Posts Tagged ‘Thomas Jefferson’

You know it's an Andrea Dworkin index when ...

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Here is why nice guys finish last–if at all–in the feminist discussion: women lie, men die. Got that?

And I can prove it to you!

Andrea Dworkin was a monolith indeed. She wrote Mercy as an act of revolution, and a courageous one fingered salute to patriarchs whom she felt had let women down.

She was at war with the idea that women are not believed.

Or, so she said that’s what she was at war with… but her writing is basically a long, drawn-out coming out of the closet, that is helped by her father, and discouraged by her mother.

There are feminists, and then there are CIA-backed feminists, andeven they don’t always know what the difference is, much less what sexual games go on between a daughter and a mother, which Andrea touched on for a minute.

But more often than not, they agree that dubious methods of story telling, and manipulation of data in the pre-writing of a narrative is the best way to arrive at truth.

Very much like religious people who try to disprove scientific fact by stating ” it’s not in the bible; it isn’t truth,” feminists agree that “a feminist didn’t say it; it isn’t true,” like the recent case of the Women’s Funding Network, and Craigslist, which was debunked as junk science, but funded anyways!

Dworkin betrayed her father, and threw truth out the window  for fame, money and and pussy.

The facts were irrelevant there, in that idol she was crafting. The truth is irrelevant here, now, and only the power of one lie to make it around the world in a day is the detail that becomes fact to this version of feminist thought.

So a closer examination of truth is warranted.  Here are the facts so far: Andrea Dworkin created an arguably monstrous image of men, and fictionalized, fantasized, and publicized Mercy as a tale of  incest, despite its contradiction of her own experience; and in order to be believed.

What a way to coral off the competition for the pussy supply!

Her own actual, personal story of sexual dominance games with little girls, and later, women;  and her sexual displays in front of her mother are largely  irrelevant in her tales, as compared to her drive to move men aside; and  her necessity to claim to speak for incest survivors is her imperative, and yet, in her autobiographical notes, we find her justifying her use of lies in her fiction.

Never mind that fiction is inherently a liar’s game, or that all fiction is contrived. Think instead that women actually believe the fiction, and despite never having read Dworkin, adopt her position by rote, via whatever meme is circulating about paternal incest.

And especially never mind that Dworkins largest and looming issue was her tantalizing, sexualized incestuous desire for a relationship with her mother—Andrea’s leap from the abject was to stumble bull-like through the mirror.

That is feminisms biggest non-secret so far, and difficult to grasp, because women’s ‘truths’, as Dworkin rightfully posits, are often  not believable.

So: after describing her close, productive, nurturing, and creative relationship with her father, and her  sexually frustrated relationship with her ice cold and controlling mother, she talks about Masada, the famed site of a sort of Jewish last stand, and extrapolates it into incest with fathers in general, and decides that writing about incest with fathers is more important  than writing about the great relationship she had with her father, Harry, which she describes thus:
“I trusted and honored him. I guess that I trusted him to love me more even than to take care of us. In an honors history seminar in high school, the class was asked to name great men in history. I named my father and was roundly ridiculed by advocates for Thomas Jefferson and Napoleon. But I meant it– that he had the qualities of true greatness, which I defined as strength, generosity, fairness, and a willingness to sacrifice self for principle. His principle was us: my mother, Mark, and me….”
She describes her father in glowing terms.Then, she states that her best qualities as a writer came from him as well.
“I think that he did abandon me when I was in circumstances of great suffering and danger. He was, I learned the hard way, only human. But what he gave me as a child, neither he nor anyone else could take away from me later. I learned perseverance from his example, and that endurance was a virtue. Even some of his patience rubbed off on me for some few years. I saw courage in action in ordinary life, without romance; and I learned the meaning of commitment. I could never have become a writer without him.”
Then, on her writing, and the great fiction of fathers and incest. Most importantly, I think this is the root of the meme that we should “believe women” when they talk about incest, and then it’s later version, rape, which is evident below, in highlights.

And most importantly, and in context to her need to be believed, note that she had no degree in anything but fiction. And here are her words about how she decided that crafting a story with a lie as its premise was what actually drover her writing:
“I’d like to take what I know and just hand it over. But there is always a problem, for a woman: being believed. How can I think I know something? How can I think that what I know might matter? Why would I think that anything I think might make a difference, to anyone, anywhere? My only chance to be believed is to find a way of writing bolder and stronger than woman hating itself–smarter, deeper, colder *This might mean that I would have to write a prose more terrifying than rape, more abject than torture, more insistent and destabilizing than battery, more desolate than prostitution, more invasive than incest, more filled with threat and aggression than pornography. How would the innocent bystander be able to distinguish it, tell it apart from the tales of the rapists themselves if it were so nightmarish and impolite? There are no innocent bystanders. It would have to stand up for women–stand against the rapist and the pimp–by changing women’s silence to speech. It would have to say all the unsaid words during rape and after; while prostituting and after; all the words not said. It would have to change women’s apparent submission–the consent read into the silence by the wicked and the complacent–into articulate resistance. I myself would have to give up my own cloying sentimentality toward men. I’d have to be militant; sober and austere. I would have to commit treason: against the men who rule. I would have to betray the noble, apparently humanistic premises of civilization **and civilized writing by conceptualizing each book as if it were a formidable weapon in a war. I would have to think strategically, with a militarist heart: as if my books were complex explosives, minefields set down in the culture to blow open the status quo”
So, as I dif around for the truth of whether or not Andrea was in Minneapolis in 1971, I won’t draw any conclusions. I will have to see what Preston’s people have to say about it, but for now, she herself readily acknowledges that she lied about her internalized experience with paternal incest, and in so doing, created a boogieman that indeed covers over that boogie woman inside herself.

To me, that seems worth examining.
*Her only chance to be believed was to lie, as she aptly notes, and portray it as truth. In so doing, and in creation of a monolithic woman, she justifies her position that lies carry more weight than truth itself.
** she betrayed her father specifically, not civilization. In doing so, she not only succeeded in hiding her mother’s and her secrets, but also perpetrated an ignoble lie. We will never know what sort of sex play she engaged in with her mother, and Dworkin has been evasive on that topic, merely noting that she was essentially scolded by her mother, but only then, after some period of time displaying herself toher mother in sexual play. Call it revolution, call it what you will; I call it and her, a liar by omission ( and she infers as much when discussing her relationship with her mother)