Death of a radical feminist
As a male, what was there to say about Andrea Dworkin? The radical feminist died this week, aged 58, her reputation largely shredded and her stock amongst many other intellectuals at a level of insignificance. Publicly, she was even more anonymous. The critic Elaine Showalter once said that she “doubt[s] many women will get up to watch her funeral at 4am”. In fact I doubt whether many women will even be aware of whom Andrea Dworkin was, let alone mourn her passing.
No doubt, her death will be framed within the context of the familiar myths that surrounded her. Namely, that she was a man-hating anti-pornography killjoy who, most controversially, viewed the very act of sexual intercourse as a form of rape.
None of these things were really true in any meaningful sense, yet they became useful weapons with which her enemies – among them other feminists and critics from the left and right – could bash her. Not only that, but her physical appearance was ridiculed and called to attention. Indeed, she was overweight; she abhorred the use of makeup, and generally eschewed the beauty regime that so many young women today see as an intrinsic part of femininity. Many commentaries on her work would, at some point, recourse to the issue of her physicality, as if it invalidated her argument in some way.
The feminist backlash against Dworkin came to a head in 2000, when – in two essays, published by the Guardian newspaper and the liberal News Statesman magazine – she revealed that, whilst staying in a European hotel in 1999, she had been drugged and raped. Seizing on supposed inconsistencies in her testimonies, critics such as Catherine Bennett questioned the validity of the assault, and skirted dangerously close to accusing Dworkin of inventing the whole episode. The attack – and presumably the response to it – left her in a state of despair, in which she claimed she was ‘ready to die’.
It was no doubt due in part to her bellicose writing style that such a backlash occurred. While Dworkin was no man-hater – she lived with partner John Stoltenberg for the last three decades of her life – she did suffer horrific traumas at their hands. After being arrested at a Vietnam War protest, the 18-year old Dworkin was subjected to a vicious body cavity that left her with internal scarring. Some years later, she entered into a violently abusive marriage that she was lucky to survive. Influenced by these experiences, amongst others, her writing often took on a vitriolic and excessive tone that often careered into bouts of vigilantism and revenge. She advocated the execution of paedophiles, and often called on abused women to take up arms against their assailants. She took a dim view of sexual intercourse, and described the use of force in sex – inherent in the very action itself – as a form of rape. Her view was that in a patriarchal society, any form of heterosexual relationship is necessarily oppressive. And she viewed the very existence of pornography, as well as its manufacture, as a form of violence against women.
I found some of this ridiculous, some of it detestable, some even plain wrong. And yet as a man I was fascinated by it. And that remains the troubling thing. Because even when I disagreed with her, I could never stop reading. I wanted to be drawn into the world of victimisation that she described, to see the fear and subjugation that Dworkin painted as the lot of the typical woman. And that world was at once terrifying, absurd, aggressive and yet imbued with just enough truth to send a frisson of guilt and even recognition down the spine.
She was an extremist, and she knew as much. Yet amidst the internecine fighting that characterises much feminist writing today, her vehemence and outrage and originality of thought – no matter how unpalatable – will be sorely missed.
No doubt, her death will be framed within the context of the familiar myths that surrounded her. Namely, that she was a man-hating anti-pornography killjoy who, most controversially, viewed the very act of sexual intercourse as a form of rape.
None of these things were really true in any meaningful sense, yet they became useful weapons with which her enemies – among them other feminists and critics from the left and right – could bash her. Not only that, but her physical appearance was ridiculed and called to attention. Indeed, she was overweight; she abhorred the use of makeup, and generally eschewed the beauty regime that so many young women today see as an intrinsic part of femininity. Many commentaries on her work would, at some point, recourse to the issue of her physicality, as if it invalidated her argument in some way.
The feminist backlash against Dworkin came to a head in 2000, when – in two essays, published by the Guardian newspaper and the liberal News Statesman magazine – she revealed that, whilst staying in a European hotel in 1999, she had been drugged and raped. Seizing on supposed inconsistencies in her testimonies, critics such as Catherine Bennett questioned the validity of the assault, and skirted dangerously close to accusing Dworkin of inventing the whole episode. The attack – and presumably the response to it – left her in a state of despair, in which she claimed she was ‘ready to die’.
It was no doubt due in part to her bellicose writing style that such a backlash occurred. While Dworkin was no man-hater – she lived with partner John Stoltenberg for the last three decades of her life – she did suffer horrific traumas at their hands. After being arrested at a Vietnam War protest, the 18-year old Dworkin was subjected to a vicious body cavity that left her with internal scarring. Some years later, she entered into a violently abusive marriage that she was lucky to survive. Influenced by these experiences, amongst others, her writing often took on a vitriolic and excessive tone that often careered into bouts of vigilantism and revenge. She advocated the execution of paedophiles, and often called on abused women to take up arms against their assailants. She took a dim view of sexual intercourse, and described the use of force in sex – inherent in the very action itself – as a form of rape. Her view was that in a patriarchal society, any form of heterosexual relationship is necessarily oppressive. And she viewed the very existence of pornography, as well as its manufacture, as a form of violence against women.
I found some of this ridiculous, some of it detestable, some even plain wrong. And yet as a man I was fascinated by it. And that remains the troubling thing. Because even when I disagreed with her, I could never stop reading. I wanted to be drawn into the world of victimisation that she described, to see the fear and subjugation that Dworkin painted as the lot of the typical woman. And that world was at once terrifying, absurd, aggressive and yet imbued with just enough truth to send a frisson of guilt and even recognition down the spine.
She was an extremist, and she knew as much. Yet amidst the internecine fighting that characterises much feminist writing today, her vehemence and outrage and originality of thought – no matter how unpalatable – will be sorely missed.
posted by DN at 11:09 PM
1 Comments:
brilliantly multi-faceted assessment of her work and place within the feminist community. i enjoyed your honest introspections into the male experience of feminism and the fascination it holds to provide some further insights into the workings of the female mind, although there is obviously no overarching 'truth' devoid of exceptions.
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