cathy. 24. living and working in nyc.
Every three years I discover again
that No I knew nothing before.
Everything must be dragged out,
looked over again. The unexamined life
is the lie, but still
must I every time deny
everything I knew before?
— from “The Women Who Hate Me” by Dorothy Allison
holy shit, dorothy allison. why did it take me so long to find you.
Woolf gave us limitlessness, impossible to grasp, urgent to embrace, as fluid as water, as endless as desire, a compass by which to get lost.
— Rebecca Solnit on Virginia Woolf’s interest in the unknown
And where the words of women are crying to be heard, we must each of us recognize our responsibility to seek those words out, to read them and share them and examine them in their pertinence to our lives. That we not hide behind the mockeries of separation that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own: for instance, “I can’t possibly teach black women’s writings—their experience is so different from mine.” Yet how many years have you spent teaching Plato and Shakespeare and Proust? Or another: “She’s a white woman, and what could she possibly have to say to me?” Or, “She’s a lesbian, what would my husband say, or my chairman?” Or again, “This woman writes of her sons and I have no children.” And all the other ways of which we rob ourselves and each other.
— Audre Lorde at the 1977 Modern Language Association panel on Lesbians and Literature
cultural appropriation. they love everything about us but us.