On Women’s Writings

Feminist prose

oOhyperblaster; Shutterstock

I do not like women’s writings. They talk too much about their bodies.

Notice the negative connotation attributed to the relationship body/femininity construed as an obstacle to the evolution of the spirit? This man’s feeble mind has confined women to lands of sensuality, magic, swamps, and mud; in short, to categories related to the carnal. Women can only be aware of tumultuous feelings that erupt inside their bodies. Nothing else. There was an implicit juxtaposition between body/femininity and spirit/masculinity, the latter understood as superior.

I navigated the incredible writings of women like Virginia Woolf, George Sand, Marguerite Yourcenar, and many others.

I became a mirror. I produce images of the spirit, and of the body.

I play with them. I absorb them. I devour them.

I am the same with the richness of the intellect and the opulence of feelings.

My body is the alphabet of a language spoken at the exact hour when the sunset rains its cherry blossoms over the laughter of children.

I love the frenzy of the 1920s. Oh, les années folles!

I am the quintessence of that which you will always desire.

I am a woman.

I am not made in your image.

You are made in mine.