Germaine Greer Quotes

There are enough women prepared to boast of having got
a man in a million to persuade other women that their failure to find
a man rich enough, handsome enough, skilled enough as a lover,
considerate enough, is a reflection of their inferior deserts or powers
of attraction. More than half the housewives in this country work
outside the home as well as inside it because their husbands do not
earn enough money to support them and their children at a decent
living standard. Still more know that their husbands are paunchy,
short, unathletic, and snore or smell or leave their clothes lying
around. A very high proportion do not find bliss in the conjugal
embrace and most complain that their husbands forget the little
things that count. And yet the myth is not invalidated as a myth

The stereotype is the Eternal Feminine. She is the Sexual Object sought by all men, and by all woman. She is of neither sex, for she has herself no sex at all. Her value is solely attested by the demand she excites in others.

We can say the brotherhood of man, and pretend that we include the sisterhood of women, but we know that we don't. Folklore has it that women only congregate to bitch an absent member of their group, and continue to do so because they are to well aware of the consequences if they stay away. It's meant to be a joke, but like jokes about mothers-in-law it is founded in bitter truth.

In a sane society no woman would be left to struggle on her own with the huge transformation that is motherhood, when a single individual finds herself joined by an invisible umbilical cord to another person from whom she will never be separated, even by death.

L'energia è il potere che guida ogni essere umano. Non viene persa con l'impiego ma mantenuta dallo stesso, perché è una facoltà della psiche.

Cunt-lapping, mother-fucking, and cock-sucking are words to provoke a sense of outrage. Being forced to play the role of a woman in sexual intercourse is the deepest imaginable humiliation, which is only worsened if the victim finds to his horror that he enjoys it.

The most cursory examination of even the most progressive organs of information reveals a curious inability to recognize women as newsmakers, unless they are young or married to a head of state or naked or pregnant by some triumph of technology or perpetrators or victims of some hideous crime or any combiniation of the above. Women's issues are often disguised as people issues, unless they are relegated to the women's pages which amazingly still suvive. Senior figures are all male; even the few women who are deemed worthy of obituaries are shown in images from their youth, as if the last fourty years of their lives have been without achievement of any kind. If you analyse the by-lines in your morning paper, you will see that the senior editorial staff are all older men, supported by a rabble of junior females, the infinitely replacesable 'hackettes'.

I know as little about the nature of romantic love as I knew when I
was eighteen, but I do know about the deep pleasure of continuing
interest, the excitement of wanting to know what somebody else
thinks, will do, will not do, the tricks played and unplayed, the short
cord that the years make into rope, and in my case, is there, hanging
loose, long after death.)
And so he lived with me for the last four years of his life. Not all
of that time was easy, indeed some of it was very bad, but it was an
unspoken pleasure that having come together so many years before,
ruined so much and repaired a little, we had endured. Sometimes I
would resent the understated or seldom stated side of us and,
guessing death wasn’t too far away, I would try for something to
have afterwards. One day I said, ‘We’ve done fine, haven’t we?’
He said, ‘Fine’s too big a word for me. Why don’t we just say
we’ve done better than most people?

If female liberation is to happen, if the reservoir of real female love is to be tapped, this sterile self-deception must be counteracted. The only literary form which could outsell romantic trash on the female market is hard-core pornography.

Now as before, women must refuse to be meek and guileful, for truth cannot be served by dissimulation. Women who fancy that they manipulate the world by pussy power and gentle cajolery are fools. It is slavery to have to adopt such tactics.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky arse, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

The second class status of marriage became one of the principal issues in the Reformation. Martin Luther, the Augustinian friar, had barely posted his ninety-five theses on the door of the church in Wittenberg when he took himself a wife.

The opposition between women who are people and women who
are something less does not only rest in the vague contrast between
the women of the comedies and the women of the tragedies. There
are more explicit examples of women who may earn love, like Helena who pursued
her husband through military brothels to marriage and honour in
All’s Well, and women who must lose it through inertia and gormlessness,
like Cressida. In The Taming of the Shrew Shakespeare contrasted
two types in order to present a theory of marriage which is
demonstrated by the explicit valuation of both kinds of wooing in
the last scene. Kate is a woman striving for her own existence in a
world where she is a stale, a decoy to be bid for against her sister’s
higher market value, so she opts out by becoming unmanageable,
a scold. Bianca has found the women’s way of guile and feigned
gentleness to pay better dividends: she woos for herself under false
colours, manipulating her father and her suitors in a perilous game
which could end in her ruin. Kate courts ruin in a different way, but she has the uncommon good fortune to find Petruchio who is man
enough to know what he wants and how to get it. He wants her
spirit and her energy because he wants a wife worth keeping. He
tames her like he might a hawk or a high-mettled horse, and she
rewards him with strong sexual love and fierce loyalty. Lucentio
finds himself saddled with a cold, disloyal woman, who has no objection
to humiliating him in public. The submission of a woman
like Kate is genuine and exciting because she has something to lay
down, her virgin pride and individuality: Bianca is the soul of duplicity,
married without earnestness or good-will. Kate’s speech at the
close of the play is the greatest defence of Christian monogamy ever
written. It rests upon the role of a husband as protector and friend,
and it is valid because Kate has a man who is capable of being both,
for Petruchio is both gentle and strong (it is a vile distortion of the
p

Man is jealous because of his amour propre; woman is jealous because of her lack of it.

Consensus politics means that you cannot afford to give the many-headed beast, the public, anything to vote against, for voting against is what gargantuan pseudodemocracy has to come down to.