Simone de Beauvoir opens Witness to My Life with this first letter from Sartre: "Would you be so kind as to give my dirty linen (bottom drawer of the wardrobe) to the laundress this morning? I left the key on the door. I love you dearly, my darling. Your little face was so sweet, yesterday, when you said `Oh you looked at me, you looked at me'; when I think of it my heart melts. Goodbye, my little Good one." Let's change places, let's change everything's place, the dirty linen and the sweet little face. It helps make clear what sex we are; the one of other people's dirty laundry, and of sweet little faces.
As a writer, the political world has managed to slow me down, to handicap me-not as an individual but as a female. This isn't something I take graciously, philosophically, or with resignation. It is imposed on me, so I deal with it. Angrily. Humorlessly. I may bow my head and listen to all this stuff I don't want to hear, and keep quiet, because I have no choice. But I have no intention of apologizing for what is imposed upon me, or of pretending I find it wonderful.
Angela Davis, describing the black American female slave writes, "She had discovered through work that her female potential was equivalent to that of the male."
The weaker sex-that has always been a j oke. You can be as patronizing as you like when you see black women shaking their ass with disturbing efficacy in 50 Cent videos; you can pity them for letting themselves be used and degraded as women. But they are the daughters of slaves, they have worked like men, they have been beaten like men. Davis adds, "But the women weren't only whipped and mutilated, they were also raped." Impregnated against their will and left to bring up the kids alone. And they survived. What women have endured is not only the history of men, but also their own specific oppression. Extraordinarily violent. Hence this simple suggestion: you can all go and get fucked, with your condescension toward us, your ridiculous shows of group strength, of limited protection, and your manipulative whining about how hard it is to be a guy around emancipated women. What is really hard is actually to be a woman and to have to listen to your shit. The benefits you draw from our oppression are by their very nature spiked. When you defend your male prerogatives, you remind me of those servants at the five-star hotels who think they own the place, you're just arrogant flunkies.
When the capitalist world crumbles and fails to meet the needs of men-no more work, loss of dignity at work, absurdity and cruelty of economic constraints, administrative irritations, bureaucratic humiliations, knowing you'll be ripped off whenever you try to buy something we are once again held responsible. It is our liberation that makes them unhappy. What is at fault is not the political system, but female emancipation.
Wanting to be a man? I am better than that. I don't give a damn about penises. Don't give a damn about facial hair and testosterone-I possess all the courage and aggression I need. Of course I want it all, just like a man; and in a man's world I want to defy the rules. Overtly. Not tangentially or apologetically. I want to obtain more than I was promised to begin with. I don't want to be silenced. I don't want to be told what I may do. I don't want them to cut into my flesh in order to make my tits bigger. I don't want a slip of a girl's figure when I'm nearly forty. I don't want to flee conflict so as not to reveal my strength and thereby risk losing my femininity.
A hostage is freed, and on the radio she says, "I have finally been able to have a wax, and wear perfume. I am getting my femininity back." Or in any case that was the part they chose to broadcast. She doesn't want to go into town, see her friends, read the papers. She wants to get a wax? Fine, that's her business. Just don't tell me I should think it's normal. Monique Wittig says, "Here we are, back in the same trap, the familiar cul-de-sac of it's-wonderful -to-be-a-woman."' Frequently uttered by men. And relayed by their personal assistants, always eager to defend the master's interests. Men of a certain age love to tell us this. Neglecting to mention the specificity of their "it's-wonderful-to-be-a-woman": young, thin, and pleasing to men. Otherwise, there's nothing wonderful about it. You're just doubly alienated.
Men love talking about women. At least then they don't have to talk about themselves. How is it that in thirty years no man has produced the slightest innovative work on masculinity? They are so expert, so voluble when it comes to holding forth about women, so why this silence when it comes to themselves? We know that the more they speak, the less they say-of essentials, of what they really think. Perhaps they want us to talk about them instead? For example, perhaps they want to be told how their gang bangs look from the outside? Well, they look as if men want to see themselves fucking, as if they want to look at each other's dicks, to be together with their hard-ons; as if they want to get fucked themselves. It looks as if what they're scared to admit is what they really want: to fuck each other. Men love other men. They are always explaining how much they love women, but we all know they're fibbing. They love each other. They fuck each other via women. Many of them start thinking about their friends when they're still inside a pussy. They watch each other on the cinema screen, give themselves great roles, think themselves powerful, boast, and can't get enough of being so strong, so brave, and so handsome. They write for each other, congratulate each other, support each other. As well they should. But on constantly hearing them moaning that women don't fuck enough, don't like sex as much as they should, never understand anything, you can't help wondering, what are they waiting for? They should just fuck each other. Go right ahead. If it makes you happier, it's a good thing. But among the proprieties instilled in them is the fear of being a fag, the obligation to love women. So they stay on the straight and narrow. They grumble, but obey. In the meantime they hit a girl or two, furious at having to make do.
There has been a feminist revolution. Words have been spoken, despite decorum, despite hostility. And continue to be. But for the time being, on masculinity, nothing. The appalled silence of the sensitive little boy. We've had about enough. The supposedly stronger sex must constantly be protected, reassured, looked after, spared. Protected from the truth. That women are rogues, too, and that men are mothers and whores, all in the same bewildering boat. There are men better suited to fruit gathering, interior decorating, and taking the kids to the park, and women to scalping mammoths, making lots of noise, and setting traps. Each to their own. The eternal feminine is a massive joke. It seems that male identity depends on keeping up this lie ... femme fatale, bunny girl, nurse, Lolita, whore, kindly mother, or ball-breaker. All of it an act. A carefully choreographed and costumed production. And what comfort does it all provide? We don't know exactly what they fear, should these artificial archetypes collapse: whores are just average individuals, mothers are not intrinsically good or brave or loving, and the same goes for fathers. It depends on the person, the situation, the moment.
Liberating ourselves from male chauvinism-such a stupid trap, fit only for idiots. Admitting that we don't give a damn about respecting roles and qualities. A system of forced masquerade. What autonomy is so terrifying to men that they continue to remain silent, not inventing anything? Producing no new, critical, or creative discourse about their own situation? How long do we have to wait, for male emancipation? It's up to them, to you, to take up your independence. "Yes, but when we're gentle, women prefer brutes," grumble the teacher's pets. That's not true. Some women are attracted to power, don't fear it in others. But power is not brutalitythere's a big difference.
LEMMY ERIC CANTONA CATHERINE BREILLAT PAM GRIER CHARLES BUKOWSKI CAMILLE PAGLIA ROBERT DE NIRO ANNIE SPRINKLE JOEY STARR TONY MONTANA ANGELA DAVIS ETTA JAMES TINA TURNER MUHAMMAD ALI CHRISTIANE ROCHEFORT HENRY ROLLINS AMELIE MAURESMO MADONNA COURTNEY LOVE LYDIA LUNCH LOUISE MICHEL MARGUERITE DURAS DAVID PEACE CLINT EASTWOOD JEAN GENET ... it's question of attitude, bravery, insubordination. There is a kind of strength that is neither masculine nor feminine, a strength that impresses, terrifies, and reassures. The ability to say no, to impress one's views, to not sidestep. I don't care if the hero wears a skirt and has big tits or whether he sports a massive hard-on and smokes a cigar.
Of course it's difficult to be a woman. Fears, constraints, being commanded to silence, called to a longdiscredited line of order-a whole carnival of pathetic and sterile limitations. We are still the immigrants, who have to do the dirty work and provide the raw materials while keeping a low profile ... But compared to what it is to be a man, this is child's play ... because in the long run, we are not the most terrorized, nor the most helpless, nor the most fettered. Ours has always been the gender of endurance, courage, and resistance. Not that we had the choice.
Real courage. Facing up to what's new. What's possible. What's better. The failure of work? The failure of the family unit? Good news. They automatically throw masculinity into question. More good news. We're sick to death of all this nonsense. Feminism is a revolution, not a rearranged marketing strategy, or some kind of promotion of fellatio or swinging; not just a matter of increasing secondary wages.
Feminism is a collective adventure, for women, men, and everyone else. A revolution, well under way. A worldview. A choice. It's not a matter of contrasting women's small advantages with men's small assets, but of sending the whole lot flying.
And with that I bid you goodbye, girls, and a better journey...
I'd like to thank Stephanie Benson, Beatriz Preciado, and Lydia Lunch for their help with the English version of the text.
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