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160 pages, Paperback
First published October 24, 1929
鈥�A very queer, composite being thus emerges. Imaginatively she is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history. She dominates the lives of kings and conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger. Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband.鈥�
鈥�As long as a perfect economic equality [between women and men] is not achieved in society and as long as the mores authorize a woman to take advantage as a wife or mistress of the privileges possessed by some men, the dream of a passive success will always persist and so will limit women's own accomplishments.鈥�
鈥�What then are we to make of Phillis Wheatley, a slave, who owned not even herself? This sickly, frail, Black girl who required a servant of her own at times鈥攈er health was so precarious鈥攁nd who, had she been white, would have been easily considered the intellectual superior of all the women and most of the men in the society of her day.鈥�
鈥�It鈥檚 vital, no matter how hard it is, to be financially independent, even if it costs them a lot and it will, since it will still be their job to keep house. But it鈥檚 a necessary condition for being independent on the inside: mentally, psychologically, independent. Otherwise, women are offered no alternative way of thinking, they鈥檙e forced to think like their husbands, to cater to his whims, do his bidding, etc.鈥�
鈥�[Woolf] understood that the goal of feminist struggle must be precisely to deconstruct the death-dealing binary oppositions of masculinity and femininity.鈥�
鈥�fiction is like a spider鈥檚 web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare鈥檚 plays, for instance, seem to hang there complete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in mid-air by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in.鈥�
"When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bront毛 who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without singing them, was often a woman."