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							<publisher>HERESIES: A Feminist Publication on Art and
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				<head xml:id="head_p1c_hn5_31c">Women Talking, Women Thinking</head>
				<byline xml:id="byline_r1c_hn5_31c"><persName key="Joanna Russ" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q265270" cert="high" role="aud" type="real" xml:id="persName_x1c_hn5_31c">Joanna Russ</persName></byline>

What did we talk about? I don't remember. We talked so
					hard and sat so still that I got cramps in my knees. We had too many cups of tea
					and then didn't want to leave the table to go to the bathroom because we didn’t
					want to stop talking. You will think we talked of revolution but we didn't. Nor
					did we talk of our own souls. Nor of sewing. Nor of babies. Nor of departmental
					intrigue. It was politics if by politics you mean the laboratory talk that
					characters in bad movies are perpetually trying to convey (unsuccessfully) when
					they Wrinkle Their Wee Brows and say (valiantly—dutifully—after all, they didn’t
					write it) "But, Doctor, doesn’t that violate Finagle's Constant?" I staggered to
					the bathroom, released floods of tea, and returned to the kitchen to talk. It
					was professional talk. It left me grey-faced and with such concentration that I
					began to develop a headache. We talked about <persName key="George Eliot" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q131333" xml:id="persName_y1c_hn5_31c">
						Mary Ann Evans's </persName>loss of faith, about <persName key="Emily Brontë" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q80137" role="aut" xml:id="persName_z1c_hn5_31c">Emily Brontë</persName>'s isolation, about
						<persName key="Charlotte Brontë" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q127332" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_abc_hn5_31c">Charlotte Brontë</persName>'s
					blinding cloud, about the split in <persName key="Virginia Woolf" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q40909" role="aut" xml:id="persName_bbc_hn5_31c">Virginia Woolf</persName>'s head and the split
					in her economic situation. We talked about <persName key="Murasaki Shikibu" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q81731" role="aut" xml:id="persName_cbc_hn5_31c">Lady Murasaki</persName>, who wrote in a form
					that no respectable man would touch, <persName key="Hrotsvitha" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q170248" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_ebc_hn5_31c">Hroswit</persName>, a little name
					whose plays "may perhaps amuse myself," Miss <persName key="Jane Austen" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q36322" role="aut" xml:id="persName_fbc_hn5_31c">Austen</persName> who had no more expression
					in society than a firescreen or a poker. They did not all write letters, write
					memoirs, or go on the stage. <persName key="Sappho" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q17892" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_gbc_hn5_31c">Sappho</persName>—only an
					ambiguous, somewhat disagreeable name. <persName key="Corinna" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q241132" cert="medium" role="aut" xml:id="persName_hbc_hn5_31c">Corinna</persName>? The teacher of <persName key="Pindar" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q134929" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_ibc_hn5_31c">Pindar</persName>.
						<persName key="Olive Schreiner" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q151180" role="aut" xml:id="persName_jbc_hn5_31c">Olive Schreiner</persName>, growing
					up on the veldt, wrote one book, married happily, and never wrote another.
						<persName key="Kate Chopin" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q230476" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_kbc_hn5_31c">Kate
						Chopin</persName> wrote a scandalous book and never wrote another. (Jean has
					written nothing.) There was <persName key="Mary Wollstonecraft" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q101638" role="aut" xml:id="persName_lbc_hn5_31c">M-ry Sh-Il-y</persName> who wrote <title key="Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (1797-1851). | Frankenstein adaptacja)" ref="http://viaf.org/viaf/9954165326399716290005/" xml:id="title_mbc_hn5_31c">you know what</title> and <persName key="Charlotte Perkins Gilman" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q287752" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_nbc_hn5_31c">Ch-rl-tt-
						P-rk-ns G-Im-n</persName>, who wrote <title key="Gilman, Charlotte Perkins Stetson (1860-1935). | The yellow wallpaper" ref="http://viaf.org/viaf/176579666/" xml:id="title_obc_hn5_31c">one superb
						horror story</title> and lots of sludge (was it sludge?), and <persName key="Phillis Wheatley" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q257911" role="aut" xml:id="persName_pbc_hn5_31c">Ph-Il-s Wh--tl-y</persName> who was
					black and wrote eighteenth-century odes (but it was the eighteenth century) and
					Mrs. <persName key="Ann Radcliffe" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q231944" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_qbc_hn5_31c">-nn
						R-dcl-ff-</persName> who wrote silly novels and <persName key="Margaret Cavendish" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q242640" role="aut" xml:id="persName_rbc_hn5_31c">M-rg-r-t C-v-nd-sh</persName> and
						<persName key="E. D. E. N. Southworth" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q447019" xml:id="persName_sbc_hn5_31c">Mrs.-d-n S--thw-rth</persName> and <persName key="Sarah Elizabeth Forbush Downs" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q13562984" xml:id="persName_tbc_hn5_31c">Mrs. G--rg--Sh-Id-n</persName> and (Miss?) <persName key="Georgette Heyer" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q272706" cert="high" role="aut" type="real" xml:id="persName_ubc_hn5_31c">G--rg-tt- H-y-r</persName> and
						<persName key="Barbara Cartland" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q235965" role="aut" xml:id="persName_vbc_hn5_31c">B-rb-r- C-rtl-nd</persName> and the legion of
					those who, writing, write not, like the dead Miss B--l-y of the poem who was seduced into bad practices
					(fudging her endings) and hanged herself in her garter. The sun was going down.
					I was blind and stiff.

Twenty years ago I went to college and began to recognize
					the roof; having dressed for a date (dates were absolutely crucial then) in my
					low heels, my nylons, my garter belt, my horsehair petticoat, my cotton
					petticoat, my taffeta skirt, my knit jersey blouse, my circle pin, my gold
					earrings, my charm bracelet, my waist-cincher, my lipstick, my little bit of eye
					shadow, my heavy faille coat, my nail polish, my mohair scarf, and my gloves, I
					went into the dormitory garden to wait. The garden was full of late spring
					flowers. I had already admired myself in the full-length mirror on the back of
					my closet door, but standing between the stone walls on the stone-flagged walk,
					watching the flowers grow ever lighter and more disembodied in the blue
					twilight—and sitting on the stone bench under the Gothic arches and all that
					ivy—and we were supposed to get A’s and use the library—we were supposed to
					write papers—we were supposed to be scholars—I felt invisible. I felt awful, I
					wanted to take off all my clothes and step out of my underwear. And then take
					off my hair and fingernails and my face and my flesh and finally my very bones.
					Just to step out of it. All the way out of it.
				My date said, "There you are!"
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				I've spent a lot of my time in the library here, picking
					out obscure references to memoirs written by bad ladies two hundred years ago
					and novels by worse ladies who, although personally blameless, wrote wicked
					books: <title key="A Romance of the Pyrenees" ref="https://archive.org/details/romancepyrenees05cuthgoog/page/n3/mode/2up" xml:id="title_wbc_hn5_31c">A Romance of the Pyrenees</title>. <title xml:id="title_xbc_hn5_31c">Marianna</title> or <title xml:id="title_ybc_hn5_31c">The Puritan's Daughter</title>. Weird, ghastly
					stuff. Five romances under the pseudonym <emph>By a Lady</emph>. Domestic
					sentiment. Gothic castles. Purity. If only I can reduce this pulp to pulp and
					spread it out into some kind of shape. Dead voices, haunting and terrible: I
					want, I need, I hope, I believe. What sort of homes did they have? Did they do
					their own cooking? Did they expect to get pregnant every year? (See <persName xml:id="marytuffley" key="Mary Tuffley" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q22328736">Mrs. Defoe's</persName>
						journal.) The awful constriction, the huge skirts. Mrs. Pepys' dress allowance ("<persName ref="https://www.wikidata.org/wiki/Q1330179" xml:id="epepys" key="Elisabeth Pepys">the poor
							wretch</persName>," <persName key="Samuel Pepys" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q106143" xml:id="persName_acc_hn5_31c">her husband</persName> called her).
					"How are we fall'n, fall'n by mistaken
						rules!"
					"Women live like Bats or Owls, labour like Beasts,
						and die like Worms."
					"Anyone may blame me who likes."
					"How good it must be to be a man when you want to
						travel."
					"John laughs at me, but one expects that in
						marriage."
					"It had all been a therapeutic lie. The mind was powerless to save her.
						Only a man . . ."
					"I / Revolve in my / Sheath of
						impossibles—" Scholars don’t usually sit gasping and sobbing in
					corners of the library stacks. 
				 But they should. They should.
			</div>
			<div type="index">
				<list>
					<head>Literary Allusions</head>
					<item xml:id="list_allusions">
						<ref target="#span_zbc_hn5_31c #span_pepys #span_bcc_hn5_31c #span_bcc_hn5_31c #span_bcc_hn5_31c #span_bcc_hn5_31c #span_ecc_hn5_31c #span_fcc_hn5_31c #span_fcc_hn5_31c #span_gcc_hn5_31c #span_gcc_hn5_31c #span_hcc_hn5_31c #colman01 #title_dbc_hn5_31c #title_mbc_hn5_31c #title_obc_hn5_31c #title_wbc_hn5_31c #title_ybc_hn5_31c #title_xbc_hn5_31c">Literary Allusions</ref>
						<list>
							<item xml:id="span01">
								<ref target="#span_zbc_hn5_31c">Reference to Mary Tulley, wife of
									Daniel Defoe</ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span02">
								<ref target="#span_pepys">Reference to Elisabeth Pepys, wife of
									Samuel Pepys</ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span03">
								<ref target="#span_bcc_hn5_31c">Anne Finch, <hi rend="italic">The
										Introduction</hi></ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span04">
								<ref target="#span_ccc_hn5_31c">Margaret Cavendish, "Female
									Orations"</ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span05">
								<ref target="#span_bcc_hn5_31c">Charlotte Brontë, <hi rend="italic">Jane Eyre</hi></ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span06">
								<ref target="#span_ecc_hn5_31c">Rebecca Harding Davis, letter to
									Annie Fields, quoted by Tillie Olsen in Olsen's edition of <hi rend="italic">Life in the Iron Mills and Other
									Stories</hi></ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span07">

<ref target="#span_fcc_hn5_31c #title_obc_hn5_31c">Charlotte Perkins
									Gilman, <hi rend="italic">The Yellow Wallpaper</hi></ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span08">
								<ref target="#span_gcc_hn5_31c">Mary McCarthy, "Ghostly Father, In
									Confession"</ref>
							</item>
							<item xml:id="span09">
								<ref target="#span_hcc_hn5_31c">Sylvia Plath, "Purdah</ref>
							</item>
							<item>
								<ref target="#colman01">George Colman the Younger, "Unfortunate Miss
									Bailey" (song) in the play <hi rend="italic">Love Laughs at
										Locksmiths.</hi></ref>
							</item>
							<item>
								<ref target="#title_dbc_hn5_31c">Mirasaki Shikibu, <hi rend="italic">The Tale of Genji</hi>. Mriasaki is considered by some to
									be the first female novelist.</ref>
							</item>
							<item>
								<ref target="#title_mbc_hn5_31c">Mary Shelley, <hi rend="italic">Frankenstein</hi></ref>
							</item>
							<item>
								<ref target="#title_wbc_hn5_31c">Catherine Cuthbertson, A Romance of
									the Pyrenees</ref>
							</item>
							<item>
								<ref target="#title_ybc_hn5_31c">Anonymous, <hi rend="italic">The Protector's Secret, or The Puritan's Daughter</hi></ref>
							</item>
							<item>
								<ref target="#title_xbc_hn5_31c">Anonymous, <hi rend="italic">Marianna, or Modern Manners</hi></ref>
							</item>
						</list>
					</item>
				</list>
			</div>
		</body>
		<back>

<div cert="high" org="composite" part="Y" sample="initial" type="biography" xml:space="default">
				<head>Author Biography</head>
				Joanna Russ is the author of a novel published by Dell Books, <title key="We Who Are About To..." ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q7977856">We Who Are About To</title>, and of the science fiction novel, <title key="The Two of Them" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q7770974">The Two
						of Them,</title> to be published by Putnam's. This spring Daughters, Inc.
					will present her fantasy novel, Kit'a Story: A Tale of Magic. She lives in
					Bellevue, Washington. 
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Russ: Women Talking, Women Thinking