ideal of peace via genocide, part human that simply must live.
And now I understood they were not so much weaving a fabric of ritual with which to cover themselves but using the tools of ritual to shore up the very walls of the world.
'But I know he was real enough because I killed him!'As problematic as I found a great deal of parts, that fact that I am still writing shows how I wrestle with that conclusion still. The stereotypes I rail against are, at their heart, lazy and low quality writing, and this is not a piece of work that averages out to lazy and low quality. Blame the prose, blame the principles, blame my readerly gaze that only grew fully fleshed at the very end, but I am missing too much to resolutely reject the beauty's appeal. Perhaps those who more frequently remember their dreams will have better luck. My own only succeed in reaching the surface every month or so, and those few are always grotesque.
'What kind of proof is that?'