A Promise of Ankles (44 Scotland Street, #14)

by Alexander McCall Smith

much of history was men’s history. They did the plotting and fighting and land grabbing. Women weren’t allowed to vote, nor occupy crucial positions, and so none of what happened was their fault. That was tempting. And yet women, surely, condoned the things that men did; they egged them on and enjoyed the proceeds. It was a different sort of historical guilt, perhaps – the guilt of an accessory – but it was still guilt.

How sad; how sad to feel antipathy towards half of humanity, whether male or female, simply because of what they were. How did this happen? How did misogyny and misandry come into existence? Was there a need to hate – some dark ally of an old malevolent god that drove people to this lack of charity towards others?

Now she said to Angus, “The trustees will be called in to pronounce on warnings this afternoon. Should our paintings – or some of them – be accompanied by a public warning?” Angus frowned. “A warning? About what?” “A warning that the more emotionally sensitive members of the public might be distressed by what they see.”

There were so many books; there was so little time.