0607 Willis

Beginning to See the Light
Other Books by Ellen Willis

Published by the University of Minnesota Press
No More Nice Girls: Counter cultural Essays

Out of the Vinyl Deeps: Ellen Willis on Rock Music
BEGINNING TO SEE
THE LIGHT
Sex, Hope, and Rock-and-Roll
ELLEN WILLIS
University of Minnesota Press

Minneapolis
London
Originally published as Beginning to See the Light: Pieces of a Decade in 1982 by Wideview Press.
Published as Beginning to See the Light: Sex, Hope, and Rock-and-Roll in 1992 by Wesleyan University
Press.
First University of Minnesota Press edition, 2012
Acknowledgments for permission to reprint lyrics from previously published material are on
page 319.
Copyright 1967, 1969, 1973, 1975, 1976, 1977, I97$> 1980, 1981, 1992 by Ellen Willis
"You Can't Go Down Home Again" copyright 1968; "The Who Sell," "Elvis in Las Vegas," and
"Cultural Revolution Saved from Drowning" copyright 1969 by The New Yorker Magazine, Inc.
"Janis Joplin" was originally published in The Illustrated History of Rock and Roll by Random House,
Inc./Rolling Stone Press, 1976 and 1980 editions.
"Velvet Underground" was originally published in Stranded: Rock and Roll for a Desert Island, edited
by Greil Marcus; copyright 1979 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A.
Knopf, Inc.
"Learning from Chicago" was originally published in American Review 24 by Bantam Books, Inc.
Other essays were previously published in Cheetah, Commentary, Rolling Stone, New West, New York
Review of Books, and The Village Voice.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by the University of Minnesota Press

in Third Avenue South, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520
http://www.upress.umn.edu
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Willis, Ellen.
Beginning to see the light: sex, hope, and rock-and-roll / Ellen Willis.
Originally published: New York : Knopf, 1981.
ISBN 978-0-8166-8078-8 (pb : alk. paper)
i. American essays—2oth century. 2. Feminism. 3. Subculture. 4. Radicalism. 5. Rock music.
I. Title.
Ac8.w66 2012
08i—dc23 2012015277
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer.
20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 i
For Karen, M, and the Sex Fools
This page intentionally left blank
Contents
Acknowledgments ix
Introduction xiii
Introduction to the Second Edition xxiii
I O U T O F THE VINYL DEEPS
Dylan 3
You Can't Go Down Home Again 26
The Who Sell 35
Elvis in Las Vegas 4i
Cultural Revolution Saved from Drowning 45
See America First: Easy Rider and Alice's Restaurant 5i
Jam's Joplin 6i
Hard to Swallow: Deep Throat 68
It's Later Than You Think 76
Tom Wolfe's Failed Optimism 8o
Beginning to See the Light 89
How's the Family? i oo
Jackie, We Hardly Knew You i o3
Classical and Baroque Sex in Everyday Life i o6
Velvet Underground i io
II AMERICAN GIRLS WANT EVERYTHING
Learning from Chicago i 27

Herbert Marcuse, 1898-1979 141
Glossary for the Eighties i 45
The Family: Love It or Leave It 149
Postscript: The Backlash According to Irving i 69
Toward a National Man Policy i 72
The Trial of Arline Hunt i 76
Abortion: Is a Woman a Person? 205
Abortion: Overruling the Neo-Fascists 2i2
Feminism, Moralism, and Pornography 2i9
The Myth of the Powerful Jew 228
My Podhoretz Problem—and His 245
III NEXT YEAR IN JERUSALEM
Next Year in Jerusalem 26 i

Acknowledgments
want first of all to thank my close friends, feminist co-

I conspirators, and colleagues at the Village Voice, Karen Durbin
and M. Mark. They have officially or informally edited many of
the pieces in this book, as well as freely shared their insights into
politics, music, sex, love, friendship, my virtues and faults. Next,
I owe an enormous intellectual debt to the women's liberation
movement. A comprehensive list of feminists who have influenced
my ideas on sexual politics would have to include all present and
past members of the unnamed women's liberation group I've
belonged to for five years, my former associates in New York
Radical Women and the original Redstockings, and dozens of
other women. But I am especially grateful to Rosalyn Baxandall,
Bonnie Bellow, Cindy Carr, Judy Coburn, Deirdre English, Shula-
mith Firestone, Brett Harvey, Susan Lee, Irene Peslikis, Kathie
Sarachild, Alix Kates Shulman, Ann Snitow, and Katy Taylor.
My writing on rock-and-roll and popular culture reflects the
pervasive influence of Bob Christgau and Greil Marcus. Bob con-
vinced me, back in 1966, that journalism was a plausible way to
make a living, and wangled me assignments to get me started.
IX
Acknowledgments
William Shawn, who brought me to The New Yorker and edited

my column, Rock, Etc., gave me the space and encouragement to
develop my central ideas about the music and its social context.
My article on Janis Joplin owes a good deal to discussions with
Susan Lydon and to her review, written with David Getz, of two
Joplin biographies.
Mike Willis, Denah and Noach Weinberg, and the Orthodox
Jewish community of Jerusalem shared with me their knowledge
of Judaism and their spiritual insights, and relentlessly challenged
all my secular assumptions. My encounter with them not only
became the material of "Next Year in Jerusalem" but permanently
affected my sense of myself as a Jew and a woman—though not in
the way they would have liked. Elsworth Baker has helped me to
confront my emotional conflicts, a process that has also changed
my perception of myself and the world, and therefore the way I
write.
As my editor at Rolling Stone, Marianne Partridge always
pushed me to do my best work; I am particularly indebted to her
for persuading me to undertake "Next Year in Jerusalem" and for
making suggestions that immeasurably improved "The Trial of
Arline Hunt." Jann Wenner of Rolling Stone is the only magazine
editor I know who would have paid for me to go to Israel to
investigate Orthodox Judaism, then given me 20,000 words' worth
of space to describe a failed conversion experience. David
Schneiderman's respect for writers and commitment to free discus-
sion have made the Voice a happy and exciting place to work.
After a year of telling myself I would write about anti-Semitism
someday when I had the time, I wrote "The Myth of the Powerful
Jew" because David asked me to comment on the Andrew Young
affair and have it in, please, by the end of the week. I am also
grateful to my editor at Knopf, Victoria Wilson, for her encour-
agement and editorial suggestions; to Ruth Peltason for technical
assistance; and to my agent, Betty Anne Clarke, for her business
advice and personal support.
Finally, I would like to acknowledge the Greenwich Village
x
A cknoivledgments
restaurants at which large chunks of this book were written—

Elephant & Castle, the Salaam Restaurant, and the Peacock Gaffe.
Since I believe that journalism exists in and draws much of its

meaning from a specific historical context, I have done a minimum
of editing on these articles. In some pieces I have made minor
stylistic changes; in others I felt that improvements would falsify
the spirit of the writing. In a few articles I have added, expanded,
condensed, or clarified ideas, but I have made no changes inspired
by political or intellectual hindsight; rather, where I've felt the
need, I've quarreled with myself in footnotes. The date at the end
of each piece indicates when it was written, not when it was
published, though in most cases there was no significant gap be-
tween the two.
E.W.
XI
Introduction
U itil I started putting this collection together, I did not realize

how consistently I've been obsessed with the idea of freedom.
In one way or another, my pieces on such apparently diverse
subjects as rock-and-roll and feminism, radical politics and religion
reflect my belief in the possibility of a genuinely democratic cul-
ture—a community based on the voluntary cooperation of equals.
If this book can be said to make one central assumption, it is that
there really is such a thing as liberation, however hard it may be
to define or describe, let alone attain.
My definition is political; it assumes the need for organized op-
position to the present social system. But it is also psychological; it
has to do with self-knowledge, with the ability to make conscious
choices and take responsibility for them rather than act compul-
sively from unconscious (that is, unadmitted) motives. Since on
some level we never really believe the illusions and rationalizations
we insist on porting around like boulders from some totemic
mountain, it is a relief to drop the burden—or so I've always
found. Still, I never feel quite comfortable talking about choice
and responsibility. Those words usually imply an antimaterialist
xiii
Introduction
moral and religious outlook—a fact that, to my mind, reveals the

limitations of both materialist and moral/religious vocabularies. I
don't believe in "free will," if by that one means choice uncondi-
tioned by its material context, but I do regard the idea of freedom
as inseparable from the idea of the individual self, the subject who
chooses. We are shaped by history and culture, by our economic
and social situations, yet we are not just passive recipients—or
victims—of external pressures. It is human beings who create his-
tory and culture, who change their situation or fail to do so. I
think there is an aspect of the human personality, a core of basic—
if you will, biological—impulses, that transcends and resists the
incursions of an oppressive culture. And I think the craving for
freedom—for self-determination, in the most literal sense—is a
basic impulse that can be suppressed but never eliminated.
Politically, this view of freedom aligns me with cultural radicals
rather than socialists; as I see it, the enemy is not capitalism per se,
but the authoritarian structure of all our institutions, including
those—the family, especially—that regulate our so-called private
lives. From a conventional Marxist perspective the individual is a
historical artifact, invoked by the rising bourgeoisie as a rationale
for capitalism; since the concept of individual freedom is a mask
for the reality of class exploitation, it is illusory, or at least funda-
mentally suspect. I would argue rather that it was in part the
impulse toward freedom that led to the bourgeois rebellion against
feudalism; that the bourgeoisie did not create the individual, only
the conditions for the emergence of self-conscious individuals as a
powerful political force. From this standpoint capitalism is a mas-
sive paradox, particularly in its later stages. On the one hand,
bourgeois democracy represents the first great phase of the cul-
tural revolution; capitalism has instituted certain basic civil rights,
supplied the libertarian ideas behind all radical movements, weak-
ened the authority of the patriarchal family and church, allowed
masses of people unparalleled personal freedom and social mobil-
ity. Yet the corporate state and its global empire are themselves
authoritarian, hierarchical structures. Most Americans have little
xiv
Introduction
or no control over the conditions of their own working lives, let

alone the overall direction of the economy, nor do our formal
democratic rights give us real power to determine public policy.
The colonized people who have contributed to the enrichment of
the capitalist West share neither its prosperity nor its relative free-
dom. And the imperatives of the marketplace set people against
each other; the comforts of middle-class life are bought at the
expense of the poor, liberty at the expense of community. Under
these conditions our emancipation from the coercive bonds of tra-
ditional societies exacts a high price—even for the privileged—in
insecurity and psychic isolation.
Obviously, the next phase of the cultural revolution requires a
radical alternative to capitalism. But because the socialist-minded
left is inclined to focus on the second half of the capitalist paradox
while ignoring or discounting the first, much of what passes for a
radical critique of this society is insidiously conservative. The ten-
dency to see capitalist individualism solely in negative terms has,
for instance, led many leftists to indulge a sentimental view of the
family as an oasis of human warmth in the capitalist wasteland, as
if the warmth the family offers were any less contingent on con-
formity to a set of institutional rules than the wages our bosses
dispense. At times this "haven in a heartless world" mentality
verges on outright nostalgia for tradition, for the lost security of
the old organic community—an emotion I find doubly difficult to
share, given that women in precapitalist societies were chattel,
while Jews were economic and political pariahs. The same brand
of selective perception feeds leftist romanticism about Third
World dictatorships, also organic communities of a sort. But col-
lective liberation without individual autonomy is a self-contradic-
tion. To be anticapitalist is not enough. Socialist regimes have
attacked the grosser forms of economic inequality, yet in terms of
the larger struggle for freedom, socialism in practice has been, if
anything, a devastating counterrevolution against the liberal con-
cept of individual rights.
Overtly or implicitly, most of the essays reprinted here carry on
xv
Introduction
this quarrel with the left. The first section of the book is, among
other things, an extended polemic against standard leftist notions
about advanced capitalism—that the consumer economy makes us
slaves to commodities, that the function of the mass media is to
manipulate our fantasies so we will equate fulfillment with buying
the system's products. These ideas are at most half true. Mass
consumption, advertising, and mass art are a corporate Franken-
stein; while they reinforce the system, they also undermine it. By
continually pushing the message that we have the right to gratifica-
tion now, consumerism at its most expansive encouraged a demand
for fulfillment that could not so easily be contained by products; it
had a way of spilling over into rebellion against the constricting
conditions of our lives. The history of the sixties strongly suggests
that the impulse to buy a new car and tool down the freeway with
the radio blasting rock-and-roll is not unconnected to the impulse
to fuck outside marriage, get high, stand up to men or white
people or bosses, join dissident movements. In fact, the mass media
helped to spread rebellion, and the system obligingly marketed
products that encouraged it, for the simple reason that there was
money to be made from rebels who were also consumers. On one
level the sixties revolt was an impressive illustration of Lenin's
remark that the capitalist will sell you the rope to hang him with.
But the subversive element in mass culture is not just a matter of
content, of explicit invitations to indulge and/or rebel; it also has
to do with the formal properties of mass art. Here too the left has
tended to be obtuse, assuming that because mass art is a product of
capitalism, it is by definition worthless—not real art at all, but
merely a commodity intended to enrich its producers while indoc-
trinating and pacifying consumers. And again this assumption be-
trays a hidden conservatism. Why, after all, regard commercial art
as intrinsically more compromised than art produced under the
auspices of the medieval church, or aristocratic patrons? Art has
always been in some sense propaganda for ruling classes and at the
same time a form of struggle against them. Art that succeeds man-
ages to evade or transcend or turn to its own purposes the stric-
xvi
Introduction
tures imposed on the artist; on the deepest level it is the enemy of

authority, as Plato understood. Mass art is no exception. It is never
simply imposed from above, but reflects a complicated interplay of
corporate interests, the conscious or intuitive intentions of the
artists and technicians who create the product, and the demands of
the audience. The distinctive aesthetic of mass art, which is based
on images (and sounds) designed to have an intense sensory,
erotic, and emotional impact, clearly derives from the necessities
of marketing—the need to distinguish one's product from its com-
petitors, to grab and hold the largest possible audience. But the
forms invented to fulfill those requirements—the bright colors,
bold, linear patterns, and iconic simplicity of advertising art; the
sexual rhythms, tight construction, irresistible hook lines, and insis-
tent repetition of rock-and-roll songs—have an autonomous aes-
thetic existence. They convey their own message, which, like the
content of advertising (or the content of pop lyrics) is essentially
hedonistic.
Implicit in the formal language of mass art is the possibility that
given the right sort of social conditions, it can act as a catalyst
that transforms its mass audience into an oppositional community.
This is precisely what rock-and-roll did for teen-agers, and rock
for the counterculture, in the fifties and sixties. Logically, the
prominent role of pop music in the sixties revolt should have
changed the left's attitude toward mass culture. After all, most
leftists were rock fans, and even the group that came to symbolize
the most uncompromising hatred of America took its name from a
Bob Dylan song. Instead, radicals tended to evade the issue by
making distinctions between "commercial" and "serious" rock.
That serious rock was as commercial as the other kind did not
deter some movement folk from making extravagant claims for it
as revolutionary people's music. Others, unable to avoid noticing
that rock was big business, complained about its "co-optation" by
the music industry, as if the two had ever been separate.
For a time the seventies seemed to vindicate the co-optation
theory. A lot of things changed—the state of the economy, the
xvii
Introduction
structure of the record business, the mood of the audience—and

rock became a conservative force, a vehicle for assimilating the
trappings of the counterculture into the social mainstream while
purging it of threatening content. The dropout posture that had
once implied membership in a community of outsiders came to
mean no more than a smug upper-middle-class solipsism. But this
complacency incited its own rebellion, the rude eruption of the
punk movement, which sparked the larger phenomenon of new
wave rock-and-roll. Compared to the mass audience that standard
rock enjoys, new wave fans are a cult (though a sizable one). Still,
new wave is rock-and-roll, now self-consciously based on the same
formal principles that were once a commercial necessity. And it
means something that these principles remain a focus for aesthetic
and social dissidence.
Of course, rebellion is not the same thing as revolution. It's not
only that capitalists are experts at palming off fake rope—as the
development of the rock establishment attests—but that revolt
does not necessarily imply radicalism, as a long line of rock-and-
rollers, from the apolitical Little Richard to the antipolitical
Ramones, attests. Which is only to say that neither mass art nor any
other kind is a substitute for politics. Art may express and encour-
age our subversive impulses, but it can't analyze or organize them.
Subversion begins to be radical only when we ask what we really
want or think we should have, who or what is obstructing us, and
what to do about it.
The second section of this book is about politics—mostly about
the politics of sex. This concern has also put me at odds with the
left. The suppression of sexuality and the subjugation of women
raise the question of freedom in the most direct and inescapable
way. The essence of women's oppression is the denial of our au-
tonomy, particularly in regard to our sexual and reproductive func-
tions; though restrictions on women's access to economic resources
have been a major means of keeping us in our place, the object has
been less to create a class of specially exploited workers than to en-
sure our dependence on marriage and subordination to men. I also
xvin
Introduction
agree with Freud that sexual repression, transmitted from one gen-
eration to the next through the patriarchal family, is the basis of
civilization and morals as we know them—that is, authoritarian cul-
ture and values. It seems to me that there is no task more radical,
more in keeping with a vision of a free society, than changing sex-
ual relations. This conviction has generated a political tradition that
includes radical Freudians, cultural-revolutionary Marxists, com-
munitarian anarchists, radical feminists, gay liberationists. But for
the most part the left has refused to take sexual politics seriously.
Even during the sixties, when cultural radicalism was an influential
current in the new left, feminists were attacked as "bourgeois" for
claiming that all women were oppressed. Leftists dismissed our
criticisms of male-female relations as the petty, selfish complaints
of a white middle-class elite, condemned our demands for auton-
omy as mere individualism, and insisted that working-class and
minority women—women with real (i.e., economic) problems—
couldn't care less about women's liberation. ("Women are starving
on welfare, and you're worrying about orgasms!" men would scoff,
as if it were impossible to worry about sex and poverty at the same
time.) Versions of this argument continue to be a staple of leftist
rhetoric, which, on matters pertaining to sex and the family, is in-
creasingly hard to distinguish from the conservative sort.
For all the obvious sexism in such attacks, in a way it's true that
feminism is bourgeois. Women's demand for self-determination is
rooted in the idea of the autonomous individual, and it is the institu-
tion of wage labor that made it possible for women to conceive of
independence from men. It is also a historical fact that women who
are struggling for sheer survival against severe economic oppres-
sion are not, by and large, the first to begin demanding freedom
from male domination. That the mainstream of both reformist and
radical feminist movements has been relatively privileged cuts two
ways. White middle-class feminists have too often defined the
movement's priorities in ways that ignore or reinforce class and
racial divisions. Yet precisely because we do not have to cope
with three forms of oppression at once, we are freer to confront
xix
Introduction
the sexual questions and explore their most radical implications. In

that sense, the "bourgeois" impulse at the core of feminism is truly
revolutionary.
There is a common theme in leftists' reductive view of bourgeois
liberties, their contempt for mass culture, and their dismissal of
sexual politics. I think all these antipathies reflect a puritanical dis-
comfort with the urge—whatever form it takes—to gratification
now, an assumption that social concern is synonymous with altru-
ism and self-sacrifice. The same earnest lefty who carries on about
the iniquity of Bloomingdale's is all too likely, in the next breath
and in the same moralistic tone, to accuse feminists of a self-indul-
gent preoccupation with personal happiness. Yet it is the longing
for happiness that is potentially radical, while the morality of sacri-
fice is an age-old weapon of rulers. I don't mean to suggest that
social revolution can be painless—only that there is no reason to go
through the pain if not, finally, to affirm our right to pleasure.
In the meantime we have to live our lives, which means living
with the contradictions of a system built on the premise that one
must continually choose—insofar as one has a choice—to be either
an oppressor or a victim. So long as that system exists, our plea-
sures will be guilty, our suffering self-righteous, our glimpses of
freedom ambiguous and elusive. Temperamentally, I'm unhappy
with contradictions, especially moral ones. I want resolution, inte-
gration, synthesis. Ultimately, I believe that appearances to the
contrary, the universe is orderly, and that this order is the founda-
tion of values. This intuition is central to all religious experience,
and I'm convinced that despite my secular upbringing I somehow
absorbed it from Judaism. Several years ago, when my younger
brother, now an Orthodox rabbi, embraced religion, I found my-
self caught up in an intense confrontation with my own Jewish-
ness, an experience recorded in "Next Year in Jerusalem," the long
essay that concludes this book. In the process I discovered that my
Utopian vision of freedom was bound up with a craving for coher-
ence and moral certitude that could also be tempted by a vision of
supernatural authority—a vision that, unlike my radicalism, was
xx
Introduction
embodied in an existing social system, a, well, organic community.

In the end I settled (uneasily) for the contradictions of my middle-
class, female, secular, American writer's life.
If my absolutist impulses are in some sense Jewish, my prag-
matic ones have something to do with class. Most contemporary
radicals come from the upper middle class and tend to share its
aristocratic biases; at bottom their hostility to commerce and all its
works flows less from radical indignation than from old-fashioned
conservative disdain. I moved up from lower-middle-class origins
via an Ivy League education. As a result I have some experience of
the advantages of bourgeois mobility; I'm always aware that if I'd
been denied certain opportunities, I would have led a much nar-
rower life. Though I assimilated upper-middle-class values in
college, I also resisted them, and afterward I veered off the con-
ventional class ladder into bohemia. The bohemianism of most of
the sixties radicals I knew involved an explicit rejection of material-
ism and consumerism, an attempt to root out the bourgeois in them-
selves (or their families). For me bohemianism was, in part, an
attempt to resolve conflicting values. It was a convoluted form of
loyalty to my background as well as an implicit admission that I'd
left it, a refusal to join the class I'd been educated into and yet a
way of passing. But there was no question of rooting out the
bourgeois in myself, because what else was I? Not an aristocrat,
certainly; and, despite my modest income and slum apartment, not
really proletarian, either.
Nearly two decades later my situation, though different in de-
tails, is much the same in essentials. I doubt that I'll be able to say
this twenty years from now. Economic and social conditions in
this country are changing with disquieting rapidity. American
dominance in the world is coming to an end; American capitalism
is shaky; the prosperity we have enjoyed since World War II and
the political liberalism it encouraged are eroding. Whatever one
thinks of consumerism, it is already obsolescent, except for the
rich. Bohemianism—at least the comfortable sort my generation
has known—is probably obsolescent too. The articles in this book
xxi
Introduction
are the product of a special time, a period that provided, for more
of us than ever before, a certain freedom from the limits imposed
by scarcity. This freedom—however qualified, however tenuous—
enlarged our idea of what was possible. But as realities get grim-
mer, the possibilities tend to be forgotten. I offer my version of the
sixties and seventies in the hope of resisting that amnesia—and the
resignation that goes with it.
xxii
Introduction to the Second Edition:
Sex, Hope, and Madonna
S hortly before I started working on this introduction, I saw "Thelma

and Louise." I loved it, and vicarious revenge against the rapists
and sexist creeps of the world was only part of the reason. While the
plot could not have been more contemporary—for months, date rape
had been in the headlines, temporarily elevated from the status of one
issue among many to the preeminent metaphor for public anxiety and
ambivalence about male-female relations — the underlying theme tapped
feelings and desires that had been dormant, at least in public, for a long
time. Expecting to enjoy a hip genre movie, a feminist version of the
buddy flick, assuming the ironic distance such an experience requires,
I found myself in the soup, as the movie's picaresque surface peeled
away to expose a raw, desperate journey toward transcendence. There
was the moment, for instance, when the two women are driving along
and "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan" comes on the soundtrack. This is a
moderately obscure song, from a 1979 album by Marianne Faithfull,
about a rich housewife with nothing to do who is driven insane by the
emptiness of her life. It's a great song despite the hackneyed theme
and lyrics, which are more than redeemed by Faithfull's relentless
voice, homing in on the truth that proves the cliche. By now, however,
XXlll
Introduction to the Second Edition
that particular truth is out of date: these days women are, if anything,
driven insane because their lives are far too full. Why, then, did it feel
almost mystically right for two female outlaws-in-spite-of-themselves
to be fleeing the law to lines like, "At the age of 37/ She knew that
she would never ride/ Through Paris in a sportscar/ With the warm
wind in her hair?" What was at stake, I realized, was yet another
truth —about people driven insane by the loss of Utopian hopes.
I'm convinced that the real reason for the furor over "Thelma and
Louise" went unmentioned in the reviews; that what disturbed its de-
tractors was less its violence and "man-bashing" — if it had stayed
safely within the bounds of the hip genre movie it could have gotten
away with this — than its implicit utopianism. By the end of the movie
the women's consciousness is not so much raised as expanded, in the
old psychedelic sense of the word. Their final leap into the Grand Can-
yon is preceded by a moment of heart-stopping clarity: to go back and
submit to prison, literal or metaphorical, is simply out of the question.
Driven to the mythic edge, they drive over it, trading a deathly survival
for a last, eternal moment of free, vivid life. This climax has been
widely reviled as a cowardly cop-out, an abdication of responsibility
emblematic of these women's overall uselessness as (that hateful func-
tionalist term) "role models" — a critical judgment that perfectly ex-
presses the dull hatred of imagination currently (as always?) passing
for realism. Even in fantasy, we are never supposed to admit the trag-
edy of everyday life, the longing for a vision of human identity that
transcends tidy, morally uplifting "roles." Women who shoot rapists,
rob stores, lock policemen in trunks, and even have sex without flash-
ing a condom (another of the critics' complaints) are bad enough; but
nothing could be worse than women who embrace that ur-American
cri de coeur: live free or die.
I wrote the articles in this collection between 1967 and 1980. Most
of them reflect the tension between my belief in the possibilities the
sixties had opened up and my life in a society that was closing down.
In the shorthand of our efforts to neaten up history, the present con-
servative era sprang from the head of Ronald Reagan; not so, of course,
in the messy diaries of real time. Arguably, the country's rightward
xxiv
shift began in 1968, when the anti-war movement's unsuccessful at-

tempt to deny Hubert Humphrey the Democratic presidential nom-
ination led to the election of Richard Nixon. Even as the new wave of
feminism was cresting, the early seventies saw the coalescence of neo-
conservatism in response to the collapse of the left, the formation of
the right-to-life movement in response to Roe v. Wade, the spread of
economic anxiety in response to OPEC. The New York City fiscal
crisis of 1975 — an event deliberately orchestrated by big business and
finance —was an ideological breakthrough for the right: it not only
established as an axiom of political discourse that we simply can't afford
decent public services, but stigmatized the very idea that a great city
requires a vital public sector as the product of profligate hedonism,
moral flabbiness, lack of discipline. A year later the nation elected a
fiscally conservative, moralistic, "pro-family," anti-abortion, born-
again-Christian president, albeit with a leftish-populist image. Jimmy
Carter preached and practiced austerity, began the process of dereg-
ulation and presided with approval over a watershed victory for the
right-to-lifers: the Hyde Amendment, passed by Congress in 1977,
banning federal Medicaid funds for abortions.
And as politics went, so did the social climate. With shocking
abruptness — at least it shocked those of us who had been naive enough
to project our Utopian optimism into the indefinite future — the mood
of the country changed, first to an aimless confusion and angst, then
to a guilty, fearful backlash mentality. All at once, it seemed, radical
cultural criticism — especially of the family—was taboo; feminism was
deemed to have gotten out of hand; people began to congratulate
themselves for "surviving"; the liberationist visions of the sixties were
increasingly written off as at best a youthful indiscretion, at worst a
nightmare from which Americans were mercifully beginning to awake.
To lift a line from a Roches song, "We went so far out there, everybody
got scared."
Beginning To See the Light was published during the first year of the
"Reagan revolution"; in the original introduction I call it my bid to
resist "amnesia —and the resignation that goes with it." Resignation
or worse, despair, was the enemy, one that was always lurking. The
XXV
theme of faith versus loss of faith runs through these pieces, culmi-
nating in "Next Year in Jerusalem," in which the attraction of religion
represents (among other things) a crisis of faith in secular redemption.
Throughout, optimism remains a stubborn value, self-consciously de-
fiant, at times absurd (in a moment of euphoria inspired by the bicen-
tennial, I pronounce the odious seventies dead, and predict that the
eighties will be "an active, energetic decade that we can really live in,
not just live through"). Yet there are also deeply pessimistic moments,
as when I declare "Easy Rider" to be "about the failure of America on
all levels, hip and straight," warn that the anti-abortionists are gaining
because even their opponents "are emotionally intimidated by their
argument," or narrate my own entry in the literature of acquaintance
rape, an account of a mid-seventies case that ended in an acquittal so
perverse the judge publicly expressed his outrage. By the time I put
the book together I pretty much expected that the backlash would keep
getting worse, and I wondered if belief in possibilities, which at least
was still conceded the dignity of crankiness, would come to seem harm-
lessly eccentric.
What happened was more complicated. On the surface, certainly,
the idea of social transformation is in greater disrepute than at any time
since the fifties. Then the scorn reflected complacency, an attitude ripe
for rejection by a generation that took for granted the prosperity its
elders had built. Now it expresses the disillusionment of large segments
of that same generation, as well as the confusion and bitterness of
young people — middle class, working class, and poor — who, as a result
of deindustrialization and the government's commitment to redistrib-
uting wealth in favor of the rich, have suffered an unprecedented loss
of economic and social status relative to their parents. If the sixties
idealized youth to a degree that became impossibly sentimental, the
current contempt for and disengagement with youth amounts to a
poisonous vote of no-confidence in the future. The pieces on rock-
and-roll included here trace its development as an expression of youth
culture, from the expansive mix of rebellion and affirmation that in-
formed sixties rock — as it rode the wave of American consumerism
with its subversive (or so I argue) celebrations of plenty, sex, and free-
xxvi
dom — to the harsh, defiant, no-exit negativism of punk rock in the late
seventies. The collective NO! has only gotten louder as rap and heavy
metal, in different ways and (so far) for different audiences, transmit
youthful anger at marginality and powerlessness; affirmation is still
hard to find.
Ironically, even intellectuals allied with the cultural left have col-
laborated in the pervasive anti-utopianism of the times. Sixties cultural
radicals struggled not only against the then-liberal establishment but
against Marxist, Freudian, and modernist aesthetic orthodoxies wielded
by leftists convinced that our embrace of feminism, sexual liberation,
and pop culture was at best trivial and "bourgeois," at worst barbaric.
By the eighties, feminist, gay, and "postmodernist" cultural critics had
found a powerful intellectual weapon in French post-structuralist the-
ory, with its emphasis on contingency, pluralism, and the authoritar-
ianism of purported "master discourses" of social explanation. These
ideas have cleared away much obscurantist ideological debris and
opened up space for fresh thinking. More problematically, however,
many proponents have pursued the (anti)logic of the post-structuralist
perspective to its extreme — a blanket rejection of any attempt to ar-
ticulate universal human values, or an overall vision of social change,
as "essentialist," "totalizing," and therefore totalitarian. For cultural
radicals, this stance is ultimately contradictory: it undermines the basis
of their own politics, whose necessary assumption — acknowledged or
not —is the universal human value of freedom.
But in a sense, this contradiction is only the flip side of a much larger
one, the spectacle of an age of reaction defined by the return of the
repressed. As it turned out, I was right about the eighties being active
and energetic: if conservatism in the Carter years was the crabbed,
tight-belted voice of negation, Reagan launched an aggressive counter-
revolution cast in the language of freedom, opportunity, and American
nationalism. For dissidents, Reagan's morning in America was an
invitation to wake up screaming; yet paradoxically, the reactionary
euphoria kept the idea of possibility alive. Far from lapsing into harm-
lessness, the sixties as era and idea became the anti-Christ, not merely
a childish illusion we ought to grow out of, or a set of nice ideals that
xxvii
needed trimming to today's harsh realities, but an evil that had to be

crushed. For the right understood, far better than the left had ever
done, that the legacy of the sixties was cultural — that feminism, gay
liberation, the sexual revolution, the breakdown of boundaries between
"high" and popular culture, psychedelics, the challenge to hierarchies
and authorities of all kinds had changed people's lives. Under Reagan
and Bush, the wars over this legacy have become staples of mainstream
politics and the daily news; however censored the Utopian impulse, the
ferocious vigilance of its enemies attests to its continuing, subterranean
power.
Many of the concerns I express in these articles have intensified over
the past decade. As a conservative Supreme Court moves toward over-
turning or drastically limiting Roe v. Wade, the temperature of the
abortion battle rises. The issue of pornography and its relation to fem-
inism has generated a fierce intra-feminist debate on sex and its rela-
tion to liberation, a conflict that in many ways replicates the larger
struggle between sexual libertarians and conservative moralists. As race
and class relations have gotten steadily uglier, as the most mean-
spirited versions of assimilationism and nationalism have come to
dominate public debate, conflict between blacks and Jews has escalated
along with interracial, interethnic tensions generally. The condescen-
sion of conservatives (on the left as well as the right) toward pop cul-
ture, along with their resistance to acknowledging the intersection of
cultural, political, and aesthetic issues, is now a full-fledged campaign,
actively supported by the federal government, to defend the supremacy
of the Western high-cultural canon; the linguistic sleight-of-hand I
satirize in my "Glossary for the Eighties," whereby attempts to crit-
icize the oppressive behavior of men and other dominant groups are
defined as "Stalinist" persecution, has gained deadly serious momen-
tum in the crusade against "political correctness." At the same time,
more than a few feminists, blacks, gays, and "multiculturalists" have
provided ammunition for these attacks, indulging in the same sort of
moralistic, anti-intellectual, authoritarian arrogance that helped derail
the sixties left.
Even as the elan of the eighties parodied that of the sixties, the in-
xxviii
securities (and concomitant obsession with "survival") that were sup-

posed to have been laid to rest exploded into several forms of panic.
There was the hysteria over drugs: when I published this book, it was
still possible to refer to benign or even enlightening drug experiences
without having to argue that such experiences exist; by the end of the
decade, drugs had become an all-purpose symbol of social and moral
rot, a categorical menace so fearsome as to justify sweeping abuses of
authority, from random urine testing to the virtual repeal of the Fourth
Amendment. There was the AIDS epidemic and its appropriation as
a warning that pleasure equals death— an objective correlative to white
suburban heterosexual America's terror of sex, drugs, homosexuals,
blacks, big cities, the poor, and its own rutting teenagers. There was
the unnerving trajectory of sexual violence as an issue, its focus shifting
from rape as an obstacle to women's freedom, to rape as the proof of
women's vulnerability and need for protection from a hostile and dan-
gerous male world, and then, in an elision whose emotional logic is
clear, to the supposedly ubiquitous sexual violation of children. (Enter
the bogus missing-children scare and the wave of trumped-up, Salem-
like "ritual sex abuse" trials branding scores of mostly female day-care
workers as child molesters.)
Above all, there was — is — the crisis of the family. When I wrote
"The Family: Love it or Leave it" in 1979,1 dismissed jeremiads about
the death of the family as "premature," a way for male left social critics
to deny the continuing centrality of the family to women's oppression.
While I was right about their denial —and their ressentiment about
the decline of patriarchal authority —they did see something I didn't.
As I posed the issue, a backlash psychology fueled by economic fears
was driving people to a blind defense of family as their only safety net,
foreclosing any serious public discussion of alternative ways of living,
loving, and bringing up children. But since then, the net has disinte-
grated; for burgeoning numbers of Americans, the family can no
longer be counted on even to fulfill its most basic function — providing
a reasonably secure framework for child rearing. Its disarray reflects
irreversible social changes, especially the breakdown of the old social
contract that exchanged male support and paternal responsibility for
xxix
female subordination. As a society we have responded to this crisis by

waving the pro-family banner more stubbornly and frantically than
ever. Yet at such a historical moment, utopianism might well be the
better part of realism: when what we have simply isn't working, ex-
ploring other possibilities is not only a visionary radical project but an
urgently pragmatic one.
If America has been the epicenter of the culture wars, the influence
of the sixties upheavals, and the ongoing reaction to them, have been
worldwide. The most spectacular political event of the past decade —
the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union — has
produced a contradictory and volatile cultural brew. On the one hand,
the anti-totalitarian opposition—especially among young people —
drew much of its inspiration from the liberating vitality of American
mass culture; metaphorically, the destruction of the Berlin Wall meant
the triumph of Western post-World War II modernity. (This in itself
has its paradoxical aspects, just as it does in the West— there is Vaclav
Havel attesting to the subversive influence of the Velvet Underground,
but also McDonald's planting its golden flag in Moscow amid the
widespread messianic conviction that in untrammeled capitalism lies
salvation.) Yet at the same time the lifting of Communist repression
has led to an explosion of anti-modernist ideas and movements — na-
tionalism, anti-Semitism, patriarchal traditionalism, and religious au-
thoritarianism (the last two uniting in vigorous campaigns to
criminalize abortion). In the Middle East, the Iranian revolution of
1979 marked the resurgence of an Islamic fundamentalism whose
global impact has a potent symbol in the still-extant death threat
against Salman Rushdie, while an analogous brand of Orthodox Ju-
daism has joined forces with right-wing secular nationalism to trans-
form Israeli politics. Even the Persian Gulf War — on one level a classic
conflict about military and economic power — had a conspicuous cul-
tural dimension: whatever one's position on the necessity of the war
(my own was ambivalent), there was no mistaking the president's sa-
distic reveling in conquest as a means of exorcising Vietnam, foment-
ing a reprise of Reaganesque triumphalism, and diverting public
xxx
attention from domestic problems to a foreign (even better, a non-

European) enemy.
All these developments have intensified the longstanding conflict
between cultural conservatives and cultural radicals on the left. The
target of many of these pieces is a mainstream left that tended to mask
its deep disapproval of the quest for freedom and pleasure by dismiss-
ing cultural, particularly sexual, politics as a diversion from the serious
business of opposing class oppression, racism, and American imperial
power. But the centrality of cultural issues in the Reagan-Bush years,
the disintegration of New Deal liberalism, the political impotence and
intellectual debility of traditional economistic socialism preclude such
dismissiveness. The result is a painful but clarifying intra-left debate
over basic social and cultural values, a debate whose outcome will shape
the future — assuming, as I still do, that there is one — of any serious
opposition to the present conservative reign.
That future will necessarily share with the past those indispensable
ingredients of any effective movement toward social change — the be-
lief that things can be changed and the courage of our yearnings for a
better life. Otherwise, given Americans' fabled impatience with his-
tory, I imagine that a new radical surge will finally kill off the sixties
along with the right-wing counterrevolution that has been keeping
them alive. In an effort to refute the myth that the execution took place
a long time ago, I've been stressing the continuities between then and
now. But of course there are crucial differences, of which the decline
of American affluence, the devolution of the family, and a correspond-
ing loss of certain kinds of innocence are only the most obvious. Po-
litical fault lines have also shifted, in ways not always understood. The
sixties revolt against homogeneity—of a hegemonic white, middle-
class, male-dominated, straight in every sense of the word suburban
culture; of a left that reduced every social conflict to economics — led
to an expansive affirmation of individuality ("do your thing") as well
as a liberating proliferation of social and political voices attacking var-
ious forms of domination. But at present, the emphasis on group iden-
tity that appears to carry on this tradition is actually a straitjacket, a
xxxi
defensive balkanizing impulse propelled by a sense of scarcity and de-

feat, and inimical to any vision that might transcend uneasy, minimalist
coalition politics. (What I want is less "multiculturalism," which sug-
gests the equal right of each group to police its boundaries, than a
polyglot, cosmopolitan culture in which boundaries break down and
individuals are free to reinvent themselves, not just affirm what they've
inherited.) In response to this climate — as well as the ongoing tragedy/
farce of the Middle East (now, it seems, to be rivaled by the Yugoslav
and perhaps the ex-Soviet follies, not to mention the muscle-flexing
of a United States enjoying, for the moment, unique superpower sta-
tus) — I've become increasingly disgusted with nationalism and sepa-
ratism in any form, to the point where I've come to believe that
"national liberation" is an oxymoron. No, I'm not calling on Israelis
to give up their state, or Palestinians their demand for one: it's still
true that in a world ruled by the imperatives of national power, people
without a recognized homeland are pitifully vulnerable (even if they
don't have murderous anti-Semitism to contend with). Yet I have to
admit that the endorsement of a two-state solution with which I end
"The Myth of the Powerful Jew" reads more like a mantra for warding
off evil spirits than the statement of a practical hope for peace.
The triumph of right-wing populism in the Reagan era (now, under
the patrician Bush regime, a phantom limb) also changed the terms of
the argument over cultural politics. The relation of "the popular" as
a category to sixties cultural radicalism was a convoluted one. On the
one hand, equating the interests of the common folk with the social
conservatism predominant in the white working and lower-middle-
classes (particularly among Eastern and Southern European "ethnic"
Catholics), as opposed to the liberalism of an educated upper-middle-
class elite (mainly WASP and Jewish) whose values are reflected in the
media, the academy, and the arts, has been a cliche of new right rhet-
oric at least since George Wallace's 1968 campaign; this view, in a less
(or less crudely) racist version, was also picked up by new leftists who
opposed the counterculture. In my own circle of writers and rock fans,
however, populism had another meaning: it derived from "pop."
For us, the enormous outpouring of rebellious creativity in mass
xxxii
culture — especially rock-and-roll — along with the adoption of bohe-

mian attitudes and styles by large numbers of working-class as well as
middle-class young people, was prima facie evidence against the elitism
of the high-cultural establishment and the strain of anti-mass culture,
anti-consumerist snobbery in the counterculture itself. While our view
of "the people" was scarcely the same as the conservatives', our po-
lemics were often aimed at the same villains, with a stridency rooted
in defensiveness — we were, after all, New York journalists with high-
cult educations. And amid the general euphoria of the times it was easy
to blur the distinction between believing that popular tastes and values
were not by definition debased, and assuming that they were by defi-
nition valid. The result was a certain amount of confusion, or more
precisely muddleheadedness. (I think, for instance, of the embarrassing
suggestion, in my 1968 piece about the demonstrations in Chicago,
that radicals ought to cut their hair and move to Queens. I grew up in
Queens, and quite sensibly escaped as soon as I could; in any case,
Queens hasn't really been Queens — in the sense of a homogeneous,
terminally conformist white lower-middle-class enclave —for some
time now.)
Changing times forced clarity upon us: increasingly we had to
choose between populism and radicalism, both politically and cultur-
ally. One form this conflict took, as the seventies faded and the eighties
surged, was a seemingly arcane argument between rock critics who
championed the massively popular —and echt-populist—Bruce Spring-
steen and those who scorned his music as aesthetically conventional,
his iconic white-male-blue-collar-worker persona as socially conser-
vative; the latter camp preferred the "new wave" of punk rock and its
offshoots, inheritors of an avant-garde tradition, launched by the Vel-
vet Underground, that had little chance of ever filling Madison Square
Garden. I was, no question, with the avant-gardists, even as I missed
in my nerve-ends that unique thrill of ecstatic commonality once so
integral to the pleasure of rock-and-roll — and the tension struck me
as emblematic of my overall situation. I still honored that common-
ality; I believed that it represented something real, something poten-
tially liberating, and that aristocratic fear of the mob was death to
xxxiii
genuine radicalism. But I would not abandon my ground to stand

where "the people," for the moment, were.
There is a certain irony in this. For during the past ten years, even
as I've been pushed toward the ideological fringe, I've become more
integrated into the social mainstream: I make more money, have more
responsibilities, and am correspondingly more enmeshed in the ad-
ministrative banalities of daily life. I live with a man in a relationship
that has lasted into the double digits and have a seven-year-old daugh-
ter. I've recently gone from making my living as a journalist to teaching
in a university journalism department, a shift of identity as well as job.
(I make jokes about being an "untenured radical," and when a student
calls me "professor," I have the urge to look over my shoulder at the
person she's addressing —just as I felt like blurting "Who?" the first
time a neighbor's child called me "Nona's mother.") The imperatives
of motherhood and teaching, and now the arrival of my fiftieth birth-
day, have also made me increasingly self-conscious about belonging to
an older generation, and having many younger women cast me in the
respectable, if uncomfortable, role of guru or old fart, as the case may
be.
People often assume I must have recanted my critique of the family,
since I have one; but this is no more logical than assuming that anyone
who works for a profit-making company must support capitalism. The
idea of a nuclear household never appealed to me, except insofar as it
seemed preferable to the even more isolated situation of single moth-
erhood; experience has pretty much confirmed what I knew about its
drawbacks; and I still wish I could find a communal context for my
domestic and parental life. But in a familialist culture such alternatives
are hard to come by and even harder to sustain — which is part of what
makes the issue political rather than just a "choice of life styles." This
is not to say that family life hasn't changed me or (quite literally) my
view of the world. I've stared across the great divide between people
who do and don't have children (and the gap between C. P. Snow's
two cultures is scarcely more daunting) from both sides now. I expe-
rience the passion (in all senses) of child rearing from the parent's
standpoint (my own and my mother's) and the child's (my daughter's
xxxiv
and my own, through memories that years of therapy hadn't dredged

up). I see marriage from the perspective of someone who, in the man-
ner of the man old enough to be responsible for his own face, has been
with my unlicensed spouse long enough so that he, in all his otherness,
is part of who I am. "The Family: Love It Or Leave It" exudes — even
as it disavows — a kind of moral certainty about love, sex, and rela-
tionships, about what one's priorities should be and what compromises
are or aren't honorable, that from across the divide looks, well, too
certain. What hasn't changed is my belief that behind militant famil-
ialism lies emotional defeat: the profound and painful conviction that
Freud's "ordinary unhappiness" is the best we can expect.
Against this ubiquitous social message —this endlessly repeating,
barely subliminal tape loop —Thelma and Louise's rebel yell is thrill-
ing, even though the rest is silence; still, the point, finally, is not to die
for freedom but to live with it. And here I take some complicated suste-
nance from a superstar. Madonna is the first pop celebrity in years —
and the first female celebrity ever — who has grabbed the active atten-
tion of a vast, ecumenical public, forced everyone from teenage MTV
addict to college professor to gay activist to have an opinion of her,
and used her extraordinary command of image to make the media her
aesthetic and political playground. Like the sixties rock stars she is rich,
famous, and powerful enough to do as she pleases, an embodiment of
the link between abundance and freedom; an Italian Catholic anti-
Monroe, she has broken the cardinal rule of female celebrity by re-
fusing to be tragic (even Elizabeth Taylor has made her lustiness more
palatable with alcoholism and various near-fatal illnesses). The subject
of Madonna's bravura performance is the absurd paradox of American
sexual culture, the pervasive eroticism of its mass media side by side
with its virulent anti-sexual moralism. She uses the first to attack the
second, turning all the stock pop-sex images of women into weapons
of the self-willed, protean, sexual female, exaggerating femininity till
it suggests impersonation, insisting that sex is an artifact, a wholly con-
structed fantasy, but no less primal for that.
I love it, yet I feel a certain distance. What does it mean to base
one's flamboyant freedom on money, in the age of the rapacious world
XXXV
market, in the midst of an economy that's going down fast? How does
that freedom connect with people's lives? We can enjoy Madonna, but
can we be Madonna in the same way we could once have been the
Beatles or Bob Dylan? Such questions are on my mind these days. For
if the sixties ever end, if we finally get beyond them, it will be by
uncovering our eyes and facing the specter of class. Not class as the
traditionalists envision it, as the epicene, narrowly "material," "objec-
tive" category they cling to in dread of the swamp of cultural politics,
so full of sex, feminism, art, and slippery subjectivity; but class as a
denizen of the swamp, as fearsome as sex, in some ways even more
repressed, and deeply embedded in our (American) dreams. We know
all this, of course; but we need to talk about it.
xxxvi
Beginning
to See
the Light
Part One
Out of the
Vinyl Deeps
Dylan
N early two years ago, Bob Dylan had a motorcycle accident.

Reports of his condition were vague, and he dropped out
of sight. Publication of his book, Tarantula, was postponed in-
definitely. New records appeared, but they were from his last
album, Blonde on Blonde. Gruesome rumors circulated: Dylan was
dead; he was badly disfigured; he \vas paralyzed; he was insane.
The cataclysm his audience was always expecting seemed to have
arrived. Phil Ochs had predicted that Dylan might someday be
assassinated by a fan. Pete Seeger believed Dylan could become
the country's greatest troubadour, if he didn't explode. Alan Lomax
had once remarked that Dylan might develop into a great poet of
the times, unless he killed himself first. Now, images of James
Dean filled the news vacuum. As months passed, reflex apprehension
turned to suspense, then irritation: had we been put on again? We
had. Friends began to admit, with smiles, that they'd seen Bobby;
he was rewriting his book; he was about to sign a contract with
MGM Records. The new rumor was that the accident had been
a cover for retreat. After Blonde on Blonde, his intensive foray
into the pop demimonde, Dylan needed time to replenish his
3
OUT OF THE VINYL DEEPS
imagination. According to a less romantic version, he was keeping

quiet till his contracts expired.
The confusion was typical. Not since Rimbaud said "7 is an-
other" has an artist been so obsessed with escaping identity. His
masks hidden by other masks, Dylan is the celebrity stalker's ulti-
mate antagonist. The original disparity between his public pose as
rootless wanderer with southwestern drawl and the private facts of
home and middle-class Jewish family and high school diploma in
Hibbing, Minnesota, was a commonplace subterfuge, the kind that
pays reporters' salaries. It hardly showed his talent for elusiveness;
what it probably showed was naivete. But his attitude toward him-
self as a public personality was always clear. On an early recording
he used the eloquent pseudonym "Blind Boy Grunt." "Dylan" is
itself a pseudonym, possibly inspired by Dylan Thomas (a story
Dylan now denies), possibly by a real or imaginary uncle named
Dillon, who might or might not be the "Las Vegas dealer" Dylan
once claimed was his only living relative.
In six years Dylan's stance has evolved from proletarian asser-
tiveness to anarchist angst to pop detachment. At each stage he has
made himself harder to follow, provoked howls of execration from
those left behind, and attracted an ever-larger, more demanding
audience. He has reacted with growing hostility to the possessive-
ness of this audience and its shock troops, the journalists, the pro-
fessional categorizers. His baroque press conference inventions are
extensions of his work, full of imaginative truth and virtually de-
void of information. The classic Dylan interview appeared in
Playboy, where Nat Hentoff, like a housewife dusting her furni-
ture while a tornado wrecks the house, pursued the homely fact
through exchanges like: "Do you have any unfulfilled ambitions?"
"Well, I guess I've always wanted to be Anthony Quinn in La
Strada. . . . I guess I've always wanted to be Brigitte Bardot, too;
but I don't really want to think about that too much."
Dylan's refusal to be known is not simply a celebrity's ploy, but
a passion that has shaped his work. As his songs have become more
introspective, the introspections have become more impersonal,
the confidences of a no-man without past or future. Bob Dylan as
4
Dylan
identifiable persona has been disappearing into his songs, which is

what he wants. This terrifies his audiences. They could accept a
consistent image—roving minstrel, poet of alienation, spokesman
for youth—in lieu of the "real" Bob Dylan. But his progressive self-
annihilation cannot be contained in a game of let's pretend, and it
conjures up nightmares of madness, mutilation, death.
The nightmares are chimerical; there is a continuing self, the
Bobby Dylan friends describe as shy and defensive, hyped up,
careless of his health, a bit scared by fame, unmaterialistic but
shrewd about money, a professional absorbed in his craft. Dylan's
songs bear the stigmata of an authentic middle-class adolescence;
his eye for detail, sense of humor, and skill at evoking the arche-
typal sexual skirmishes show that some part of him is of as well as
in the world. As further evidence, he has a wife, son, and house in
Woodstock, New York. Instead of an image, Dylan has created a
magic theater in which the public gets lost willy-nilly. Yet he is
more—or less—than the sum of his illusions.
Many people hate Bob Dylan because they hate being fooled.
Illusion is fine, if quarantined and diagnosed as mild; otherwise it is
potentially humiliating (is he laughing at me? conning me out of
my money?). Some still discount Dylan as merely a popular cul-
ture hero (how can a teen-age idol be a serious artist—at most,
perhaps, a serious demagogue). But the most tempting answer—
forget his public presence, listen to his songs—won't do. For
Dylan has exploited his image as a vehicle for artistic statement.
The same is true of Andy Warhol and, to a lesser degree, of the
Beatles and Allen Ginsberg. (In contrast, James Dean and Marilyn
Monroe were creatures, not masters, of their images.) The tenac-
ity of the modern publicity apparatus often makes artists' person-
alities more familiar than their work, while its pervasiveness
obscures the work of those who can't or won't be personalities. If
there is an audience for images, artists will inevitably use the image
as a medium—and some images are more original, more com-
pelling, more relevant than others. Dylan has self-consciously ex-
plored the possibilities of mass communication just as the pop
artists explored the possibilities of mass production. In the same
5
sense that pop art is about commodities, Dylan's art is about ce-
lebrity.
This is not to deny the intrinsic value of Dylan's songs. Every-
one interested in folk and popular music agrees on their impor-
tance, if not their merit. As composer, interpreter, most of all as
lyricist, Dylan has made a revolution. He expanded folk idiom into
a rich, figurative language, grafted literary and philosophical
subtleties onto the protest song, revitalized folk vision by rejecting
proletarian and ethnic sentimentality, then all but destroyed pure
folk as a contemporary form by merging it with pop. Since then
rock-and-roll, which was already in the midst of a creative flower-
ing dominated by British rock and Motown, has been transformed.
Songwriters have raided folk music as never before for new sounds,
new images, new subject matter. Dylan's innovative lyrics have
been enthusiastically imitated. The folk music lovers who managed
to evolve with him, the connoisseurs of pop, the bohemian fringe
of the literary community, hippies, and teen-agers consider him a
genius, a prophet. Folk purists and political radicals, who were
inspired by his earlier material, cry betrayal with a vehemence that
acknowledges his gifts.
Yet many of Dylan's fans—especially ex-fans—miss the point.
Dylan is no apostle of the electronic age. Rather, he is a fifth-
columnist from the past, shaped by personal and political noncon-
formity, by blues and modern poetry. He has imposed his com-
mitment to individual freedom (and its obverse, isolation) on the
hip passivity of pop culture, his literacy on an illiterate music. He
has used the publicity machine to demonstrate his belief in pri-
vacy. His songs and public role are guides to survival in the world
of the image, the cool, and the high. And in coming to terms with
that world, he has forced it to come to terms with him.
11
By 1960 the folk music revival that began in the fifties had ex-
panded into an all-inclusive smorgasbord, with kitschy imitation-
6
Dylan
folk groups at one end, resurrected cigar-box guitarists and Ozark

balladeers at the other. Of music that pretended to ethnic authen-
ticity, the most popular was folk blues—Leadbelly, Sonny Terry
and Brownie McGhee, Lightnin' Hopkins. The response to blues
was in part a tribute to the ascendancy of rock-and-roll—Negro
rhythms had affected the consciousness of every teen-ager in the
fifties. But blues, unlike rock, was free of identification with the
dominant society. Its sexuality and rebelliousness were undiluted,
and it was about people, not teen-agers. Besides, the Negro, always
a dual symbol of suffering and life force, was gaining new political
importance, and folk blues expressed the restlessness of activists,
bohemians, declasse intellectuals. Since younger Negro performers
were not interested in preserving a genre they had abandoned for
more distinctly urban forms, white city singers tried to fill the gap.
Patronized unmercifully by blues purists, the best of them did not
simply approximate Negro sounds but evoked personal pain and
disenchantment with white culture.
At the same time there was a surge of folk composing. The
Weavers, in the vanguard of the revival, had popularized the
iconoclastic ballads and talking blues of Woody Guthrie, chroni-
cler of the dust bowl and the Depression, the open road, the
unions, the common man* as intrepid endurer. Pete Seeger, the
Weavers' lead singer in the early days and the most prestigious
folk musician in the country, had recorded albums of topical songs
from the thirties and forties. With the emergence of the civil
rights movement, freedom songs, some new, some updated spir-
ituals and union chants, began coming out of the South. Northern
musicians began to write and perform their own material, mainly
variations on the hard-traveling theme and polemics against racism,
the bomb and middle-class conformity. Guthrie was their god-
father, Seeger their guru, California songwriter Malvina Reynolds
* When I wrote this piece (and a few others in the book), I had not yet
stopped using "man," "he," etc., as generic terms applying to both sexes. In
the interest of historical accuracy I've left these locutions intact, though they
grate on me aesthetically as well as politically. For the same reason I have
not changed "Negro" to "black."
7
their older sister. Later, they were to acquire an angel—Joan Baez,

who would record their songs and sing them at racial demonstra-
tions and peace rallies; an organ—Broadside, a mimeographed mag-
azine founded in 1962; and a sachem—Bob Dylan.
Gerde's Folk City, an unassuming, unbohemian cabaret in
Greenwich Village, was the folk fans' chief New York hangout.
On iMonday, hootenanny night, blues interpreters like Dave Van
Ronk, bluegrass groups like the Greenbriar Boys, the new topical
songwriters—Tom Paxton, Phil Ochs, Len Chandler—would stop
in and perform. Established singers came because Gerde's was part
of the scene, because they enjoyed playing to the aficionados who
gathered after midnight. The young ones came for a showcase and
for contact with musicians they admired.
When Bob Dylan first showed up at Gerde's in the spring of
1961, fresh-skinned and baby-faced and wearing a schoolboy's
corduroy cap, the manager asked him for proof of age. He was
nineteen, only recently arrived in New York. Skinny, nervous,
manic, the bohemian patina of jeans and boots, scruffy hair, hip
jargon and hitchhiking mileage barely settled on nice Bobby Zim-
merman, he had been trying to catch on at the coffeehouses. His
material and style were a cud of half-digested influences: Guthrie
cum Elliott; Blind Lemon Jefferson cum Leadbelly cum Van
Ronk; the hillbilly sounds of Hank Williams and Jimmie Rodgers;
the rock-and-roll of Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley. He was con-
stantly writing new songs. Onstage, he varied poignancy with
clownishness. His interpretations of traditional songs—especially
blues—were pretentious, and his harsh, flat voice kept slipping
over the edge of plaintiveness into strident self-pity. But he shone
as a comedian, charming audiences with Charlie Chaplin routines,
playing with his hair and cap, burlesquing his own mannerisms,
and simply enjoying himself. His specialty was composing lightly
sardonic talking blues—chants to a bass-run guitar accompaniment,
a favorite vehicle of Woody Guthrie's: "Them Communists were
all around/ in the air and on the ground/ . . . I run down most
hurriedly/ and joined the John Birch society."
Dylan
That fall, New York Times folk music critic Robert Shelton
visited Gerde's and gave Dylan an enthusiastic review. Columbia
Records signed him and released a mediocre first album in Febru-
ary 1962. It contained only two Dylan compositions, both nonpo-
litical. Dylan began publishing his topical songs in Broadside. Like
his contemporaries, he was more propagandist than artist, his syn-
tax often barbarous, his diction crude. Even so, his work stood
out—it contained the most graphic descriptions of racial atrocities.
But Dylan also had a gentler mood. Road songs like "Song to
Woody" strove—not too successfully—for Guthrie's expressive
understatement and simple, traditional sound.
In May 1962, Broadside published a new Dylan song, "Blowin' in
the Wind." Set to a melody adapted from a spiritual, it combined
indignation with Guthriesque simplicity and added a touch of orig-
inal imagery. It received little circulation until nearly a year later,
when Peter, Paul and Mary heard Dylan sing it at a coffeehouse.
Their recording of the song sold a million copies, inspired more
than fifty other versions, and established topical song as the most
important development of the folk revival. The relative subtlety of
the lyric made the topical movement aesthetically self-conscious. It
did not drive out direct political statements—Dylan himself con-
tinued to write them—but it set a standard impossible to ignore,
and topical songs began to show more wit, more craftsmanship,
more variety.
"Blowin' in the Wind" was included in Dylan's second album,
The Freewheelm' Bob Dylan, which appeared in May 1963. This
time, nearly all the songs were his own; five had political themes. It
was an extraordinary record. The influences had coalesced; the
voice, unmusical as ever, had found an evocative range somewhere
between abrasion and sentimentality; the lyrics (except for "Mas-
ters of War," a simplistic diatribe against munitions-makers) were
vibrant and pithy. The album contained what may still be Dylan's
best song—"It's A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall," a vivid evocation of
nuclear apocalypse that owed much to Allen Ginsberg's biblical
rhetoric and declamatory style. Its theme was modern, its spirit
OUT OF THE V I N Y L DEEPS
ancient. At first hearing, most of the Freewheelin' songs sounded

less revolutionary than they were: so skillfully had Dylan distilled
the forms and moods of traditional music that his originality took
time to register.
Freewheelin' illuminated Dylan's America—or rather, two
Americas. "Hard Rain" confronted the underside, "where the
executioner's face is always well-hidden," "where black is the
color and none is the number," a world of deserted diamond high-
ways, incipient tidal waves, clowns crying in alleys, children
armed with guns and swords, "10,000 whisperin and nobody lis-
tenin" and occasional portents of redemption: "I met a young girl,
she gave me a rainbow." The satirical "Talking World War III
Blues" toured the country's surface: hot dog stands, parking
meters, Cadillacs, rock-and-roll singers, telephone operators, cool
females, officious doctors. Dylan's moral outrage coexisted with a
grudging affection for American society and its foibles. If there
was "Masters of War," there was also "I Shall Be Free": "My
telephone rang, it would not stop, it was President Kennedy callin
me up./ He said my friend Bob what do we need to make this
country grow I said my friend John, Brigitte Bardot."
For a time the outrage predominated. Dylan's output of bitter
protest increased and his humor receded. He was still learning
from Woody Guthrie, but he often substituted despair for Guth-
rie's resilience: his finest ballads chronicled the disintegration of
an unemployed miner's family; the killing of a Negro maid, pun-
ished by a six-month sentence; the extremity of a penniless farmer
who shot himself, his wife, and five kids. At the same time his
prophetic songs discarded the pessimism of "Hard Rain" for tri-
umph in "The Times They Are A-Changin' " and vindictiveness in
"When the Ship Comes In": "Then they'll raise their hands, say
we'll meet all your demands, and we'll shout from the bow, your
days are numbered."
It was Dylan's year. Stimulated by the wide acceptance of his
work, inspired by his ideas and images, topical songwriters became
more and more prolific. Dylan songs were recorded by dozens of
10
Dylan
folk singers, notably Joan Baez (at whom he had once sneered,
"She's still singing about Mary Hamilton. Where's that at?"). No
folk concert was complete without "Hard Rain," or "Don't Think
Twice," or a protest song from Dylan's third album, The Times
They Are A-Changiri'. The college folk crowd imitated Dylan;
civil rights workers took heart from him; masochistic journalists
lionized him. And in the attenuated versions of Peter, Paul and
Mary, the Chad Mitchell Trio, even Lawrence Welk, his songs
reached the fraternity house and the suburb.
Then Dylan yanked the rug: he renounced political protest. He
put out an album of personal songs and in one of them, "My Back
Pages," scoffed at his previous moral absolutism. His refrain—"Ah,
but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now"-—
seemed a slap at the thirties left. And the song contained scraps of
uncomfortably private imagery—hints of aesthetic escapism?
Folk devotees were shocked at Dylan's apostasy. Folk music and
social protest have always fed on each other, and the current re-
vival had been political all along. For children of Depression
activists growing up in the Eisenhower slough, folk music was a
way of keeping the faith. When they converged on the Weavers'
Town Hall hootenannies, they came as the anti-McCarthy resis-
tance, pilgrims to the thirties shrine. The Weavers were blacklisted
for alleged Communist connections; Pete Seeger had been there,
singing for the unions, for the Spanish Republic. It didn't matter
what they sang—in the atmosphere of conspiratorial sympathy
that permeated those performances, even "Greensleeves" had radi-
cal overtones. Later, as the left revived, folk singing became a
badge of involvement, an expression of solidarity, and most im-
portant, a history-in-the-raw of struggle. Now, Dylan's defection
threatened the last aesthetically respectable haven for believers in
proletarian art.
Dylan had written personal songs before, but they were songs
that accepted folk conventions. Narrative in impulse, nostalgic but
restless in mood, their central image the road and its imperative,
they complemented his protest songs: here was an outlaw, unable
11
to settle for one place, one girl, a merely private life, committed to
that symbolic onward journey. His new songs were more psycho-
logical, limning characters and relationships. They substituted
ambition for the artless perfection of his best early songs; "It Ain't
Me, Babe," a gloss on the spiritual possessiveness of woman, took
three stanzas to say what "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" had
suggested in a few phrases: "I'm thinkin and wonderin, walkin
down the road/ I once loved a woman, a child I'm told/ gave her
my heart but she wanted my soul."* Dylan's language was open-
ing up—doves sleeping in the sand were one thing, "crimson flames
tied through my ears" quite another. And his tone was changing:
in his love songs, ingenuousness began to yield to self-possession,
the spontaneity of the road to the gamesmanship of the city. They
were transitional songs, full of half-realized ideas; having rejected
the role of people's bard, Dylan had yet to find a new niche.
111
In retrospect, Dylan's break with the topical song movement

seemed inevitable. He had modeled himself on Woody Guthrie,
whose incessant traveling was an emotional as well as economic
necessity, whose commitment to radical politics was rooted in an
individualism as compulsive as Dylan's own. But Guthrie had had
to organize or submit; Dylan had other choices. For Guthrie, the
road was habitat; for Dylan, metaphor. The closing of the iron
mines had done to Hibbing what drought had done to Guthrie's
* Here as elsewhere in this prefeminist essay I refer with aplomb if not out-
right endorsement to Dylan's characteristic bohemian contempt for women
(which he combined with an equally obnoxious idealization of female god-
dess figures). At the time I did not question the idea that women were
guardians of oppressive conventional values; I only thought of myself as an
exception. / was not possessive; I understood men's need to go on the road
because I was, spiritually speaking, on the road myself. That, at least, was my
fantasy; the realities of my life were somewhat more ambiguous.
12
Dylan
Oklahoma, but while Guthrie had been a victim, Dylan was a

bystander. A voluntary refugee from middle-class life, more
aesthete than activist, he had less in common with the left than
with literary rebels—Blake, Whitman, Rimbaud, Crane, Ginsberg.
The beauty of "Hard Rain" was that it exploited poetry while
remaining a folk lyric, simple, repetitive, seemingly uncontrived.
Now Dylan became self-consciously poetic, adopting a neo-beat
style loaded with images. Though he had rejected the traditional
political categories, his new posture was if anything more scornful
of the social order than before. "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleed-
ing)" attacked both the "human gods" who "make everything
from toy guns that spark to flesh-colored Christs that glow in the
dark" and their acquiescent victims. "Gates of Eden," like "Hard
Rain," descended into a surreal netherworld, the menace this time
a psychic bomb, the revolt of repressed instinct. As poetry these
songs were overrated—Howl had said it all much better—and they
were unmusical, near-chants declaimed to a monotonous guitar
strum. Yet the perfunctory music made the bohemian common-
places work—made them fresh. Perhaps it was the context: though
few people realized it yet, the civil rights movement was losing its
moral force; the Vietnam juggernaut was becoming the personal
concern of every draftable man; a new generation of bohemians,
more expansive and less cynical than the beats, was about to blos-
som. The time was right for a reaffirmation of individual revolt.
But Dylan had also been exposed to a very different vision: in
May 1964, he had toured an England transformed by mod fashion
and the unprecedented excitement over the Beatles and the Rolling
Stones. When his new record came out the following spring, its
title was Bringing It All Back Home. On the album jacket a
chiaroscuro Dylan, bright face emerging from ominous shadows,
stared accusingly at the viewer. In black suit and striped shirt, he
perched on a long divan, hugging a cat, behind him a modish,
blank-faced beauty in scarlet lounging pajamas. The room,
wreathed in light and dominated by a baroque mantelpiece,
abounded with artifacts—Time, a movie magazine, a fallout shelter
13
sign, folk and pop records (including earlier Dylan), a portrait, a

candlestick, a few mysterious objects obscured by the halo.
Most of side one was devoted to "Gates of Eden" and "It's
Alright, Ma." But the most arresting cut on the side was "Mr.
Tambourine Man," a hymn to the psychedelic quest: "take me
disappearing through the smoke-rings of my mind. . . . take me on
a trip upon your magic swirling ship." Drug-oriented bohemians
loved it; it was another step away from the sobersided politicals. It
was also more like a folk song than anything Dylan had written
since giving up politics, a spiritual road song with a lilting, singable
melody.
The other side was rock-and-roll, Dylan on electric guitar and
piano backed by a five-man band. It was not hard rock. There was
no over-dubbing, and Dylan played his amplified guitar folk-style.
But the beat was there, and the sound, if not overwhelming, was
big enough to muffle some of the lyrics. These dispensed a new
kind of folk wisdom. Chaos had become a condition, like the
weather, not to analyze or prophesy but to gripe about, cope with,
dodge: "Look out, kid, it's somethin you did/ God knows when
but you're doin it again." The message was pay attention to what's
happening: "Don't follow leaders, watch the parkin meters."
One rock song, "Subterranean Homesick Blues," was released as
a single. As Dylan's pop debut, it was a modest success, hovering
halfway up the Cash Box and Billboard charts. That summer,
Dylan cut "Like a Rolling Stone," the most scurrilous and—with
its powerful beat—the most dramatic in a long line of non-love
songs. It was a number-one hit, as "Blowin' in the Wind" had been
two years before—only now it was Dylan's own expressive snarl
coming over radio and jukebox.
"Like a Rolling Stone" opened Dylan's first all-rock album, High-
way 61 Revisited. More polished but less daring than Bringing It All
Back Home, the album reworked familiar motifs. The title song,
which depicted the highway as junkyard, temple, and battlefield,
was Dylan's best face-of-America commentary since "Talking
World War III Blues." The witty and scarifying "Ballad of a Thin
H
Dylan
Man," which derided the rationalist bewildered by the instinctual

revolt, was an updated "Times They Are A-Changin','' with battle
lines redrawn according to pop morality. Dylan did not hail the
breakdown of sanity he described but merely kept his cool, mock-
ing Mr. Jones (the pop equivalent of Mr. Charlie) for committing
squareness: "The sword-swallower he comes up to you and then
he kneels/. . . and he says here is your throat back, thanks for the
loan/ and something is happening but you don't know what it is,
do you, Mr. Jones?" "Desolation Row" was Dylan's final tribute to
the Gotterdammerung strain in modern literature—an eleven-
minute freak show whose cast of losers, goons, and ghosts wan-
dered around in a miasma of sexual repression and latent violence
underscored by the electronic beat.
The violent hostility of traditionalists to Dylan's rock-and-roll
made the uproar over "My Back Pages" seem mild. Not only
orthodox leftists but bohemian radicals called him a sellout and a
phony. At the July 1965 Newport Folk Festival he appeared with
his electric guitar and was booed off the stage. Alan Lomax, Amer-
ica's foremost authority on folk song, felt Dylan had chucked his
artistry for a big audience and forsaken a mature culture for one
that was evanescent and faddish. Tom Paxton, dean of the new
crop of topical songwriters, commented: " 'Where it's at' is a
synonym for 'rich.' "
Defiantly, Dylan exacerbated the furor, insisting on his con-
tempt for message songs and his indifference to causes, refusing to
agonize over his wealth or his taxes ("Uncle Sam, he's my uncle!
Can't turn your back on a member of the family!"). In one no-
torious interview he claimed he had written topical songs only to
get published in Broadside and attract attention. Many former fans
took the bait. Actually, Dylan's work still bristled with messages;
his "opportunism" had absorbed three years of his life and pro-
duced the finest extensions of traditional music since Guthrie. But
the purists believed in it because they wanted to. Their passion
told less about Dylan than about their own peculiar compound of
aristocratic and proletarian sensitivities.
15
Pure folk sound and idiom, in theory the expression of ordinary

people, had become the province of middle-class dissidents who
identified with the common man but whose attitude toward com-
mon men resembled that of White Russian expatriates toward the
communized peasants. For them popular music—especially rock-
and-roll—symbolized the displacement of the true folk by the
mass. Rock was not created by the people but purveyed by the
communications industry. The performer was incidental to en-
gineer and publicity man. The beat was moronic, the lyrics banal
teen-age trivia.
These were half-truths. From the beginning, there was a bottom-
up as well as top-down movement in rock-and-roll: neighborhood
kids formed groups and wrote songs; country singers adopted a
rhythm-and-blues beat. Rock took a mechanized, acquisitive soci-
ety for granted, yet in its own way it was protest music, uniting
teen-agers against adults' lack of sympathy with youthful energy
and love and sex. The mediocrity of most performers only made
rock more "authentic"—anyone could sing it—and one of the few
remaining vindications of the American dream—any kid from the
slums might become a millionaire. (The best singers, of course,
were fine interpreters; Elvis Presley and Chuck Berry did not have
golden voices, but neither did Leadbelly or Woody Guthrie.)
Rock-and-roll was further from the grass roots than traditional
music, but closer than any other kind of pop. If folk fans did not
recognize this, the average adult did, and condemned the music for
its adolescent surliness and its sexuality, covert in the lyrics, overt
in the beat and in the intense response to idols.
But it remained for the British renaissance to prove that the
mainstream of mass culture could produce folk music—that is,
antiestablishment music. The Beatles, commercial without apol-
ogy, delighted in the Americanized decadence of their environ-
ment. Yet their enthusiasm was subversive—they endorsed the
reality of the culture, not its official myths. The Rolling Stones
were iconoclastic in a different way: deliberately ugly, blatantly
erotic, they exuded contempt for the public while making a for-
16
Dylan
tune. Their cynicism, like Leadbelly's violence or Charlie Parker's

heroin, was part of their charisma. Unlike traditional folk singers,
they could cheerfully censor their lyrics for Ed Sullivan without
seeming domesticated—the effect was more as if they had paraded
a sign saying "Blank CBS." British rock was far superior to most
early rock-and-roll.* Times had changed: electronic techniques
were more sophisticated, radio stations and record companies less
squeamish about sexual candor, and teen culture was merging into
a more mature, less superficial youth culture with semibohemian
tastes. Most important, the British groups successfully assimilated
Negro music, neither vitiating rhythm-and-blues nor imitating it,
but refining it to reflect their own milieu—white, urban, tech-
nological, materialistic, tough-minded.
Most folk fans—even those with no intrinsic objections to rock,
who had perhaps listened to it when they were teen-agers and not
obliged to be serious—assumed that commercial exploitation au-
tomatically gutted music. Yet the Stones were creating blues as
valid as the work of any folk singers, black or white. After Bring-
ing It All Back Home, the contradiction could no longer be ig-
nored, and those not irrevocably committed to the traditional folk
ethos saw the point. Phil Ochs praised Highway 6r, Joan Baez
cut a rock-and-roll record; more and more folk singers began to
use electronic instruments. Folk-rock generated an unaccustomed
accord between the folk and pop worlds. In Crawdaddy! Richard
Farina lauded "this shift away from open-road-protest-flat-pick-
style to more Nashville-Motown-Thameside, with the strong
implication that some of us had been listening to the A.M. radio."
* This statement now strikes me as absurd, a confusion of aesthetic sophisti-

cation and self-consciousness with merit in some absolute sense. It makes even
less sense when applied to the best mid-sixties British rock versus the best
early rock-and-roll. Precisely because they had a more spontaneous, direct
relation to their material and their audience, performers like Elvis Presley,
Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis got to places that the
Beatles, the Stones, and the Who never even tried to reach. The reverse is
also true, of course.
'7
Malvina Reynolds pronounced the new rock-and-roll "a -wonder

and delight." By November 1966, folk-rock had received the final
imprimatur—Pete Seeger recorded an album backed by three
members of the Blues Project.
Folk-rock was never a form, but a simpleminded inspiration
responsible for all sorts of hybrids. At first it was mostly rock
versions of Dylan folk songs, social protest rock, and generational
trauma rock, a weekend-hippie version of the classic formula, chil-
dren against parents. Then, self-styled musical poets Simon and
Garfunkel began imitating Dylan's apocalyptic songs ("The words
of the prophets are written on a subway wall"), starting a trend
to elaborate and, too often, sophomoric lyrics. The Lovin' Spoon-
ful invented the "good-time sound," a varying mixture of rock,
blues, jug, and old pop. Donovan wrote medieval fantasies and pop
collages like "Sunshine Superman" and "Mellow Yellow." And
there was acid-rock, the music of new bohemia.
Psychedelic music, like folk-rock, was a catchall label; it de-
scribed a variety of products shaped by folk, British rock, Chicago
blues, jazz, Indian music. Psychedelic lyrics, heavily influenced by
Dylanesque imagery, used the conventions of the romantic pop
song to express sexual and mystical rather than sentimental love
and focused on the trip—especially the flight—the way folk music
focused on the road. The Byrds, who had started folk-rock mov-
ing with their hit record of "Mr. Tambourine Man," launched the
California psychedelic sound with "Eight Miles High," which
picked up on the Beatles' experiments with Indian instrumentation
and was ostensibly about flying over London airport (it was
banned anyway by right-thinking disc jockeys). Though the
Byrds were from Los Angeles, the scene soon shifted north, and a
proliferation of underground rock groups—some, like Jefferson
Airplane, the Grateful Dead, and Country Joe and the Fish, quickly
surfaced—made San Francisco the new center of avant-garde pop,
superseding Britain.
The California groups came closest to making the term folk-
rock say something. For hippie culture, bastard of the beat genera-
18
Dylan
tion out of pop, was much like a folk culture—oral, naive,

communal, its aphorisms ("Make love, not war," "Turn on, tune
in, drop out") intuited, not rationalized. Pop and beat, thesis and
antithesis of the affluent society, contained elements of synthesis:
both movements rejected intellect for sensation, politics for art,
and Ginsberg and Kerouac glorified a grass-roots America that
included supermarkets and cars as well as mountains and apple pie.
The hippies simplified the beats' Utopian anarchism and substituted
psychedelic drugs for Zen and yoga; they also shared the pop
enthusiasm for technology and the rainbow surface of affluence—
their music was rock, their style mod. Like Dylan, they bridged
old culture and new—they were still idealists—and they idolized
him. But he did not consider himself their spokesman. At twenty-
five, he was too old ("How can I be the voice of their generation?
I'm not their generation") and, though he did not admit it publicly,
too well-read. While "Mr. Tambourine Man" was becoming the
hippie anthem, he was saying "LSD is for mad, hateful people" and
making fun of drugs in "Memphis Blues Again." Dylan was really
at cross-purposes with the hippies. They were trying to embody
pop sensibility in a folk culture. He was trying to comprehend pop
culture with—at bottom—a folk sensibility.
IV
It is a truism among Dylan's admirers that he is a poet using rock-

and-roll to spread his art: as Jack Newfield put it in the Village
Voice, "If Whitman were alive today, he too would be playing an
electric guitar." This misrepresentation has only served to discredit
Dylan among intellectuals and draw predictable sniping from con-
scientious B-student poets like Louis Simpson and John Ciardi.
Dylan has a lavish verbal imagination and a brilliant sense of irony,
and many of his images—especially on the two Blonde on Blonde
records—are memorable. But poetry also requires economy, co-
herence, and discrimination, and Dylan has perpetrated prolix
!9
verses, horrendous grammar, tangled phrases, silly metaphors,

embarrassing cliches, muddled thought; at times he seems to be-
lieve one good image deserves five others, and he relies too much
on rhyme. His chief literary virtue—sensitivity to psychological
nuance—belongs to fiction more than poetry. His skill at creating
character has made good lyrics out of terrible poetry, as in the pre-
rock "Ballad in Plain D," whose portraits of the singer, his girl, and
her family redeem lines like: "With unseen consciousness I pos-
sessed in my grip/ a magnificent mantelpiece though its heart
being chipped."
Dylan is not always undisciplined. As early as Freewheelin', it
was clear that he could control his material when he cared to. But
his disciplines are songwriting and acting, not poetry; his words fit
the needs of music and performance, not an intrinsic pattern.
Words or rhymes that seem gratuitous in print often make good
musical sense, and Dylan's voice, an extraordinary interpreter of
emotion though (or more likely because) it is almost devoid of
melody, makes vague lines clear. Dylan's music is not inspired. His
melodies and arrangements are derivative, and his one technical
accomplishment, a vivacious, evocative harmonica, does not ap-
proach the virtuosity of a Sonny Terry. His strength as a musician
is his formidable eclecticism combined with a talent for choosing
the right music to go with a given lyric. The result is a unity of
sound and word that eludes most of his imitators.
Dylan is effective only when exploiting this unity, which is why
his free-verse album notes are interesting mainly as autobiography
(or mythology) and why Tarantula is unlikely to be a master-
piece. When critics call Dylan a poet, they really mean a visionary.
Because the poet is the paradigmatic seer, it is conventional to talk
about the film poet, the jazz poet. Dylan is verbal, which makes the
label even more tempting. But it evades an important truth—the
new visionaries are not poets. Dylan is specifically pessimistic
about the future of literature. Far from Desolation Row, "The
Titanic sails at dawn/ . . . Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot fighting in
the captain's towers/ while calypso singers laugh at them and fish-
20
Dylan
ermen hold flowers." The infamous Mr. Jones, with his pencil in
his hand, his eyes in his pocket, and his nose on the ground, is a
literary man. With the rock songs on Bringing It All Back Home,
Dylan began trying to create an alternative to poetry. If Whitman
were alive today, he might be playing electric guitar; then again,
he might be writing advertising copy.
In May 1966, Dylan recorded Blonde on Blonde, a double album
cut in Nashville with local musicians. Formally, it was his finest
achievement since Freewheeling but while the appeal of the Free-
ivheelin'' songs was the illusion of spontaneous folk expression, the
songs from Blonde on Blonde were clearly artifacts, lovingly and
carefully made. The music was rock and Nashville country, with a
sprinkling of blues runs and English-ballad arpeggios. Themati-
cally, the album was a unity. It explored the subworld pop was
creating, an exotic milieu of velvet doors and scorpions, cool sex
("I saw you makin love with him,/ you forgot to close the garage
door"), zany fashions ("it balances on your head just like a mat-
tress balances on a bottle of wine,/ your brand-new leopard-skin
pillbox hat"), strange potions ("it strangled up my mind,/now
people just get uglier and I have no sense of time"), neurotic
women ("she's like all the rest/ with her fog, her amphetamine, and
her pearls").
The songs did not preach: Dylan was no longer rebel but
seismograph, registering his emotions—fascination, confusion,
pity, annoyance, exuberance, anguish—with sardonic lucidity.
Only once, in "Just like a Woman," did his culture shock get out
of control: "I can't stay in here/ ain't it clear/ that I just can't fit."
Many of the songs were about child-women, bitchy, unreliable,
sometimes vulnerable, usually one step ahead: "I told you as you
clawed out my eyes/ I never really meant to do you any harm."
But there were also goddesses like Johanna and the mercury-
mouthed, silken-fleshed Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, Beatrices
of pop who shed not merely light but kaleidoscopic images.
The fashionable, sybaritic denizens of Blonde on Blonde are the
sort of people despised by radicals as apologists for the system. Yet
21
in accepting the surface that system has produced, they subvert its
assumptions. Conservative and Utopian ideologues agree that man
must understand and control his environment; the questions are
how, and for whose benefit. But pop culture defines man as a
receiver of stimuli, his environment as sensory patterns to be en-
joyed, not interpreted (literature and philosophy are irrelevant) or
acted upon (politics is irrelevant). "If you want to understand me,
look at my surface," says Andy Warhol. And "I like my paintings
because anybody can do them." The bureaucrat defends standardi-
zation because it makes a complex society manageable. Yet he
thinks of himself as an individualist, and finds the idea of mass-
produced, mechanized art incomprehensible, threatening—or a put-
on. The pop artist looks at mass culture naively and sees beauty in
its regular patterns; like an anthropologist exhibiting Indian basket-
weaving, Warhol shows us our folk art—soup cans. His message—
the Emperor has no clothes, but that's all right, in fact it's beautiful
—takes acceptance of image for essence to its logical extreme.
Blonde on Blonde is about this love of surface.
Dylan's sensitivity to pop comes straight out of his folk back-
ground. Both folk and pop mentalities are leery of abstractions,
and Dylan's appreciation of surface detail represents Guthriesque
common sense—to Dylan, a television commercial was always a
television commercial as well as a symbol of alienation. From the
first, a basic pragmatism tempered his commitment to the passion-
ate excesses of the revolutionist and the poete maudit and set him
apart from hipster heroes like James Dean. Like the beats, who
admired the total revolt of the hipster from a safe distance, Dylan
is essentially nonviolent. Any vengefulness in his songs is either
impersonal or funny, like the threats of a little boy to beat up the
bad guys; more often, he is the bemused butt of slapstick cruelty:
"I've got a woman, she's so mean/ sticks my boots in the washing
machine/ sticks me with buckshot when I'm nude/ puts bubble
gum in my food."
Dylan's basic rapport with reality has also saved him from the
excesses of pop, kept him from merging, Warhol-like, into his pub-
22
Dylan
lie surface. John Wesley Harding, released after twenty months of

silence, shows that Dylan is still intact in spirit as well as body. The
songs are more impersonal—and in a way more inscrutable—than
ever, yet the human being behind them has never seemed less myste-
rious. For they reveal Dylan not as the protean embodiment of some
collective nerve, but as an alert artist responding to challenge from
his peers. If Dylan's first rock-and-roll songs were his reaction to
the cultural changes the new rock represented, John Wesley Hard-
ing is a reaction to the music itself as it has evolved since his
accident. The album is comprehensible only in this context.
As Dylan's recovery advanced, he began making the papers
again. He signed a new contract with Columbia—the defection to
MGM never came off—and the company announced that he was
recording. Dylan was still revered, his near-mythic status only
solidified by his long absence from the scene. But whether he
could come back as an active performer was another question.
Shortly after the appearance of Blonde on Blonde, three important
albums—the Beatles' Revolver, the Stones' Aftermath, and the
Beach Boys' Pet Sounds—had all set new standards of musical
ambition and pretension. Ever since, the "serious" rock groups had
been producing albums that said, in effect, "Can you top this?"—a
competition that extended to album covers and titles. In the spring
of 1967 the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club
Band, possibly the most elaborate rock album ever made and cer-
tainly the most celebrated. It was reported that Dylan had listened
to the first few cuts of Sgt. Pepper and snapped "Turn that off!";
perhaps the new developments in rock—which he had done so
much to inspire—had left him behind. On the other hand, perhaps
he was leaving rock behind. Many of Dylan's associates—notably
Tom Wilson, his former A&R man—had always insisted that
Dylan was much more sophisticated musically than he let on. And
in May a New York Daily News reporter quoted Dylan as saying
he was at work on "two new sounds."
By Christmas the Stones were first in the pretensions sweep-
stakes—Their Satanic Majesties Request, with its 3-D cover, was
23
almost a parody of the whole art-rock phenomenon. How was

Dylan going to top that? Everyone waited for a revolutionary
masterpiece or an extravagant flop. What we got was John Wesley
Harding in a plain gray jacket with a polaroid snapshot of Dylan
and three Indians in the country. The first sound to greet the eager
listener was the strumming of an acoustic guitar. The first line of
the first song was "John Wesley Harding was a friend to the
poor." Dylan had done it again.
The new melodies are absurdly simple, even for Dylan; the only
instruments backing his guitar, piano, and harmonica are a bass, a
drum, and in two songs an extra guitar; the rock beat has faded out
and the country and English ballad strains now dominate. The
titles are all as straight as "John Wesley Harding": most are taken
from the first lines of the songs. The lyrics are not only simple but
understated in a way that shows Dylan has learned a trick or two
from Lennon-McCartney, and they are folk lyrics. Or more pre-
cisely, affectionate comments on folk lyrics—the album is not a
reversion to his early work but a kind of hymn to it. Nearly all the
songs play with the cliches of folk music. The title song, for
instance, seems at first hearing to be a second-rate "Jesse James" or
"Pretty Boy Floyd." It starts out with all the catch phrases about
the benevolent outlaw, then goes into the story: "It was down in
Cheney County the time they talk about/ With his lady by his side
he took a stand." But the next line goes right out of it again: "And
soon the situation there was all but straightened out." You never
learn what happened in Cheney County or why it wasn't entirely
straightened out, and the song ends with more stock lines about
the bandit's elusiveness and the helplessness of the law. It is not
about John Wesley Harding, but about a familiar formula: and
this, friends, is how you write the generic outlaw song.
Several of the songs are folk-style fantasies. "Frankie Lee and
Judas Priest" is both a folk ballad (based on another stock situa-
tion, the gambler on the road) and one of Dylan's surrealist dream
songs; "As I Walked Out One Morning" describes a run-in with
an Arthurian enchantress as if she were a revenue agent or the
farmer's daughter. This juxtaposition of the conventional and the
H
Dylan
fantastic produces an unsettling gnomic effect, enhanced in some

cases by truncated endings—in "The Drifter's Escape," the drift-
er's trial for some unknown offense ends abruptly when lightning
strikes the courthouse and he gets away in the confusion; "All
along the Watchtower" ends with a beginning, "Two riders were
approaching, the wind began to howl." The aura of the uncanny
that these songs create is probably what Dylan meant when he
remarked, years ago, that folk songs grew out of mysteries.
But some of the album is sheer fun, especially "Down Along the
Cove," a jaunty blues banged out on the piano, and "I'll Be Your
Baby Tonight," a thirties-type pop tune that rhymes "moon" with
"spoon" for the benefit of those pundits who are always crowing
over the demise of "Tin Pan Alley pap." And "Dear Landlord,"
the best cut musically, is further evidence that Dylan has—well,
the only word for it is mellowed: "Now each of us has his own
special gift and you know this was meant to be true,/And if you
don't underestimate me I won't underestimate you." In the end,
what this album is about is Dylan's reconciliation with his past,
with ordinary people, and even—warily, ambivalently—with his
archenemies, the landlords of the world.
Of course, being Bob Dylan, he has turned this reconciliation
into a rebellion. His sudden removal of the mask—see, it's me, a
songwriter, I just want to write nice songs—and the apparent step
backward could be as traumatic for the public as his previous
metamorphoses; Dylan is still in the business of shaking us up. John
Wesley Harding does not measure up to Blonde on Blonde. It is
basically a tour de force. But it serves its purpose, which is to
liberate Dylan—and the rest of us—from the Sgt. Pepper strait-
jacket. Dylan is free now to work on his own terms. It would be
foolish to predict what he will do next. But I hope he will remain a
mediator, using the language of pop to transcend it. If the gap
between past and present continues to widen, such mediation may
be crucial. In a communications crisis, the true prophets are the
translators.
1961-1968
25
You Can't Go Down
Home Again
I t was a hot, bright Saturday afternoon, and some nine thousand

sunburned fans roamed through Newport's Festival Field sam-
pling the folk music workshops. Although there was a semblance
of a schedule (the staff had mimeographed a map of offerings
ranging from Folk Dance to Banjo, from Bluegrass to Blues Jam
Session Open to All), groups formed and dissolved and regrouped
pretty much as they pleased. Some people tried to guess where
the celebrities would go—the workshops provided informal contact
with performers, and everyone wanted informal contact with B.
B. King, Taj Mahal, and Janis Joplin—but most took potluck.
Over at Area 17 (Contemporary), Tim Buckley sang to fifty
people; down behind the food tentT Pete Seeger admired a Yugo-
slavian fan's homemade guitar and told someone from WBAI if he
ever needed free records to write to him. The ticket-buying crowd
was on the straight side. Most of the grungier types—the ones
who made Newport cabdrivers slow down and say "Willyalookit
that!"—were nonpaying fellow travelers who gathered in the
hills behind the fairgrounds, like Hitchcock's birds, waiting for
26
You Can't Go Down Home Again
the evening concert. Inside, the norm was hair above shoulders,
work shirts rather than beads, McCarthy and Peace and We Cry
Harder Schlitz Beer buttons. Near the main gate, next to tents
displaying guitars, Times Square psychedelic jewelry, and Joan
Baez's autobiography, stood a VISTA recruiting booth emblazoned
with a poster of Dustin Hoffman captioned "What'll You Do
When You Graduate?"
Then into this pastoral carnival crashed the sound of—electric
blues. The workshops were not supposed to use amplification, but
for obvious reasons this rule could not apply to City Blues, so a
minimum of sound equipment had been set up on the amphitheater
stage. Behind the amps the stage filled up with kids; others gravi-
tated to the seats below. They were hoping for B. B. King or Big
Brother and the Holding Company but were happy to get Junior
Wells and Buddy Guy. Wells and Guy are much closer to pop
than to folk. Their blues are hard, almost r.-&-b., with drumming
that could pass at Motown; their act—dancing, hugging each
other, exhorting the audience, jumping off the stage—resembles a
soul show. And they are loud. Within minutes they had attracted a
concert-sized crowd (nearly as large, in fact, as the audience the
previous night). Finally, George Wein, the festival's rotund direc-
tor, clambered onstage and suggested turning down the sound a
bit.
The spectators groaned.
"But it's too loud, it's interfering with the other workshops."
"Kill the others!"
"Stop the other workshops!"
Supporting shouts and applause.
"Suppose we turn these mikes off, and turn them on when some-
body's singing—"
The crowd booed and hissed.
Wein capitulated, and Buddy Guy announced, "This is my first
year at Newport, and now you people have to come to Chicago.
We play loud! I'd like this mike even louder!"
Everybody cheered.
2
7
As soon as Wells and Guy had finished, the audience began

yelling "B. B.!" and "Big Brother!" and "fan-niss!"
"We had something unique set up here," Wein announced
sadly. "Twenty-two workshops . . . no amplification . . . so each
little group could ..."
"BIG BROTHER!"
They settled for the Jim Kweskin Jug Band and, a little less
graciously, for Uoc Watson ("This was supposed to be blues"
someone grumbled), but the excitement was gone. Watson, an
excellent country guitarist, did a fine set, which got an apprecia-
tive but reserved reaction, and everyone filed out. A blond girl in a
floppy hat raced backstage to join some friends. "Hello, you
freaks!" she squealed. "I shook hands with Buddy Guy!"
That same afternoon, Richard Goldstein, pop music columnist
for the Village Voice, entered the press tent to make a phone call.
Goldstein, who is twenty-four but looks eighteen and has long,
straggly hair, a mustache, and muttonchops, was wearing a white
jacket trimmed with embroidered flowers. A festival official,
Charles Bourgeois (sic), stopped him at the door; when he showed
his press pass and stood his ground, Bourgeois called him "just
another one of those young punks" and confiscated the pass, be-
cause, he said later, he assumed it was stolen.
That was the way it went at Newport this year. Perhaps it is
presumptuous to call the folk festival a failure; it did draw seventy
thousand people, and most of the concerts were worth hearing.
But it failed as a festival. Instead of camaraderie, there was tension;
instead of participation, consumership. All weekend, the manage-
ment was busy trying to manipulate a sullen audience and a bunch
of equally hostile, if more reticent, performers. As usual, the trou-
ble can be traced less to individuals than to the system. The New-
port Folk Festival and its many imitators were conceived
according to a simple and (at the time) brilliant formula: popular
folk stars, performing for almost no money, would attract a huge
audience and subsidize the appearance of noncommercial, tradi-
tional musicians, thus exposing the kids who came to see Baez and
28
Dylan to authentic ethnic music. During the peak years of the folk
revival the formula worked beautifully. Folk festivals were, above
all, exercises in community. There was a continuity of values,
style, and musical goals between urban and ethnic musicians; the
former regarded the latter as their mentors and were eager to meet
them. Similarly, the audience approached the traditional per-
formers receptively and reverently, even making heroes—new
stars—out of the Doc Watsons and the John Hurts. There was real
respect for amateur creation; thousands of kids brought their own
instruments and spent their time learning from performers and
from each other. The producers, the fans, and many of the musi-
cians shared the urban folk ethos, which combined rejection of
mass culture with an amorphous, sentimental, pro—civil rights,
propeace leftism. But now the folk revival has been eclipsed by the
excitement over pop music, and an entirely different spirit prevails.
Most pop stars, including those whose roots are in folk music, have
little in common with rural, ethnic types. They are pros, very much
involved in commerce, in show business, in pleasing an audience,
and not at all apologetic about it; they are also personalities, in-
capable of effacing themselves in the we-are-all-equals-here folk
manner even if they should want to. Nor is the rock audience
especially interested in traditional musicians and the values they
represent. As a result, the strategy that was so successful in 1963
was a fiasco in 1968. The stars brought the crowd, all right, but
their glow failed to illuminate the less commercial acts, which
were received with restless apathy. So were attempts to appeal to
political emotions. One performer invoked Fannie Lou Hamer,
another compared a Serbian peasant uprising to the Vietnamese
revolution, another sang songs about burning cities and indifferent
middle-class Negroes. No one seemed to hear. Only Joan Baez,
reminiscing about the time she spent in jail for civil disobedience,
revived some of the old feeling, but then she was Joan Baez.
Most of those seventy thousand people had apparently come not
as true believers but as businesslike consumers, determined to get
their money's worth. I saw few offstage guitars and banjos, or
29
groups of kids getting together to play and sing. The audience

wanted to participate in its own way—to be allowed to respond to
the idols it had come to hear. But orgiastic hero worship was
exactly what the festival staff was trying to avoid. The focus of
the tension here was amplification. Every year since 1965, 'when a
purist crowd booed Bob Dylan for playing his electric guitar,
Wein has cautiously increased the festival's quota of electric musi-
cians. But he can go just so far. The town, which has always been
dubious about the festival and the assorted bohemians it attracts
(this year Wein had to fight for a permit to put on an auxiliary
concert in the local high school), will not tolerate a lot of loud
music. Even more important, amplified music tends to overwhelm
everything else. If the festival is to remain a folk festival, rock and
urban-blues groups cannot be allowed to dominate it. Neverthe-
less, it is ridiculous to invite electric acts—especially when they are
supposed to be the drawing cards—and tell them they can't make
music the way they want to make it and the audience wants to
hear it. For most of the weekend, amplifiers were kept at low
volume. This was especially disastrous for Taj Mahal, who
sounded sickly, but all the electric performers resented it; they
were not willing to go along with the Newport game, which de-
creed that they were mere crowd-pleasers and that Libba Gotten,
Henry Crowdog, and Buell Kazee were the real V.I.P.s. The staff
aggravated the bad feeling by regarding the festival crowd—partic-
ularly the hangers-on camping on the hill—mainly as a nuisance
and a potential threat to order. There were fences and cops all
over the place; the half-empty box seats were guarded from incur-
sions by the proles, and God help the unwary spectator who tried
to buy a Coke at the performers' refreshment stand. But the week-
end passed with only one serious incident: several kids went to the
hospital after dropping some unidentified pills, and the rumor per-
sisted, in spite of Wein's denial, that one girl had died. On Sunday,
Yippie leader Jerry Rubin was hustled out of Festival Field for
giving "pornographic literature" (a Yippie leaflet illustrated with a
30
You Carft Go Down Home Again
sketch of a copulating couple) to a nun; the nun took it in stride,

but Wein was outraged. Otherwise, things were all too peaceful.
The first evening concert, on Thursday night, was a grim affair

called Free Form Folk. Jim Kweskin, a member of the festival's
board of directors, had instigated an experiment in spontaneity.
There was to be no schedule, no program; a group of performers
would get onstage, and the rest would be up to them. "In this new
age of LSD, pot, macrobiotics, yoga masters, and the total involve-
ment of psychedelic ballrooms and light shows," he explained in
the festival program (why, I wondered, did he leave out scientol-
ogy and glossolalia?), "people seem to be no longer satisfied with
the old concept of a stage with performers and an audience with
spectators." Further on, he declared, "We want to take that step
into the void of the unknown." Predictably, the spontaneity that
resulted was that of a bad party. ("I was told that a lot of people
here don't know what's happenin'," said Kweskin, acting as non-
announcer. "Well, you're not alone, ha ha! We don't know what's
happenin', either.") The two dozen or so performers remained on
the stage, where they didn't quite know what to do, and the spec-
tators remained in the audience, where they were bored. The only
void in evidence was a large patch of empty seats—the weekend
influx had barely begun. And new age or not, the air was per-
meated with the scent of moldy fig; the performer who copped
my Almeda Riddle "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" Folk-Camp Award
with a song about the joys of apple-picking had plenty of competi-
tion.
There were a few happy moments. Eric von Schmidt, the
Henry Miller of the folk revival, sang a lusty "London Waltz"
("The Rolling Stones were there/ Strapped to the electric
chair"); the Kaleidoscope, a rock band strongly influenced by
Middle Eastern music, was impressive; and Sandy Bull played,
much too briefly. But Taj Mahal, handicapped by a mediocre band
as well as anemic amps, was a disappointment. As for the evening's
31
star attraction, Richie Havens, he did his classic, yow-know-the-

words hummed version of "A Little Help from My Friends,"
mangled a couple of Dylan songs, treated us to the ultimate in folk
art—the guitar-strum solo—and got a standing ovation. If he had
just stood there, it would have made no difference; the crowd was
hungry for someone it knew. The concert lasted much too long;
since there was no program, no one knew when to stop. But I was
afraid to leave, still tyrannized by stories about Bobby or Joanie
dropping in after the tourists had gone and playing for the real
fans. Finally, all the performers joined in on about ten drippy
verses of "At the End of a Long, Lonely Day"—a finale if I'd ever
heard one. I had gone as far as the parking lot when Joan Baez
made an unscheduled appearance and sang something about lend-
ing a helping hand.
Friday night, Streets and Mountains, was better. The draggier

part of the program, which included a fatter, louder version of
Odetta and a superannuated mountain singer, was enlivened by
Janis Joplin, who breezed through the audience wearing a flow-
ered hat and carrying a champagne glass in each hand. There was a
soft buzz—superstar in our midst. Happy and tough and above it
all, she stopped in the middle of the aisle, looked around, and
disappeared into the performers' tent. Then Arlo Guthrie came
on, with his white suit, electric hair, mock-hillbilly-gangster ac-
cent, and wide-eyed deadpan, and milked his one joke—the ab-
surdity of the bureaucratic mind—for fifteen funny minutes of
song and monologue. During the second half Joan Baez surprised
me with an imaginative selection of songs, including "Gentle on
My Mind" and "Suzanne"; her main faults used to be overserious-
ness and lack of variety, and she seems to have conquered both. The
most interesting act on the bill was the Bread and Puppet Theatre,
a troupe that blends mime, dance, puppetry, and music into the
most polished protest art I have ever seen. At its best the staging is
so tight that you can't tell the giant papier-mache puppets from
32
the people. But a lot of the effect depends on lighting and on an

intimate atmosphere, so in the huge amphitheater it didn't quite
come off. At the end of the play, which involved a highly stylized
confrontation between young people and robed figures in death
masks, a confused audience waited in silence for it to continue,
then clapped uncertainly. Joan Baez and the other performers,
along with what looked like a large LBJ puppet, came on for a
finale, "Down by the Riverside." And it wasn't even midnight.
The high point of the festival was the Saturday night concert,
Country Music for City Folks. The performances were almost
uniformly good, and for once the unresponsiveness of the audi-
ence annoyed me. George Hamilton IV (remember "A Rose and a
Baby Ruth"?) brought his strong voice and mellow (electric)
guitar to Gordon Lightfoot's "Early Morning Rain"; Roy Acuff
mugged, twirled his yo-yo, and did "Wabash Cannon Ball"; Joan
Baez sang—right out there onstage—one of my guilty secret loves,
"The Green Green Grass of Home," which has about as much
cachet as "Yummy Yummy Yummy." But everyone waited impa-
tiently for the two big acts, which weren't country at all. B. B.
King appeared just before intermission and put on his usual
superlative show. I admire B. B. more than I like him. I'd rather
watch Willie Mays than Joe DiMaggio, and King's music is too
controlled and sophisticated for me. Still, I was a little disturbed
when King—perhaps trying to emulate Otis Redding's success at
the Monterey Pop Festival—ended his performance with a spiel
about how the world needs love. It wasn't like him, and it didn't
work. Big Brother, of course, was held till the end, while the
crowd grew steadily more restless; people kept walking in and out,
and bought a lot of hot dogs. Then it was time, and Janis, in one of
her great sleazy outfits—a low-cut black minidress with a tinselly
bodice, a Dracula cape, and rhinestone arm bracelets—launched
into "Piece of My Heart." Her voice was a bit thin (paranoiacally,
perhaps, I suspected skulduggery with the mike), but the group
33
played much better than I had remembered. The amps were

turned up, and it was good to hear real rock again. Afterward,
there was a party in town. B. B. played, Taj Mahal thought his
own thoughts, Janis danced and drank ("They don't pay you
nothin', man," she said. "But I had a good time tonight, that's
what counts"), and the college kids with phony passes gaped. The
music was very loud.
Sunday, the last day. The afternoon Fresh Faces concert was
entertaining. The most exciting fresh faces belonged to the
Kaleidoscope, who did a mordant contemporary version of "Oh
Death" and a quasi-oriental piece, "Taxim." In the evening, it
rained; Doc Watson was great; Janis Ian did her best to prove that
"Society's Child" and "Janey's Blues" were happy flukes; George
Wein announced that this was the best festival ever and that the
crowd had behaved beautifully. The second half of the evening
concert was dedicated to Woody Guthrie; the performers sang
Guthrie's songs and read from his autobiography. I might have
enjoyed this more if I had not seen the original Guthrie Memorial
at Carnegie Hall, which was warmer and better organized and had
Bob Dylan besides. Still, it was a good way to end. Guthrie repre-
sents the best of what the Newport Folk Festival has stood for; his
songs transcend fashion—as all folk music is supposed to do,
though little of it does. An hour of "This Train" and "Talkin'
Dust Bowl" and "This Land Is Your Land" did a lot to soothe the
bitterness of that uptight weekend. At the end I even wanted to
linger, but my friends were anxious to get started, hoping to beat
the inevitable jam at the ferry. That transportation problem won't
be around much longer—a bridge and an interstate highway are in
the works. Neither will Festival Field, which is in the path of the
highway. Cheap irony, perhaps, but I can't help hoping that some-
one will take the hint. The folk festival needs more than a new
home. It needs a whole new rationale.
August 1968
34
The Who Sell
E arly in 1966,1 got hold of two 455 a tourist friend had brought
back from England—"Anyway Anyhow Anywhere" and
"Substitute," by an unknown (in the States) rock group called
the Who. The records turned out to be driving, snarling, harder-
than-Stones rock-and-roll, with tough, sophisticated lyrics. "Sub-
stitute" was—though I didn't think in such terms then—the best
rock-as-paradox song ever written. ("Street Fighting Man" is
second.) It embodied the tension between the wildness of rock
and its artificiality. Its hero remarks that he might look tall, but only
because of his high heels: "I look all white, but my dad was black."
In addition, these musicians I had never heard of were using the
feedback from their amplifiers to make unheard-of noises, adding
chaos to the steady violence of the beat. It seemed an odd case
of cultural lag that the Who hadn't caught on here. They were
obviously superstar material, they were apparently making it big
in England, and "Substitute" was a sure hit if I had ever heard
one. I went looking for more Who records. I had to look pretty
hard, but within a few weeks I had found an American version of
"Substitute," recorded on Atco (with the reference to interracial
35
parentage deleted), and the Who's first album, My Generation

(on Decca), both of which I immediately bought.
As funny as the Beatles, as arrogant as the Stones, the Who
specialized in an unbohemian youth-prole defiance that was much
closer to the spirit of fifties rock. As Peter Townshend, the
group's lead guitarist, chief songwriter, and presiding genius put it
recently, "Mick Jagger was a beatnik. I only became one later."
The unadorned message of the album's title song ("Why don't
you all f-f-fade away?/ Don't try to dig what we all s-s-say") was
familiar, though the anarchic electronic noise was new. That sum-
mer, when the Beatles amazed us with Revolver, I decided that the
Who had missed their chance. They were wonderful, but too
provincial and unpolished for the great studio-rock era then
emerging. Neither Atco, which had not yet learned how to pro-
mote the new rock, nor Decca, an easy-listening, country-oriented
label, had recognized the Who's potential, and now it was too late.
By rights, the Who should have been up there with the Beatles and
the Stones—international celebrities, cosmopolites. Instead, I fig-
ured, they would wind up in some Birmingham factory. In taking
the Who's image so literally, I was badly underestimating Town-
shend's brilliance—but also paying it unwitting tribute.
Months later, the Who finally had their first Stateside success.
"Happy Jack," a medium-sized hit, became the title song of a new
album. In accordance with the times, the Who's music had grown
more complex and subtle; the violence was balanced by playful-
ness, and the suggestion of the fifties was gone. Generational
polemics had given way to narratives and character sketches, often
infused with whimsy. I missed the crude energy but liked what
had replaced it. The major achievement of the album was "A
Quick One While He's Away," a series of brief songs about a
woman, her late-arriving lover, and her temporary comforter, Ivor
the Engine Driver. The mini-opera, as Townshend called it, ended
with a transcendent, Messiah-like chorus of "You are forgiven!"—
energy transformed into love and exaltation.
The Who toured the United States and established themselves as
36
The Who Sell
fine live performers. Roger Daltrey, the blond lead singer, made
angel faces for the Who's newer, gentler songs, with their freaky
characters—"Tattoo," "I'm a Boy," "Happy Jack"—but could
switch to convincing j.-d. truculence for old standards like "My
Generation." Keith Moon gave a nonstop, manic show on the
drums. Townshend kept up and elaborated his cathartic smash-the-
guitar (and sometimes the sound equipment) finale. The Who
were enthusiastically received at the Monterey Pop Festival and
began to gather an underground following—"underground" in
that Decca wasn't pushing them. The group's managers pushed
them instead and, aided by the hip community's efficient grape-
vine, generated another hit single, "I Can See for Miles," and made
a best seller out of the Who's next L.P., The Who Sell Out.
The album was presented as a top-forty program, complete with
commercials and disc-jockey patter, on Radio London, one of the
illegal offshore radio stations that had been challenging the B.B.C.'s
monopoly and, not incidentally, providing England with its first
authentic rock radio. The Who Sell Out was not a satire—as many
American bohemians, with their anticommercial reflexes, assumed
—but a tribute. It was also the Who's first direct acknowledgment
of the pop consciousness that had always informed their style and
their music, from Townshend's British-flag jackets to footnotes on
mass culture like "Substitute" to songs like "Anyway Anyhow
Anywhere," which, as Townshend explains, "looked, felt, and
sounded like pop records but were deliberately polished up to
make them more exciting." The Who Sell Out emphasized the
tender aspect of pop—its humanity, rather than its aggressive vul-
garity. The characters portrayed in the songs were all more or less
unworldly—misfits in some way—but nonetheless the kind of peo-
ple who eat Heinz baked beans and sign up for instruction from
Charles Atlas. In a sense the record was a protest against the idea of
mass man; the characters in the beautifully crafted singing com-
mercials (Spotted Henry, who found salvation in Medac pimple-
remover, and the actress whose deodorant let her down in
"Odorono") had the uniqueness and the spiritual dignity of, say,
37
Mary-Anne with the Shaky Hands or Silas Stingy or the religious

crusader of "Rael." Townshend's message seemed to be that peo-
ple's foibles made them worthy of love. As in "A Quick One,"
with its theme of sin and redemption, the Christian overtones were
there, but deflated to the level of the ridiculously, banally human.
People might be too preoccupied with acne, money, sex, or crazy
religious wars on islands, but "You are forgiven!"
The fourth Who album was a debacle. Without the Who's
knowledge or permission, Decca, which still hadn't caught on to
what was happening—or didn't care—took their current single,
"Magic Bus," threw in whatever old Who tracks were available,
some of them from previous albums, and created a mediocrity
called Magic Bus: The Who on Tour. From Decca's standpoint
this was perfectly logical: when you have a hit record, you
squeeze extra money out of it by putting out a padded album—
right? Right—five years ago. The group was furious, and the re-
sulting showdown apparently blew some cobwebs out of Decca's
offices. In any case, the Who's new double-album rock opera,
Tommy, has been packaged with as much care, and released with
as much fanfare, as it deserves—which is plenty.
As befits an opera, Tommy has a highly melodramatic plot.
Little Tommy Walker sees his father kill his mother's lover and
goes blind, deaf, and dumb when his parents exhort him, "You
didn't hear it,/ You didn't see it./ You won't say nothing to no
one." He is bullied by a cousin, raped by an alcoholic uncle, and
pitied by his parents, but develops a rich inner life. He takes LSD,
becomes a famous pinball champion, is finally cured of his afflic-
tions, and is hailed by thousands as a new messiah. But when he
insists that his followers seek enlightenment by playing pinball
with their eyes covered and their ears and mouths stopped, the
people reject him, and he reverts to a solipsistic existence. Tommy
succeeds purely as rock; like most of the Who's work, it combines
maximum breakout frenzy (which they perfected long before the
white blues bands came along) with maximum economy and re-
straint. But there is an added dimension, first hinted at in "A Quick
38
The Who Sell
One"—a quiet, melodic lyricism that represents spirituality. The

melodies in Tommy are the most compelling that Townshend has
written, especially in the songs that go on wholly or partly inside
Tommy's head—"Amazing Journey," "Sensation," "Go to the
Mirror." The result is a dramatic—even operatic—tension, ex-
pressed as noise vs. music, between the outside world's destruc-
tiveness toward Tommy and his inner peace and growth.
Although Tommy is clearly sympathetic and, in fact, a hero,
struggling out of a hopeless situation to attain near-divinity,
Townshend is too much of a populist simply to glorify mysticism.
Tommy's version of enlightenment has its ludicrous side—it's hard
to blame the people for backing out. And he is ultimately a failure,
a wounded ego going back into himself instead of out into the
world. The people's point of view is best articulated in a song
about a groupie named Sally Simpson: though she reaches out to
Tommy because he serves a need, for sex or love or rebellion
against her father, "She knew from the start/ Deep down in her
heart/ That she and Tommy were worlds apart." Townshend's
basic skepticism about transcendental solutions comes through in
one of the opera's key songs, "The Acid Queen." Not only does
acid fail to cure Tommy, as advertised, but there is a suggestion
that the trip is a torture much like nasty Cousin Kevin's or dirty
Uncle Ernie's: "He's never been more alive./ His head it shakes,
his fingers clutch./ Watch his body writhe!"
Tommy works both as a long coherent piece and as a collection
of songs. Although rock opera is a dangerously pretentious con-
cept, the album is neither arty nor boring, because each cut—
except for one rather monotonous instrumental—is a short, self-
contained, excellent pop song. "Pin Ball Wizard" is even more
than excellent—it's one of the great rock songs of the decade.
With those two exceptions, the records are too uniformly good
for one track or another to be singled out for mention.
So the Who have finally made it, both critically and commer-
cially, and everyone is happy for them and especially for Town-
shend. Yet the years of struggle did have their positive side. For
39
rock musicians, freedom is the recognition of commercial neces-

sity; no one knows that better than Pete Townshend. From the
beginning, the Who knew they had it ("All the groups knew they
had it," says Townshend, "but we really knew we had it") and
were determined to break through, differentiate themselves from
the hundreds, maybe thousands, of British groups that had been
inspired by the Beatles. Townshend created and exaggerated an
image ("American bands don't understand about image; that's why
you can't tell one from the other"), and the image became the
Who and became a myth. Pete's guitar-smashing climax started as
an assault on indifference: "There was magic in the group, and we
weren't communicating it; I had to do something." Decca's neglect
and the elusiveness of success in America forced the Who to keep
honing and refining the image, the music, the act.
The group's evolution has also been a function of Townshend's
personal growth: "Look, rock and roll is above all an expression of
the frustrations of youth. Well, this is 1969, I'm an adult, I don't
have the same frustrations anymore. My concerns now are mainly
spiritual." Nevertheless, the Who remain the Who, and at the core
of their music, however spiritualized, is rock-and-roll. They look
all white, but their dad was black. They are no longer kids, but
they have not forgotten.
July 1969
40
Elvis in Las Vegas
t Vegas is more like Hollywood than Hollywood, because the

money is changing hands right out front. Committed to
veneer as an art form, over-thirty and relentlessly white in essence,
if not always in packaging, Vegas is the antithesis of the cultural
revolution. Its hopelessly reactionary nature is best exemplified
not by the fountains in front of Caesars Palace, or even by the
ethnic comedians, but by the existence of—yes—prominent citi-
zens who want to Make Las Vegas Beautiful, which means toning
down the neon on Fremont Street and creating vest-pocket parks.
Andy Warhol, tolerant as he is, would have a hard time justifying
that. Yet the metaphor of the crap game does have its application
to rock: "Just give me money,/ That's what I want." The crass
determination to get rich has been one of the great unsung forces
behind the cultural revolution. Of course, it has also worked the
other way. In the past fifteen years Hollywood and its variants
have bought off plenty of rock performers: the Paul Anka types,
who used rock as a detour until the nightclubs were ready for
them; black people—like the Supremes—who identified success
with whiteness; and, most important of all, Elvis Presley. Elvis,
41
the very definition of rock-and-roll for its vociferous defenders

and detractors, became the first rock-and-roller to switch to ballads
for the whole family and a pioneer (here he had some competition
from Annette Funicello and friends) of the unalienated youth
movie. You couldn't blame Elvis. In those days everyone kept
speculating about what would happen to punks like him when the
rock-and-roll fad was over. It took the Beatles to affirm the first
principle of the cultural revolution: the kids have money, and kid
music equals kid capitalism. Colonel Parker, meet Brian Epstein.
When I heard that Presley had accepted an engagement at the
new International Hotel in Las Vegas and was to give his first
concert in nine years, I knew the confrontation had to be interest-
ing. Elvis was at once old money and young money, sellout and
folk hero. How would he play it? In his television special last
winter he wore a leather jacket and wiggled his hips. But then he
recorded "In the Ghetto," which was weak on beat and strong on
slush. It was a number-one hit—except in the ghetto—and no
doubt met with the approval of the Make Las Vegas Beautiful
folks. Now Kirk Kerkorian, who owns the International and ap-
parently wants to become Nevada's other famous tycoon, was
energetically promoting Elvis's return to the stage. He invited all
the New York rock writers to come out in his plane—the first
privately owned DC-p, remodeled to seat twenty people and make
the usual first-class accommodations look chintzy. The press re-
leases for the hotel promised that all its features would be the
largest, the newest, and the most expensive. I decided to ignore my
misgivings about junkets (a traditional Hollywood institution). In
a medium as sensitive to context as rock, the hype is an essential
part of the message; the story, I rationalized, was not just Elvis,
but Elvis and all of us in Kerkorian's womb. Along with other
refugees from the cultural revolution, armed with long hair, giant
sunglasses, and artificial euphoriants, I set out to dig Babylon:
garish is beautiful. There was something to be said for the Las
Vegas thing. At the same time 1 hoped Elvis would be crude and
surly and stomp all over the veneer with his blue suede shoes.
42
Elvis in Las Vegas
The opening took place in the Showroom Internationale, a two-

thousand-seat nightclub whose sublimely irrelevant decor included
relief carvings of Greek temples and winged gods and goddesses,
and whose menu that night consisted of such tasty items as Aloyau
Roti a 1'Anglaise Perigourdine and Pointes d'Asperges au Beurre.
The audience was 99.44 percent white and predominantly middle-
aged and moneyed; the celebrities present ranged from Fats Dom-
ino and Phil Ochs to Pat Boone and Henry Mancini. I was sur-
prised at how seriously people were taking the occasion. They
seemed to feel that Elvis was theirs, not just a progenitor of the
music their kids listened to. A woman of fifty who had come from
Los Angeles whispered excitedly, "My husband thinks I'm real
silly, but I always wanted to see Elvis in person." It was obviously
the raunchy Elvis, not the Hollywood Elvis, that she wanted to
see.
We had to sit through the Sweet Inspirations—a great black
gospel-rock group that persists in wasting its talent singing "Alfie"
—and one of those unmentionable comedians. Then Presley came
on and immediately shook up all my expectations and preconceived
categories. There was a new man out there. A grown man in black
bell-bottoms, tunic, and neckerchief, devoid of pout and baby fat,
skinny, sexy, totally alert, nervous but smiling easily. For some
reason he had dyed his hair black. It was the same length as ever,
but combed down instead of back into a ducktail. He started with
"Blue Suede Shoes." He still moved around a lot, but in a much
different spirit. What was once deadly serious frenzy had been
infused with humor and a certain detachment: This is where it
began—isn't it a good thing? Though the show was more than
anything else an affirmation of Presley's sustaining love for rhythm-
and-blues—we knew it all the time, Elvis—it was not burdened by
an oppressive reverence for the past. He knew better than to try to
be nineteen again. He had quite enough to offer at thirty-three. He
sang most of his old songs, including a few of the better ballads,
and a couple of new ones. When he did "In the Ghetto," his
emotion was so honest it transformed the song; for the first time I
43
saw it as representing a white Southern boy's feeling for black

music, with all that that implied. "Suspicious Minds," an earthy
country-rock song about jealousy, which is going to be Presley's
new single, was the highlight of the show. Almost as exciting was
his version of "What'd I Say." The only mistake he made was to
sing the coda from "Hey Jude;" once a gimmick has been picked
up by Eydie Gorme on a cerebral-palsy telethon, it loses some-
thing. But the gesture was understandable. Elvis was clearly unsure
of himself, worried that he wouldn't get through to people after
all those years, and relieved and happy when he realized we were
with him. As the evening went on, he gained in confidence, and
the next night he was loose enough to fool around with the audi-
ence, accepting handkerchiefs to mop his forehead and reaching
out his hands to women in the front row. During both perfor-
mances there was a fair amount of sighing and screaming, but like
Elvis's sexual posturing, it was more in fun than in ecstasy. It was
the ritual that counted: "Of course I screamed. I'm not dead yet."
At the opening-night press conference I asked Presley if he had
had trouble relating to an audience of mostly older people. He
shook his head and smiled. "The older people have learned, you
know. They can do it, too." Yeah, yeah, yeah.
If Elvis continues to perform—he says he wants to—and "Sus-
picious Minds" is as big a hit as it should be, he could have a
significant impact on pop music in the coming months. It remains
to be seen whether he can transcend either his grand-old-man
image or the Hal Wallis years, but he seems to want to try. I
wonder if Colonel Parker approves. Is Parker just an ectoplasmic
projection of Presley's Hollywood side? Will he now shrivel up?
The night before I left Las Vegas, I saw him drop five hundred
dollars at roulette. You can't win 'em all.
August 1969
44
Cultural Revolution Saved
from Drowning
Y/ou have to give the producers of the Woodstock Music and

JL Art Fair this much credit: they are pulling off a great public
relations coup. They have apparently succeeded in creating the
impression that the crisis in Bethel was a capricious natural dis-
aster rather than a product of human incompetence, that the huge
turnout was completely unexpected (and in fact could not have
been foreseen by reasonable men), and that they have lost more
than a million dollars in the process of being good guys who did
everything possible to transform an incipient fiasco into a groovy
weekend. Incredibly, instead of hiding from the wrath of dis-
appointed ticket-buyers and creditors, they are bragging that the
festival was a landmark in the development of youth culture and
have announced that they plan to hold it again next year. But
before history is completely rewritten, a few facts, semifacts,
and strong inferences are in order.
For at least a month before the festival it was obvious to every-
one involved in the music scene—industry people, writers for both
the straight and the underground press, radicals, and hippies—and
also to the city fathers of Wallkill, New York, that the crowd was
45
going to be enormous and the facilities inadequate. The four under-

thirty backers of Woodstock Ventures seemed to be motivated
less by greed than by sheer hubris: the ambitiousness of the proj-
ect was meant to establish them as the pop producers, kingpins of
the youth market. Their promotion was pervasive. On July 18, a
month before the festival, the Times reported that the manage-
ment expected as many as 200,000 people and had already sold fifty
thousand tickets. At that time, they were planning to hold the
festival in Wallkill, on a three-hundred-acre site—half the size of
the grounds in Bethel—linked to civilization by three country
roads. When a Concerned Citizens Committee warned that Wall-
kill's water supply could not accommodate the anticipated influx
and that festival officials had not made realistic plans to cope with
traffic, health, or security, the producers vowed to fight the town's
attempt to exclude them and implied that the opposition came
from antiyouth rednecks. When the change of site was announced,
just twenty-four days before the scheduled opening of the fair,
there was a lot of speculation that it would never come off at all.
An experienced promoter told me, "It'll happen, but only because
they've got so much money tied up in it. They can't afford to back
out. But they'll never finish their preparations in three weeks.
Monterey took three months. It's going to be complete chaos."
Al Aronowitz of the Post, one of the few journalists to cast a con-
sistently cold eye on the four young entrepreneurs, wrote witty on-
location reports giving them the needle and adding to the general
pessimism. Meanwhile, back on St. Marks Place, Woodstock was
rapidly evolving into this year's thing to do. A "Woodstock Spe-
cial" issue of the underground weekly Rat, published the week of
the festival, featured a page of survival advice that began, "The
call has been put out across the country for hundreds of thousands
to attend a three-day orgy of music and dope and communal ex-
perience." I left for Bethel in much the same spirit that I had gone
to Chicago at the time of the Democratic Convention. I was emo-
tionally prepared for a breakdown in services and a major riot. If I
enjoyed the festival, that would be incidental to participating in a
46
Cultural Revolution Saved from Drowning
historic event. The actual number of people who showed up was a

surprise. The only other real surprise was that there was no riot.
The extra numbers could not excuse the flimsiness of the water
pipes (they broke down almost immediately), the paucity of la-
trines (about eight hundred for an expected 200,000 people) and
garbage cans, or the makeshift medical facilities (the press tent had
to be converted into a hospital). One kid reportedly died of a
burst appendix—an incident that in 1969 should at least inspire
some questions.
Although it is possible that the fair lost money, many knowledge-
able people are inclined to doubt that the loss was anywhere near
the $1.5 million dollars Woodstock Ventures is claiming. The cor-
poration should open its books to the public. The thousands of
ticket holders who were turned away from the site because of traffic
jams (while other thousands of contributors to the traffic jams got
in free) deserve some consideration. So far, the management has
said nothing about refunds, and there has been talk of setting up a
group suit to demand the money. One complication is that since no
tickets were collected, there is no way of distinguishing those who
made it from those who didn't, but rumor has it that the state may
sidestep this problem by suing the producers on the ground that
they had no serious intention of taking tickets at the fairgrounds.
If the festival succeeded in spite of the gross ineptitude of its
masterminds, it was mostly because 300,000 or more young people
were determined to have a good time no matter what. The ac-
counts of the peacefulness and generosity of the participants are all
true, but they have tended to miss the point. The cooperative
spirit did not stem from solidarity in an emergency—the "we all
forgot our differences and helped each other" phenomenon that
attends power blackouts and hurricanes—so much as from a gen-
eral refusal to adopt any sort of emergency psychology. The wide-
spread conviction that the Lord (or the Hog Farm, or the people
of Monticello, or someone) would provide removed any incentive
to fight or to hoard food, and the pilgrims simply proceeded to do
what they had come to do: dig the music and the woods, make
47
friends, reaffirm their life style in freedom from hostile straights

and cops, swim naked, and get high. Drug dealing was completely
open; kids stood on Hurd Road, the main thoroughfare of the
festival site, hawking mescaline and acid. But the most exhilarating
intoxicants were the warmth and fellow-feeling that allowed us to
abandon our chronic defenses against other people. As for the
music, though rock was the only thing that could have drawn such
a crowd, it was not the focal point of the festival but rather a
pleasant background to the mass presence of the hip community.
Few of us got close enough to see anything, and as the music
continued for seventeen hours at a stretch, our adrenalin output
naturally decreased. (On Sunday a boy who had driven in from
California commented, "Wow, I can't believe all the groups here,
and I'm not even listening to them." "It's not the music," said
another. "It's—all this!") The sound system was excellent, and
thousands listened from camps in the woods, dozing and waking
while the music went on till dawn. Everyone was so quiet you felt
almost alone in the dark, but you couldn't move very far without
stepping on someone's hand or brushing against a leg.
The festival site was like the eye of a storm—virtually undis-

turbed by the frantic activity behind the scenes. Once the nuisance
of getting there was over with (I eventually got a ride in a per-
formers' police-escorted caravan) and the Lord had provided (I
just happened to bump into some friends with a leakproof tent and
plenty of food), I found the inconveniences trivial compared to
the pleasures. But then I did not have to sleep out in the mud for
two nights, and by Sunday I couldn't help suspecting that some of
the beautiful, transcendent acceptance going around was just plain
old passivity. It was a bit creepy that there was such a total lack of
resentment at the fair's mismanagement, especially among those
who had paid from seven to eighteen dollars. People either made
excuses for Woodstock Ventures ("They couldn't help it, man; it
was just too big for them") or thought of the festival as a noble
48
Cultural Revolution Saved from Drowning
social experiment to which crass concepts like responsible planning

were irrelevant. For the most part they took for granted not only
the discomforts but the tremendous efforts made by the state, the
local communities, and unpaid volunteers to distribute cheap or
free food and establish minimum standards of health and safety.
No one seemed to comprehend what the tasks of mobilizing and
transporting emergency food, water, and medical personnel, clear-
ing the roads, and removing garbage meant in terms of labor and
money. Ecstatic heads even proclaimed that the festival proved the
viability of a new culture in which no one worked and everything
was free. And in the aftermath anyone who has dared to complain
has been put down as a crank. It should be possible to admit that
the people created a memorable gathering without embracing
promoters who did their best to make it memorable in quite an-
other sense. (A letter writer in the Village Voice went as far as to
say, "Woodstock Ventures should be congratulated and not chas-
tised for giving us smiles, peace, music, and good vibrations." All
those paying customers might disagree about being "given" music;
personally, I don't see why Woodstock Ventures should get credit
for my smiles.) But maybe it isn't. And maybe there is a lesson
here about the political significance of youth culture. From the
start, the cultural-revolutionary wing of the radical movement saw
Woodstock as a political issue. The underground papers made a lot
of noise about businessmen profiting from music that belonged to
the community, and some movement people demanded and re-
ceived money to bring political groups to the festival and set up an
enclave called Movement City as a center for radical activity. If
the festival staff had been foolish enough to try to restrict the
audience to paid admissions, the movement might have had some-
thing to do. As it was, Movement City was both physically and
spiritually isolated from the bulk of the crowd. It was not the
activists but a hundred-odd members of the Hog Farm, a Santa
Fe-based pacifistic commune, who were the most visible com-
munity presence, operating a free kitchen, helping people recover
from bad acid trips, and setting up a rudimentary communication
49
system of oral and written survival bulletins. A few radicals talked

hopefully of liberating the concessions or the stage area. Abbie
Hoffman interrupted the Who's set on Saturday night to berate
the crowd for listening to music when John Sinclair, a Michigan
activist, had just been sentenced to a long prison term for giving
some marijuana to a cop. Peter Townshend hit Hoffman with his
guitar, which is more of a commentary on the relation of rock to
politics than all of Rat's fuzzy moralizing.
What cultural revolutionaries do not seem to grasp is that, far
from being a grass-roots art form that has been taken over by
businessmen, rock itself comes from the commercial exploitation
of blues. It is bourgeois at its core, a mass-produced commodity,
dependent on advanced technology and therefore on the money
controlled by those in power. Its rebelliousness does not imply
specific political content; it can be—and has been—criminal, fascis-
tic, and coolly individualistic as well as revolutionary. Nor is bo-
hemianism inherently radical. It can simply be a more pleasurable
way of surviving within the system, which is what the pop sen-
sibility has always been about. Certainly that was what Woodstock
was about: ignore the bad, groove on the good, hang loose, and let
things happen. The truth is that there can't be a revolutionary
culture until there is a revolution. In the meantime, we should
insist that the capitalists who produce rock concerts offer reason-
able service at reasonable prices.
September 1969
50
See America First:
Easy Rider and Alice} Restaurant
I n 1969, the Year of the Pig, participants in what is known as

(descriptively) youth culture or (smugly) hip culture or (in-
completely) pop culture or (longingly) the cultural revolution are
going through big changes. For choices have to be made now; they
can no longer be left to a dubious mafiana. After hearing Nixon's
speech—"North Vietnam cannot defeat us; we can only defeat
ourselves"—who can doubt that America as we have known it
could completely disappear between one day and the next? Or
maybe it already has, and what we are feeling now is phantom
pain from an amputated limb. In this crisis our confusions and
ambivalences about this country, our country, no matter how
securely they seem to have occupied it, become more than intel-
lectual gossip. Our lives may literally depend on how we resolve
them.
The current generation of bohemians and radicals hasn't decided
whether to love or hate America. On a superficial level the domi-
nant theme has been hate—for the wealth and greed and racism
and complacency, the destruction of the land, the bullshit rhetoric
of democracy, and the average American's rejection of aristocratic
5i
European standards of the good life in favor of a romance with

mass-produced consumer goods. But love is there, too, perhaps all
the more influential for being largely unadmitted. There is the old
left strain of 1'ove for the "real" America, the Woody Guthrie-
Pete Seeger America of workers-farmers-hoboes, the open road,
this-land-is-your-land. And there is the newer pop strain, the
consciousness—initiated by Andy Warhol and his cohorts, popu-
larized by the Beatles and their cohorts, evangelized by Tom
Wolfe, and made respectable in the bohemian ghettos by Bob
Dylan and Ken Kesey—that there is something magical and vital as
well as crass about America's commodity culture, that the romance
with consumer goods makes perfect sense if the goods are motor-
cycles and stereo sets and far-out clothes and Spider Man comics
and dope. How can anyone claim to hate America, deep down, and
be a rock fan? Rock is America—the black experience, the white
experience, technology, commercialism, rebellion, populism, the
Hell's Angels, the horror of old age—as seen by its urban adoles-
cents.
At this point, hate and love seem to be merging into a sense of

cosmic failure, a pervasive feeling that everything is disintegrating,
including the counterculture itself, and that we really have no-
where to go. The current exodus of young people to the country,
while a healthy expression of people's survival instincts, is in a way
an admission of failure, a retreat rather than a breakthrough. The
back-to-the-land movement, insofar as it represents a serious at-
tempt by both communes and conventional families to make a
living at farming, with all the hardships that involves, is just a
replay of that part of the American dream that dies the hardest.
There is an obvious contradiction between the consciousness of the
dissident culture, which is based on an apprehension of what it
means to be human once simple survival is no longer a problem,
and small-scale farming, an activity that requires almost total
commitment to simple survival.
52
See America First: Easy Rider and Alice's Restaurant
If enough people, with enough social support to make judicious,

cooperative use of technology and create new forms of social or-
ganization that were more than isolated experiments, were to get
involved in farming, a new synthesis might be created. But so long
as the return to rural life remains an individual revolt—and in
relation to the whole society a commune is a unit only slightly less
parochial than a family—with no support and no guidance except
for history, it would be suprising if anachronistic patterns did not
assert themselves, especially since the decision to farm is so often
made out of the erroneous conviction that machines and cities are
causing all our problems. The new farming communities tend, for
instance, to be conspicuously male supremacist, partly because of
the practical problems in dividing the work (technology makes
women's lesser muscular capacity irrelevant) and partly because
the American farming myth is very much a scenario for the
dominant male—the woman stays in the background and bakes
bread while her mate chops down trees. It is as if we are all
trapped in a maze; some of us who have gotten bored or horrified
with the official route through the maze have found all sorts of
creative ways to cut corners and wander through back alleys, but
we are now ending up in pretty much the same places. It's the
maze itself that needs to be opened up, rearranged, or simply de-
stroyed.
Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test asked the per-
tinent questions—Is it possible to reinterpret and salvage the
American trip by painting the bus with Day-glo? Is there an
underground exit from the maze?—at a time when most of us were
not yet especially concerned. Now two enormously popular mov-
ies, Easy Rider and Alice's Restaurant, have attempted to deal with
the same theme in very different ways. Neither film is definitive,
and neither goes nearly as deep as Wolfe's book—but both hit
pretty close.
Easy Rider is the better and more important of the two movies.
53
When I first saw it, at a press screening in New York, I didn't

understand why it moved me so deeply. Certainly much of it was
enjoyable, even memorable. Dennis Hopper, playing Peter Fonda's
egotistical, slightly paranoid friend, gave a thoroughly convincing
performance, the only realistic portrayal of a head I've seen on
film. Jack Nicholson was brilliant as the good-hearted, fucked-up
juicer lawyer who joins the travelers and trades a slow death in a
small southern town for a fast one on the road. The rock sound
track was great, especially for anyone who loves the Byrds and
Steppenwolf as much as I do. The dope-smoking scenes were beau-
tifully real. Most movies that acknowledge the existence of grass
(Alice's Restaurant included) tend to treat it with oppressive rev-
erence; in Easy Rider, as in life, stoned people were, for one thing,
very funny and, for another, very happy. (Just because of their
lack of tendentiousness the scenes were a significant commentary
—when Nicholson, turned on for the first time, went into a long,
fantastic rap about extraterrestrial beings, it became poignantly
clear that people who condemn marijuana as an "escape from real-
ity" are proceeding from the same fallacy as those who think
children should be reading about coal trucks instead of elves.) Fi-
nally, who could resist all those juicy shots of the road and motor-
cycles?
But in fact, what was Easy Rider but another superromantic
account of individual rebellion against the straight world, depicted
as every northern liberal's fantasy of the implacable South? There
was Peter Fonda, the superhandsome, supercool hero with the
symbolic names (Wyatt, and in case we didn't get it, Captain
America, and in case we didn't get that, his sidekick's name is Billy),
looking sexy and inscrutable. There was all that superpastorality:
as a friend pointed out, the road from Los Angeles to New Orleans
displayed not a single billboard. (True, the filmmakers would have
had to pay to photograph billboards, but it says something if they
didn't think it was worth the money.) The commune scenes—all
those wholesome-looking people with gleaming white teeth, the
women in the kitchen, of course, making like good pioneer wives
54
—and a nude swimming scene, the ultimate in idyllic purity, and a

sophomoric acid sequence in a cemetery. The heroes throwing
away their watches, and Fonda letting out profundities like "I'm
hip about time." And the ending—oh, wow!—sheer shock-melo-
drama.
Yet that ending really shook me. Though I saw the shotgun blast
and the flames, I couldn't quite believe it; it was too final. My mind
kept coming back to it. Then I saw Easy Rider again, shortly after
I had made my own move away from the big city. Colorado
Springs, where I had gone to live, to do political organizing, and to
hassle out my own response to the American condition, 1969, is
an ultraconservative army town in the shadow of the Rockies that
comes close to embodying the extremes of natural beauty and
social horror that provide the setting for Easy Rider. And from
that vantage, I saw why the movie affected me the way it did:
beyond the melodrama of groovy kids vs. rednecks is an emotion
that more and more of us, young and old alike, are experiencing,
the overpowering sense of loss, the anguish of What went wrong?
We blew it—how?
Easy Rider is about the failure of America on all levels, hip and
straight. Billy and Wyatt on their bikes, riding free down the open
road, are living another version of the rugged individualist frontier
fantasy, and the big dope deal that made them financially indepen-
dent is just hip capitalism. It won't work, and by the end of the
movie Wyatt knows it. The key line of the film is his admission,
"We blew it!" I have no idea if the allusion is intentional, but The
Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test ends with the same line. There it
refers to the failure of Ken Kesey's particular frontier fantasy.
Kesey envisioned a psychedelic frontier that went beyond drugs,
but he couldn't bring it off. "We blew it!" . . . Somehow we have
to face it that the pioneer thing is over, that we have to create
some new myths—or better yet, move aside and let somebody else
have a chance to create them; now there would be a real cultural
revolution. As for the violent ending, it could hardly be more
appropriate. Isn't that exactly where America is heading, to some
55
abrupt, apocalyptic explosion—even if the explosion occurs only in

our heads? *
Of course there is another possibility—that we will simply

withdraw, that resignation will set in. That seems to be the alter-
native suggested in Alice's Restaurant, which despite the clowning
of Arlo Guthrie is one of the more depressing movies I've seen
lately, much more so than Easy Rider, because confusion and pas-
sivity are more demoralizing than violence. Alice's Restaurant
concentrates almost entirely on decay from within. Although
much of the "plot," such as it is, pits Guthrie against the outside
world—he is thrown out of a couple of schools, hassled by the
cops and by people who don't like long hair, put through the
whole jail-courtroom ritual for dumping garbage in the wrong
place, and finally almost drafted—the villains are not taken seri-
ously. Conflict with authority is still a game—Officer Obie is a
comic figure, jail a lark, Whitehall Street an exercise in absurdity,
and the worst thing that happens to Arlo is that he is pushed
through a plate glass window by some toughs (this could have
been pretty serious, but Hollywood being what it is, he gets up
and walks away). The really important conflicts are between Arlo
and his supposed friends.
* A while after this review was published, I saw Easy Rider again. This time
I was startled and chagrined to notice a crucial detail I had twice missed: the
shooting that culminates in the murder of the heroes is an accident. Two
men in a car pull up alongside the motorcyclists; the passenger points his
shotgun out the window at Dennis Hopper, trying to scare him; Hopper
gives him the finger; the car hits a bump and the gun goes off, to its owner's
evident surprise. The men then go back and finish the job, presumably be-
cause they can't afford to leave witnesses. This final irony—in which two
American subcultures play out their clashing versions of the American myth
to the unintended but no less horrifying death—would seem to support my
sense of Easy Rider's ecumenical pessimism, as opposed to the view, ex-
pressed most cogently by Diana Trilling, that the movie is a perniciously
simplistic celebration of hip innocence and virtue struck down by middle-
American corruption.
S^
It is hard to tell how much of the pessimism in Alice's Restau-

rant is deliberate and how much is simply betrayed. Unlike Easy
Rider, which has a kind of mythic simplicity and is most striking
as a parable, Alice's Restaurant is disjointed, episodic, and ambiva-
lent in its relation to reality. Some of the incidents in the movie
really happened, others are invented; some of the actors play them-
selves, others (notably Alice and Ray Brock) do not. There is
plenty of room for free-floating, semidocumentary revelation,
much of which is provided by Guthrie himself. Arlo is this year's
Dustin Hoffman, the man of a thousand grimaces, the awkward,
scrawny, waiflike antihero. I know he is supposed to be heart-
tuggingly appealing and all, and in a way he is, but I would be
much more receptive if he weren't so conceited about it. Although
in most respects he is the antithesis of Peter Fonda, he has the same
unshakable cool, sense of his own rectitude, and basic detachment
from other people. In fact, if Guthrie proves anything in two
hours on the screen, it is that the alleged love generation has severe
hang-ups about personal relationships, particularly sexual ones.
One of the major flaws of the counterculture is that for all its
concern with the dispossessed, it is as oppressive as the surrounding
society toward the female half of the race. It treats women as
"chicks"—nubile decorations—or mothers or goddesses or bitches,
rarely as human beings. Some heroes of the cultural revolution—
recently jailed Michigan activist John Sinclair is a classic example
—equate rebellion with assertion of their maleness, become
obnoxiously aggressive, arrogant, and violent, and espouse a ver-
sion of Utopia in which women are reduced to faceless instruments
of their sexual fantasies. Others, more cleverly, consider them-
selves "liberated" from the strictures of the traditional male role—
the obligation to support women financially and protect them
physically, to be strong, competitive, and ambitious, to suppress
their emotions and their personal vanity—and imitate women in
the manner of whites imitating blacks, while nonetheless insisting
that women serve them and defer to them.
57
Usually this second pattern goes along with a hypocritical ideali-

zation of women: "Chicks really know where it's at, man!" (said
fondly, as he smells dinner chick is cooking). Easy Rider is an
embarrassing commentary on the hip male's contempt for women.
As in most Westerns, the world of our two existential cowboys is
almost exclusively male; thus the issue of sex does not have to be
confronted. The women who enter their domain are strictly two-
dimensional figures. Women who show any sexual interest in them
—one of the communards, a group of giggling teen-age girls—are
portrayed as ridiculous. When they stop at a New Orleans whore-
house as a tribute to their dead friend, the lawyer, who had rec-
ommended it, only Billy, the more frivolous of the two characters,
is at all eager to sleep with a woman; Captain America is far above
such concerns.
In Alice's Restaurant, in contrast, sex is a central theme. But
Guthrie's attitude toward women is not much different from Fon-
da's. Female sexual aggressiveness, for instance, is regarded as
either a peculiarity of eccentrics or the product of an abnormal
state of mind. For some reason unclear to me, women are con-
stantly trying to seduce Arlo and being turned down. After reject-
ing a pathetic groupie ("I want to, you know, with you, because
you're probably going to be an album"), a hard-faced older
woman (a friend of his father's, who owns a folk-singing joint),
and even Alice (he is a little nicer to her than to the others—she
only did it because she was upset), he settles on a girl whose only
definable characteristic seems to be that she waited demurely for
him to choose her. To be fair, Alice's Restaurant does not ignore
the sexual problem; Alice is sympathetically followed as she is
pushed closer and closer to a breakdown by the insensitivity of
men who take both her love and her hard work for granted. But of
course the crisis is glossed over; not only does Alice go back to
Ray (the real Alice recently got a divorce), she goes back because
he needs her to cook Thanksgiving dinner for all their friends!
58
Another subject barely touched on in Easy Rider that Alice's

Restaurant explores at length is the meaning of family and home
and the possibilities of redefining them. Again the tone is basically
negative. Although older people are not lumped together as the
enemy—Arlo's deep love for Woody and compassion for his
mother are apparent and touching—home is a place to get away
from. Arlo is comfortable only on the road or alone in his apart-
ment in New York. And though he loves Alice and Ray, too, he
feels no more at ease in the church they have set up as head-
quarters for the communal family they desperately want to estab-
lish. He is forever commuting back and forth from the city. When
he's gone, he misses the church, but when he's there, he feels
suffocated and restless. Alice nags him to stay, luring him with
chicken soup, and he makes excuses and leaves.
Ray Brock is the pivotal character and the most interesting.
Halfway between Arlo's generation and Woody's, he craves tradi-
tion, stability, and community and can't find or create them, ex-
cept for the moment in a huge Thanksgiving dinner or the mock
church wedding with which he and Alice celebrate their reunion.
In the last scene he is caught up in the back-to-the-land dream. He
talks enthusiastically of selling the church and buying enough
acreage so that people can be together without being on each
other's necks. "I bet they wouldn't all drift off if we had land," he
muses. But he has lost his audience. Arlo is bored and a little sad,
getting ready to drive away. Yeah, Ray, see you later. Meanwhile,
back on the road, see what happens. And maybe if he's lucky, he
won't get his father's fatal hereditary disease after a l l . . .
The church family's most spectacular failure is its inability to
prevent a speed freak named Shelly from cracking up and finally
killing himself with an overdose. Ray beats him up, Alice falls in
love with him, and the kids try to make him feel at home. They
are about as effective as a middle-class family from Scarsdale, and
he flees. But mostly the mistakes are less dramatic, just a matter of
the beautiful people being very much like ordinary people. In a
moment of anger Ray, who has an autocratic streak, tries to silence
59
disagreement by invoking private property: this is my church

you're in.
Neither Easy Rider nor Alice's Restaurant ever considers a polit-
ical solution to the social chaos. The most Guthrie can conceive of
is individual resistance; he wonders at one point whether he would
have the courage to refuse induction. Fonda and Hopper never
think politically at all. The temptation is to credit the media with a
sinister plot to give the impression that there is no alternative to
individualism, but that is a convenient cop-out. In private life
Guthrie, Fonda, and Hopper are all more or less apolitical and the
movies reflect their personalities. Furthermore, I'm not at all sure
that their attitude is not shared by the majority of adherents to the
hip life style. It may be that those of us who still have some faith in
collective action are simply indulging an insane optimism. Never-
theless, it is clear to me that if we want to survive the seventies, we
should learn to draw strength from something more solid than a
culture that in a few years may be just a memory: "Remember
hair down to your shoulders? Remember Janis Joplin? Remember
grass, man? Wow, those years were really, uh, far out!"
December 1969
60
Janis Joplin
T e hippie rock stars of the late sixties merged two versions

of that hardy American myth, the free individual. They were
stars, which meant achieving liberation by becoming rich and
famous on their own terms; and they were, or purported to be,
apostles of cultural revolution, a considerably more ambitious
and romantic vision of freedom that nevertheless had a similar
economic foundation. Young Americans were in a sense the stars
of the world, drawing on an overblown prosperity that could
afford to indulge all manner of rebellious and experimental be-
havior. The combination was inherently unstable—Whitman's open
road is not, finally, the Hollywood Freeway, and in any case
neither stardom nor prosperity could deliver what it seemed to
promise. For a fragile historical moment rock transcended those
contradictions; in its aftermath, our pop heroes found themselves
grappling, like the rest of us, with what are probably enduring
changes in the white American consciousness—changes that have
to do with something very like an awareness of tragedy. It is in
this context that Janis Joplin developed as an artist, a celebrity,
a rebel, a woman, and it is in this context that she died.
61
Joplin belonged to that select group of pop figures who mat-

tered as much for themselves as for their music; among American
rock performers she was second only to Bob Dylan in importance
as a creator-recorder-embodiment of her generation's history and
mythology. She was also the only woman to achieve that kind of
stature in what was basically a male club, the only sixties culture
hero to make visible and public women's experience of the quest
for individual liberation, which was very different from men's. If
Janis's favorite metaphors—singing as fucking (a first principle of
rock-and-roll) and fucking as liberation (a first principle of the
cultural revolution)—were equally approved by her male peers,
the congruence was only on the surface. Underneath—just barely
—lurked a feminist (or prefeminist) paradox.
The male-dominated counterculture defined freedom for
women almost exclusively in sexual terms. As a result, women
endowed the idea of sexual liberation with immense symbolic im-
portance; it became charged with all the secret energy of an as yet
suppressed larger rebellion. Yet to express one's rebellion in that
limited way was a painfully literal form of submission. Whether or
not Janis understood that, her dual persona—lusty hedonist and
suffering victim—suggested that she felt it. Dope, another term in
her metaphorical equation (getting high as singing as fucking as
liberation) was, in its more sinister aspect, a pain killer and finally a
killer. Which is not to say that the good times weren't real, as far
as they went. Whatever the limitations of hippie rock star life, it
was better than being a provincial matron—or a lonely weirdo.
For Janis, as for others of us who suffered the worst fate that
can befall an adolescent girl in America—unpopularity—a crucial
aspect of the cultural revolution was its assault on the rigid sexual
styles of the fifties. Joplin's metamorphosis from the ugly duckling
of Port Arthur to the peacock of Haight-Ashbury meant, among
other things, that a woman who was not conventionally pretty,
who had acne and an intermittent weight problem and hair that
stuck out, could not only invent her own beauty (just as she
invented her wonderful sleazofreak costumes) out of sheer energy,
62
Janis Joplin
soul, sweetness, arrogance, and a sense of humor, but have that

beauty appreciated. Not that Janis merely took advantage of
changes in our notions of attractiveness; she herself changed them.
It was seeing Janis Joplin that made me resolve, once and for all,
not to get my hair straightened. And there was a direct line from
that sort of response to those apocryphal burned bras and all that
followed.
Direct, but not simple. Janis once crowed, "They're paying me
$50,000 a year to be like me." But the truth was that they were
paying her to be a personality, and the relation of public personal-
ity to private self—something every popular artist has to work
out—is especially problematic for a woman. Men are used to play-
ing roles and projecting images in order to compete and succeed.
Male celebrities tend to identify with their maskmaking, to see it as
creative and—more or less—to control it. In contrast, women need
images simply to survive. A woman is usually aware, on some level,
that men do not allow her to be her "real self," and worse, that the
acceptable masks represent men's fantasies, not her own. She can
choose the most interesting image available, present it dramatically,
individualize it with small elaborations, undercut it with irony. But
ultimately she must serve some male fantasy to be loved—and then
it will be only the fantasy that is loved anyway. The female ce-
lebrity is confronted with this dilemma in its starkest form. Joplin's
revolt against conventional femininity was brave and imaginative,
but it also dovetailed with a stereotype—the ballsy, one-of-the-guys
chick who is a needy, vulnerable cream puff underneath—cherished
by her legions of hip male fans. It may be that she could have pushed
beyond it and taken the audience with her; that was one of the
possibilities that made her death an artistic as well as human disaster.
There is, for instance, the question of her bisexuality. People who
knew Janis differ on whether sexual relationships with women were
an important part of her life, and I don't know the facts. In any
case, a public acknowledgment of bisexual proclivities would not
necessarily have contradicted her image; it could easily have been
passed off as more pull-out-the-stops hedonism or another manifest-
63
ation of her all-encompassing need for love. On the other hand, she
could have used it to say something new about women and libera-
tion. What makes me wonder is something I always noticed and
liked about Janis: unlike many other female performers whose acts
are intensely erotic, she never made me feel as if I were crashing
an orgy that consisted of her and the men in the audience. When
she got it on at a concert, she got it on with everybody.
Still, the songs she sang assumed heterosexual romance; it was
men who made her hurt, who took another little piece of her
heart. Watching men groove on Janis, I began to appreciate the
resentment many black people feel toward whites who are blues
freaks. Janis sang out of her pain as a woman, and men dug it. Yet
it was men who caused the pain, and if they stopped causing it,
they would not have her to dig. In a way their adulation was the
crudest insult of all. And Janis's response—to sing harder, get
higher, be worshiped more—was rebellious, acquiescent, bewil-
dered all at once. When she said, "Onstage I make love to 25,000
people, then I go home alone," she was not merely repeating the
cliche of the sad clown or the poor little rich girl. She was noting
that the more she gave, the less she got, and that honey, it ain't fair.
Like most women singers, Joplin did not write many songs; she
mostly interpreted other people's. But she made them her own in a
way few singers dare to do. She did not sing them so much as
struggle with them, assault them. Some critics complained, not
always unfairly, that she strangled them to death, but at her best
she whipped them to new life. She had an analogous adversary
relationship with the musical form that dominated her imagination
—the blues. Blues represented another external structure, one with
its own contradictory tradition of sexual affirmation and sexist
conservatism. But Janis used blues conventions to reject blues
sensibility. To sing the blues is a way of transcending pain by
confronting it with dignity, but Janis wanted nothing less than to
scream it out of existence. Big Mama Thornton's classic rendition
64
Janis Joplin
of "Ball and Chain" carefully balances defiance and resignation,

toughness and vulnerability. She almost pities her oppressor: "I
know you're gonna miss me, baby. . . . You'll find that your whole
life will be like mine, all wrapped up in a ball and chain." Her
singing conveys, above all, her determination to survive abuse.
Janis makes the song into one long frenzied, despairing protest.
Why, why, ivhy, she asks over and over, like a child unable to
comprehend injustice. "It ain't fair . . . this can't be. ... I just
wanted to hold you. . . . All I ever wanted to do was to love you."
The pain is overwhelming her, "draggin' me down . . . maybe,
maybe you can help me—c'mon help me." There are similar dif-
ferences between her recording of "Piece of My Heart" and
Erma Franklin's. When Franklin sings it, it is a challenge: no mat-
ter what you do to me, I will not let you destroy my ability to be
human, to love. Joplin seems rather to be saying, surely if I keep
taking this, if I keep setting an example of love and forgiveness,
surely he has to understand, change, give me back what I have
given.
Her pursuit of pleasure had the same driven quality; what it
amounted to was refusal to admit of any limits that would not
finally yield to the virtue of persistence—try just a little bit harder
—and the magic of extremes. This war against limits was largely
responsible for the electrifying power of Joplin's early perfor-
mances; it was what made Cheap Thrills a classic, in spite of its
unevenness and the impossibility of duplicating on a record the
excitement of her concerts. After the split with Big Brother, Janis
retrenched considerably, perhaps because she simply couldn't
maintain that level of intensity, perhaps for other reasons that
would have become clear if she had lived. My uncertainty on this
point makes me hesitate to be too dogmatic about my conviction
that her leaving Big Brother was a mistake.
I was a Big Brother fan. I thought they were better musicians
than their detractors claimed, but more to the point, technical
accomplishment, in itself, was not something I cared about. I
thought it was an ominous sign that so many people did care—
65
including Janis. It was, in fact, a sign that the tenuous alliance

between mass culture and bohemianism—or, in my original formu-
lation, the fantasy of stardom and the fantasy of cultural revolu-
tion—was breaking down. But the breakdown was not as neat as it
might appear. For the elitist concept of "good musicianship" was
as alien to the holistic, egalitarian spirit of rock-and-roll as the act
of leaving one's group the better to pursue one's individual ambi-
tion was alien to the holistic, egalitarian pretensions of the cultural
revolutionaries. If Joplin's decision to go it alone was influenced by
all the obvious professional/commercial pressures, it also reflected
a conflict of values within the counterculture itself—a conflict that
foreshadowed its imminent disintegration. And again, Janis's fe-
maleness complicated the issues, raised the stakes. She had less
room to maneuver than a man in her position, fewer alternatives to
fall back on if she blew it. If she had to choose between fantasies, it
made sense for her to go with stardom as far as it would take
her.
But I wonder if she really had to choose, if her choice was not in
some sense a failure of nerve and therefore of greatness. Janis was
afraid Big Brother would hold her back, but if she had thought it
was important enough, she might have been able to carry them
along, make them transcend their limitations. There is more than a
semantic difference between a group and a back-up band. Janis had
to relate to the members of Big Brother as spiritual (not to men-
tion financial) equals even though she had more talent than they,
and I can't help suspecting that that was good for her not only
emotionally and socially but aesthetically. Committed to the hippie
ethic of music-for-the-hell-of-it—if only because there was no pos-
sibility of their becoming stars on their own—Big Brother helped
Janis sustain the amateur quality that was an integral part of her
effect. Their zaniness was a salutary reminder that good times
meant silly fun—remember "Caterpillar"?—as well as Dionysiac
abandon; it was a relief from Janis's extremism and at the same
66
Jcmis Joplin
time a foil for it. At their best moments Big Brother made me
think of the Beatles, who weren't (at least in the beginning) such
terrific musicians, either. Though I'm not quite softheaded enough
to imagine that by keeping her group intact Janis Joplin could
somehow have prevented or delayed the end of an era, or even
saved her own life, it would have been an impressive act of faith.
And acts of faith by public figures always have reverberations, one
way or another.
Such speculation is of course complicated by the fact that Janis
died before she really had a chance to define her post—San Fran-
cisco, post-Big Brother self. Her last two albums, like her per-
formances with the ill-fated Kozmic Blues Band, had a tentative,
transitional feel. She was obviously going through important
changes; the best evidence of that was "Me and Bobby McGee,"
which could be considered her "Dear Landlord." Both formally—
as a low-keyed, soft, folkie tune—and substantively—as a lyric that
spoke of choices made, regretted and survived, with the distinct
implication that compromise could be a positive act—what it ex-
pressed would have been heresy to the Janis Joplin of Cheap
Thrills. "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose" is as
good an epitaph for the counterculture as any; we'll never know
how—or if—Janis meant to go on from there.
Janis Joplin's death, like that of a fighter in the ring, was not
exactly an accident. Yet it's too easy to label it either suicide or
murder, though it involved elements of both. Call it rather an
inherent risk of the game she was playing, a game whose often
frivolous rules both hid and revealed a deadly serious struggle. The
form that struggle took was incomplete, shortsighted, egotistical,
self-destructive. But survivors who give in to the temptation to
feel superior to all that are in the end no better than those who
romanticize it. Janis was not so much a victim as a casualty. The
difference matters.
1^6
67
Hard to Swallow:
Deep Throat
I t gets harder and harder to find someone who will say a good
word for pornography. Angry feminists, chagrined liberals,
Henry Miller and Pauline Reage fans, all agree that this is not what
we meant, not what we meant at all, while the legions who never
wanted to let the genie out of the bottle in the first place feel both
outraged and vindicated. Die-hard (so to speak) porn liberationists
like Al Goldstein of Screw are embarrassments to what is left of
the hip subculture that spawned them—as out-of-date as skirts
up to the thighs or inspirational speeches hailing groupies as the
vanguard of the cultural revolution. Yet in spite of this ecumenical
disapproval, pornography may well be the characteristic mass art
form of this decade. What could be a better icon of the Nixon
years than a fiftyish, balding businessman in suit and tie, briefcase
on lap, hands chastely folded over briefcase (I checked), watching
with solemn absorption a pair of larger-than-life genitals copulating
in close-up to the strains of—was it really "Stars and Stripes
Forever," or am I making that up?
The ironies may be painful, but they are hardly surprising. The
revolt against Victorian morality has always had its left and right
68
Hard to Swallow: Deep Throat
wings. On the one hand, it has been part of a continuing historical

process, the economic and social emancipation of women; more
narrowly, it has both reflected and facilitated the shift from a
production-centered (hence austere) to a consumption-centered
(and hedonistic) capitalism. At this point the feminist version of
the sexual revolution has been incorporated into the broader pro-
gram of the women's movement, while the consumerist version has
ended up on Forty-second Street, which is as American as cherry
pie—and as masculine as chewing tobacco.
For men the most obvious drawback of traditional morality was

the sexual scarcity—actual and psychic—created by the enforced
abstinence of women and the taboo on public acknowledgment of
sexuality. Sex was an illicit commodity, and whether or not a sexual
transaction involved money, its price almost always included hy-
pocrisy; the "respectable" man who consorted with prostitutes and
collected pornography, the adolescent boy who seduced "nice
girls" with phony declarations of love (or tried desperately to
seduce them), the husband who secretly wished his wife would act
like his fantasies of a whore, all paid in the same coin. Men have
typically defined sexual liberation as freedom from these black-
market conditions: the liberated woman is free to be available; the
liberated man is free to reject false gentility and euphemistic ro-
manticism and express his erotic fantasies frankly and openly; by
extension, the liberated entrepreneur is free to cater to those fanta-
sies on a mass scale.
Understandably, women are not thrilled with this conception of
sexual freedom. In a misogynist culture where male sexuality tends
to be confused with dominance and corrupted by overt or covert
sadism—read any one of the endless spew of male confessional
novels that have come out of the closet (or the bathroom) since
Portnoy's notorious liver-fuck—its potential is frightening. Nor
have men allowed themselves or each other to push their "libera-
tion" to its logical extreme (that is, fascism). The sexual revolution
69
has simply institutionalized a more advanced form of hypocrisy:

instead of saying one thing and doing another, the game is to say
and do the same thing but feel another, or not feel at all. Of course
this is no news in 1973. Everybody knows it—"everybody" being
middle-class intellectuals, bohemians, and feminists. Which is ex-
actly what's so embarrassing about pornography. As an ideology
the fuck-it-and-suck-it phase of the sexual revolution may be passe;
as a mentality it is nonetheless big business.
Like all popular culture, pornography is shaped by its social
setting, and the relaxation of the obscenity laws has not only
brought it out in the open but inspired new genres, chief of which
is the X-rated movie. Partly because of the logistics of moviegoing,
which is a communal rather than a private experience, and partly
because the movie industry has only recently thrown off censor-
ship of the crudest and most anachronistic sort, porn movies have
retained an air of semirespectability, fuzzing the line between lib-
erated art and out-and-out smut. They turn up at art houses,
where they are known as "erotic films"; they occasionally get
reviewed; in time of need a stray professor or two can be induced
to testify to their redeeming social value. If there is such a thing as
establishment porn, these movies are it. They apotheosize the
middle-American swinger's ethic: sex is impersonal recreation, nei-
ther sacred nor dangerous; above all, it has no necessary connec-
tion to any human emotion, even the most elemental lust,
frustration, or fulfillment.
While pornography has never been known for its emotional

subtlety, this ultradeadpan style is distinctively contemporary;
watching a "documentary" history of stag films that came out
some time ago, I was struck by the difference between the earliest
clips, which were amusingly, whimsically naughty, and later se-
quences, which contained progressively less warmth and humor
and more mechanical sex. Traditional pornographers reveled in the
breaking of taboos, the liberation of perverse and antisocial im-
70
pulses. Today's porn is based on the conceit that taboos are out-
dated, that the sexual revolution has made us free and innocent—a
fiction that can be maintained, even for the time span of a movie,
only at the cost of an aggressive assault on all feeling.
Since the image on the screen is so inescapably there, imposing
strict limits on the spectator's imagination, film is an ideal medium
for this assault. Not only do most porn movies fail to build tension
or portray people and situations in a way that might involve the
viewer; they use a variety of techniques to actively discourage
involvement. Clinical close-ups of sexual acts and organs, reminis-
cent of the Brobdingnagians, are one such ploy; a Brechtian dis-
junction between visual image and soundtrack is another. The first
commercial porn movies often presented themselves as documen-
taries about sex education, the history of sexual mores, porno-
graphic film making, and so on—a device that had an important
formal function as well as the obvious legal one. Narrators' pedan-
tic voices would superimpose themselves on orgy scenes, calling
our attention to the grainy texture of the film; blank-faced young
girls would explain in a bored monotone why they acted in porn
movies—"It's the bread, really. . . . I guess I dig it sometimes. . . .
It's hard work, actually"—while in the background, but still on
camera, another actress fellated a colleague with the businesslike
competence of a plaster-caster.
These days, the narrators' voices have mostly given way to
music, which generally sounds as if it were composed by a Cham-
ber of Commerce committee just returned from a performance of
Hair. Sexual partners in porn movies rarely make noise, and I've
never heard one talk sex talk; most often they perform silently,
like fish in an aquarium. When there is dialogue, its purpose is
generally to break the mood rather than heighten it. In the opening
scene of Deep Throat, for instance, the heroine enters her apart-
ment and is cheerfully greeted by her roommate, who just happens
to have a man's head buried in her crotch. He looks up to see
what's happening, but roomie firmly guides his head back down to
business. Then she lights a cigarette and says, "Mind if I smoke
71
while you're eating?"—a line that just might be the definitive

statement of the porn aesthetic.
Throat is the first porn movie to become a cultural event. Be-

sides being a huge money-maker, it has been widely acclaimed as
an artistic triumph. Allegedly, Throat is "different," the porn
movie everybody has been waiting for—the one that has a plot and
characters and humor and taste and really gets it on. It has been
playing at "legitimate" movie theaters around the country, and in
New York, where its run at the New Mature World has lasted
seven months so far, the Post reported that lots of women were
going to see it, with other women, yet—an unprecedented phe-
nomenon. When the managers of the World were charged with
obscenity, Arthur Knight, film critic for Saturday Review and pro-
fessor at the University of Southern California, testified for the
defense, praising the movie for its concern with female sexual
gratification and its socially valuable message that "the so-called
missionary position is not the only way to have sex." He also liked
the photography.
There is something decidedly creepy about all this fanfare,
which—Professor Knight's remark about the missionary position
excepted—has no discernible relation to what's actually on the
screen. I suspect a lot of ambivalent libertarians of hedging by
badmouthing porn in general while rallying around an "excep-
tion," but that they should pick Throat for the honor suggests that
they have been missing the point all along.
True, Throat has certain peculiarities that distinguish it from the
average porn flick. It may not have a plot, but it should get some
sort of award for the most grotesque premise: the heroine's clitoris
is in her throat. It's not hard to figure out how that fantasy got
started; needless to say, I couldn't identify with it, though I did
feel like gagging during a couple of scenes. Or am I being too
literal? Is Throat really a comment of the psychology of oral
fixation? (It does have one of those socially redeeming blurbs at
the beginning, about Freud's stages of psychosexual development
72
and the use of suggestion in curing sexual hang-ups.) Is that what

the bit with the doctor blowing bubbles is all about? And near the
end, when Linda Lovelace shaves her pubic hair to the accom-
paniment of science fiction music and the Old Spice theme, does
that represent a ceremonial transition to the genital stage?
Linda is fresh-and-freckle-faced, comes on like a cut-rate Viva,
sighs, "There must be more to life than screwing around," gets
genuinely upset about her predicament, and hangs around for the
entire movie, all of which I guess makes her a character, at least by
porno standards. Throat also boasts lots of moronic jokes. (Linda
to doctor, who is making light of her problem: "Suppose your
balls were in your ear!" Doctor: "Then I could hear myself com-
ing.") What all this means is that in ten years I may appreciate
Throat as an artifact, but for now I find it witless, exploitative, and
about as erotic as a tonsillectomy.
The last point is really the crucial one: movies like Throat don't
turn me on, which is, after all, what they are supposed to do. On
the contrary, I find them a sexual depressant, partly because they
are so unimaginative, partly because they objectify women's bod-
ies and pay little attention to men's—American men are so touchy
about you-know-what—but mostly because they deliberately and
perversely destroy any semblance of an atmosphere in which my
sexual fantasies could flourish. Furthermore, I truly can't compre-
hend why they excite other people—a failure of empathy that
leads straight into the thickets of sexual polarization. I know there
are men who don't respond to these movies, and I'm sure it's pos-
sible to find a woman here or there who does. Still, the fact re-
mains that their audience is overwhelmingly male—the Post
notwithstanding, I counted exactly three other women in the
Throat audience, all of them with men—and that most men seem
to be susceptible even when, like the letter writer who complained
to the Times that Teenage Fantasies was erotically arousing but
spiritually degrading, they hate themselves afterward.
My attempts to interrogate male friends on the subject have
73
never elicited very satisfying answers ("I don't know . . . it's sexy,
that's all. . . . I like cunts"). I suppose I shouldn't be so mystified;
"everybody" knows that men divorce sex from emotion because
they can't afford to face their real emotions about women. Never-
theless, it baffles and angers me that men can get off on all those
bodies methodically humping away, their faces sweatless and pas-
sionless, their consummation so automatic they never get a chance
to experience desire.
I've often had fantasies about making my own porn epic for a
female audience, a movie that would go beyond gymnastics to
explore the psychological and sensual nuances of sex—the power
of sexual tension and suspense; the conflict of need and guilt, at-
traction and fear; the texture of skin; the minutiae of gesture and
touch and facial expression that can create an intense erotic am-
bience with a minimum of action. Not incidentally, the few porn
movies I've seen that deal with these aspects of the erotic were
made by gay men. A classic underground example is Jean Genet's
Un Chant d'Amour, an unbearably romantic and arty movie that
nevertheless had a strong effect on me when I saw it in 1964. Aside
from a few masturbation scenes the sex is almost entirely in the
minds of the characters (prison inmates and a guard); the over-
riding mood is frustration. Yet it is exactly this thwarted energy
that makes Chant exciting. It works on two levels: it is serious
anguish, and it is also a tease. Either way, Genet makes the point
that sex is a head trip as much as it is anything else. Similarly, in
Wakefield Poole's currently popular Bijou, the coming-out process
is presented—again too romantically for my taste—as a kind of
psychedelic theater in which the hero discovers his various sexual
personalities and accepts the male body in all its aspects.
Women have no pornographic tradition, and at the moment it
doesn't look as if anybody's about to start one. The New York
Erotic Film Festival recently scheduled an evening of movies by
women, but they turned out to be more about self than about sex,
74
Hard to Swallow. Deep Throat
which pretty much sums up a lot of women's priorities right now.

I enjoyed them; in the middle of the whole dying culture of
swingerism they radiated life. Still, I was disappointed that no one
had made my movie. Maybe next year.
'973
75
It's Later Than You Think
D on't look back (Idi Amin may be gaining on you), but the
seventies are behind us. Sometime during 1976 they just faded
out. Historians will recall the seventies as nasty and brutish, but
mercifully short. The eighties, contrary to a lot of people's gloomy
expectations, are going to be different. Not fun and games, by any
means, but an active, energetic decade that we can really live in,
not just live through.
How do I know? Well, to explain I have to try to convey what
life has been like these many months in occupied New York. The
city, as you probably know—some of you may even care—is
broke. We are being governed by a junta of bankers who do not
look kindly on such decadent luxuries as police and fire protection,
public education, and a functioning transit system. Without mas-
sive federal aid, which does not appear to be forthcoming, our
economic future looks pretty grim. Furthermore, the sludge that
hit Long Island's beaches last summer is undoubtedly lurking out
there ready to strike again. And the weather has been terrible. In
short, New Yorkers have every reason to be totally demoralized.
76
Ifs Later Than You Think
Yet mysteriously, the spirit in this city is better, the energy level
higher, than it's been in years.
I first realized this around the time of the Bicentennial. I had
fully expected the Bicentennial to be a depressing experience. The
official booster bullshit was embarrassing; so was the unimaginative
whining of the People's Bicentennial Commission, the left's only
countereffort. Where were the Yippies, now that we needed them
to organize a Festival of Life in San Clemente, or something? But
by the weekend of the Fourth I discovered that I was not de-
pressed at all. Along with most of my cynical radical friends, I was
turned on by the Tall Ships, but even more by a new electricity in
the air. It seemed as if every unemployed folk singer, magician,
and chamber-music ensemble in the city was performing on the
street, attracting lively crowds. People radiated a secret solidarity,
a communal grin that translated, "Don't let the bastards get you
down!"
After that I began to notice how many people were saying
things like "A year ago I was bored, nothing was happening, now
I'm involved in this project and that relationship, my life is coming
together again—don't get me wrong, I know we're in the middle
of a depression. . . . " I also noticed that at a time when I would
have expected the more footloose members of my generation to
start deserting New York like rats leaving the Titanic, people who
had left were coming back! "I don't know," they would say when
I asked. "I was getting tired of San Francisco/Washington/Boston.
New York seemed like the right place to be." I agreed, but I
wasn't sure why until I caught on about the eighties.
New Yorkers are justly reputed to be tough-minded survivors.
But when they are true to their best selves, they refuse to settle for
mere survival—they believe in survival with elan. In the seventies
what we refugees from the sixties euphemistically called survival
was really more like shell shock. Here we were, bravely marching
into the New Age when all of a sudden we found ourselves on our
asses, wondering what hit us. Under those circumstances anyone
who didn't commit suicide or move to Florida and become an
77
orange was counted a survivor.* In the eighties that title will be

reserved for those of us who can recover our wind, our fight, and
our sense of humor. And I'm convinced that New York, which has
a long tradition in such matters, has already begun leading the
recovery. I even have a nomination for the first eighties culture
hero: the unknown guerrilla who recently stalked the sidewalks of
Greenwich Village planting tiny red flags in the piles of dogshit.
Note that the eighties are as different from the sixties as from
the seventies. The eighties are a decade of maturity rather than
youth, of experience rather than innocence. You have to have been
through the sixties to truly appreciate the eighties. Kids who have
grown up in a depressed economy and an atmosphere of political-
cultural reaction and quietism are likely to accept dogshit as the
central fact of life; their attention must be directed to the red
flags. (They won't listen, of course. Never trust anybody under
thirty.)
My script for politics (you remember politics) in the eighties
includes a revived radical movement, seasoned by adversity,
chastened by its mistakes, prepared to learn from and build on the
sixties revolt while eschewing dope-crazed visions of instant revo-
lution. (Dope-crazed visions of eventual revolution are accept-
able.) Admittedly, this phase of the new decade has been slow to
arrive, even in New York. Most of us are still reacting to each new
round of layoffs and budget cuts with groans instead of demon-
strations. Establishment politics have been equally sluggish. Bella
Abzug, New York's most promising eighties politician, is out of a
* Sensitized by Greil Marcus's lonely but fanatical campaign against this

self-inflating use of the word—whereby the deaths, breakdowns, and burnouts
that attended the struggles of the sixties are converted into moral credit for
the rest of us—I am embarrassed at having contributed, even backhandedly,
to one of the past decade's more inane cliches. The concept of emotional or
spiritual survival has an honorable history, but it does invite self-indulgence.
In my own case, the worst I survived was severe personal and political con-
fusion, the temptation to various sorts of craziness, and a couple of bad acid
trips. It felt pretty horrendous at the time, and some of it was even danger-
ous, but Auschwitz it wasn't.
78
It's Later Than You Think
job. Ford's defeat (spearheaded by live New York City voters)

was clearly a repudiation of the seventies, but unfortunately,
Carter doesn't seem to have noticed; Griffin Bell is a seventies
appointment if there ever was one. Still, I'm not too discouraged.
It takes a little time to turn a decade around.
I know what you're thinking: what about 1984? My theory is
that 1984 has already happened. Orwell originally wanted to call
the book i$J4, but his editor made him change it on the naive
assumption that 1974 wasn't far enough in the future.
Happy New Year!
January 1977
79
Tom \\blfe's Failed Optimism
M ^ deepest impulses are optimistic, an attitude that seems to

me as spiritually necessary and proper as it is intellectually
suspect. In college and for some time afterward, my education
was dominated by modernist thinkers and artists who taught me
that the supreme imperative was courage to face the awful truth,
to scorn the soft-minded optimism of religious and secular ro-
mantics as well as the corrupt optimism of governments, adver-
tisers, and mechanistic or manipulative revolutionaries. I learned
that lesson well (though it came too late to wholly supplant certain
critical opposing influences, like comic books and rock-and-roll).
Yet the modernists' once-subversive refusal to be gulled or lulled
has long since degenerated into a ritual despair at least as corrupt,
soft-minded, and cowardly—not to say smug—as the false cheer
it replaced. The terms of the dialectic have reversed: now the
subversive task is to affirm an authentic postmodernist optimism
that gives full weight to existent horror and possible (or probable)
apocalyptic disaster, yet insists—credibly—that we can, well, over-
come. The catch is that you have to be an optimist (an American?)
in the first place not to dismiss such a project as insane.
80
Tom Wolfe's Failed Optimism
A subtheme of sixties utopianism was the attempt—often mud-

dled, at times self-negating—to arrive at some sort of honest op-
timism. This concern was also implicit in the antiutopian
sensibility first self-consciously articulated by the pop artists. Pop
sensibility—loosely defined as the selective appreciation of what-
ever is vital and expressive in mass culture—did more than simply
suggest that life in a rich, capitalist, consumption-obsessed society
had its pleasures; the crucial claim was that those pleasures had
some connection with genuine human feelings, needs, and values
and were not—as both conservative and radical modernists as-
sumed—mere alienated distraction. Pessimists like Herbert Mar-
cuse argued that advanced capitalism destroyed the autonomous
self and with it the possibility of authentic pleasure, let alone hap-
piness; pop implied a more sanguine view of the self as guerrilla,
forever infiltrating territory officially controlled by the enemy,
continually finding new ways to evade and even exploit the ma-
terial and psychic obstacles that the social system continually
erected. I shared this view; I doubted that either Marx or Freud
would quarrel with the proposition that a human being who had
the urge to build a castle, and found that the only material avail-
able was shit, would soon learn how to build shit castles—and how
to use the unique properties of shit to advantage. Pop was about
the ways in which the spirit of the people invaded the man's tech-
nology: restrict us to three chords, a back beat, and two minutes
of air time, and we'll give you—rock-and-roll.
The pop stance was honest up to a point. But its commitment to
making the most of the existing reality excluded painful or dan-
gerous questions about systemic change. Not that pop optimism
was devoid of political content: it was by definition populist
(while modernist pessimism was, at least in part, an aristocratic
vote of no-confidence in the lower orders), and it gleefully of-
fended upper bourgeois pieties about art, taste, and the evils of
consumerism. Nor did the pop sensibility deny or defend the vari-
ous forms of oppression that at once hedged our pleasures and
made them possible; its very celebration of human resilience im-
81
plied an awareness of such barriers to fulfillment. But it took that

tension for granted. The price of pop optimism was a deeper fa-
talism; in a way Andy Warhol's silk-screened electric chair was
more chilling than anything in One Dimensional Man. Those of us
who were unwilling to pay that price looked for ways to inte-
grate the pop impulse with political and cultural radicalism and
with the parallel experience of the immanence of the spirit—best
described as religious—that had become a mass phenomenon be-
cause of a technological achievement called LSD. Yet pop re-
mained central, if only because mass culture was the bloodstream
in which other influences had to circulate if they were to have
much effect.
I had no more than an inkling of the importance of all this when,
in the fermenting mid-sixties, I first came across The Kandy-
Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby. The book—particu-
larly the title piece and the one on Las Vegas, neither of which I'd
read in their original Esquire incarnations—made a strong impres-
sion on me. Tom Wolfe had pulled off the remarkable feat of not
only describing but embodying pop consciousness—an essentially
aliterate phenomenon—in print. The baroque extravagance of his
prose mirrored the cultural styles he was writing about; his narra-
tive voice captured the single-minded vision, the manic enthusiasm,
the confident, idiosyncratic genius of their inventors. He even
played around with his own mass art, journalism, borrowing not
only from fiction but from advertising and pulp jargon. His intro-
duction laid out assumptions that had already begun to affect my
view of the world: "Here was this incredible combination of form
plus money in a place nobody ever thought about finding it. ...
Suddenly classes of people whose styles of life had been practically
invisible had the money to build monuments to their own styles. . . .
Stock car racing, custom cars—and, for that matter, the jerk, the
monkey, rock music—still seem beneath serious consideration, still
the preserve of ratty people with ratty hair and dermatitis. . . . Yet
all these rancid people are creating new styles all the time and
changing the life of the whole country in ways that nobody even
82
bothers to record, much less analyze. . . . The new sensibility—

Baby baby baby where did our love go?—the new world, sub-
merged so long, invisible and now arising, slippy, shiny, electric—
Super Scuba-man!—out of the vinyl deeps."
In comparison, Wolfe's second collection, The Pump House
Gang, fell curiously flat. It was full of repetitious variations on the
proliferation-of-styles theme, which in 1968 "was no longer either
new or neglected, and Wolfe's enthusiasm seemed forced, his rhe-
torical devices mechanical, as if he himself were bored with it all.
Most of the pieces had been written two or three years earlier, and
the gap showed. A lot had happened to overshadow, or at least
complicate, all that churning of the vinyl deeps—the Vietnam es-
calation, black power, the burgeoning of radical and bohemian dis-
sidence. Wolfe was not unaware of those events; on the contrary,
he devoted a page of introduction to defensive ridicule of intel-
lectuals' avidity for disaster: "War! Poverty! Insurrection!
Alienation! O Four Horsemen, you have not deserted us entirely.
The game can go on." He recalled that during a symposium on the
sixties, a few years ago, the other panelists had been so obsessed
with gloomy maunderings that he had been moved to protest.
" 'What are you talking about?' I said. 'We're in the middle of a
. . . Happiness Explosion!'" Elsewhere in the introduction Wolfe
announced the imminent spontaneous demise of the class structure,
already accomplished in New York.
Though I did not expect incisive radical analysis from Tom
Wolfe, any more than I expected it from Mick Jagger, I did think
a touch of the Stones'—or even the Beatles'—irony was in order.
By indulging in mindless yea-saying, Wolfe betrayed the tension at
the core of pop, converting it to a more sophisticated version of
the traditional American booster mentality, whose purpose was, as
it had always been, cosmetic. It was this betrayal, I suspected, that
made The Pump House Gang so lifeless. There was some truth in
Wolfe's complaint; intellectuals did have an emotional investment
in apocalypse, for reasons that rightly offended his populism. But it
was hard to take seriously a populism that willfully ignored certain
83
discomfiting facts. Such as that the ratty-haired, dermatitic kids

whose creativity Wolfe so admired, and who populated the lower
ranks of the class structure he so jauntily pronounced dead, were
providing most of the bodies for the war.
Still, the book contained one piece that confounded all these
judgments—"The Pump House Gang," Wolfe's account of the La
Jolla surfers who hung out and hung loose on the beach, creating a
hedonistic subculture based on physical perfection, daring, con-
tempt for the straight life, mystical rapport with the ocean, above
all youth and a horror of age. The story paid Wolfe's usual loving
attention to surface minutiae, but it also had an underside. There
was the mysterioso Pacific, which had somehow drowned this fan-
tastic surfer, who should have been . . . immune; there was the
ineluctable aging process, which would sooner or later consign the
Pump House Gang to the cruel obsolescence they themselves had
decreed. The piece made me shiver; it hovered on the edge of a
metaphorical wave that suggested both the danger and the lure
of the American ride. It also suggested that Wolfe was basically
too talented and too honest to practice the complacency he
preached.
That suggestion was justified, and then some, by The Electric
Kool-Aid Acid Test. I think Acid Test is a great book, certainly
the best to come out of the sixties. Again Wolfe uses his repor-
torial gifts to get down a sensibility based largely on a revolt
against the supremacy of words. But there is something more:
Acid Test is about the whole sticky problem of optimism, of how
to pursue the elusive synthesis. What makes the book so powerful
—and so brave—is the way Wolfe allowed the Pranksters' vision
to challenge and stretch his own. Ken Kesey and his friends cre-
ated a wondrous new style, rooted in American history, myth,
technology, and popular culture, but their aim was not only
aesthetic—it was messianic. If Wolfe's pop sympathies were en-
gaged by the style, his antiutopianism must have been equally
offended by the aim. Yet the two could not be separated, for they
were complementary aspects of a central unifying impulse—to live
84
Tom Wotfe's Failed Optimism
out and spread the psychedelic experience. If Wolfe was really to

do his job—report accurately on what the Pranksters' trip was
about—he could not take them seriously on one level, dismiss them
as silly hippies on another. Like everyone else he had in some sense
to choose: was he on the bus or off?
For Wolfe, getting on did not mean taking acid—apparently he
did not—or abdicating his particular role in the Pranksters' movie,
which was to be a reporter. Acid Test always keeps the proper
critical distance; it carefully documents the Pranksters' confusions,
fuck-ups, and ultimate failure. But Wolfe does not hold himself
aloof from the pain of that failure. From his first meeting with
Kesey at the beginning of the book to the "WE BLEW IT!"
litany at the end, he never shirks the recognition that there was a
real chance to blow.
Wolfe has never risked or achieved so much since; in the seven-
ties his writing has increasingly reflected and served the decade's
characteristic failures of imagination and will. On its own terms,
Wolfe's first seventies book, Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the
Flak-Catchers, is successful, even brilliant; his demolition of rich
liberals and of the charades that so often pass for left-wing politics
in this country is maliciously accurate and irresistibly funny. Yet the
terms themselves represent a retreat from the complex blend of
identification and objectivity that informs the best of his earlier
work to a more conventional stance as critic of manners and
mores. And the pieces are a moral retreat as well. Like the Pump
House Gang introduction, they offer specific truths in the service
of a larger lie. Their underlying assumption is that political action
is inherently ridiculous and irrelevant, nothing more than a ritual
designed—like, say, a demolition derby—to meet the psychological
needs of its participants. But while Wolfe has always regarded
demolition derbies and most other American rituals with tolerance
if not positive fondness, the very idea of social conscience pisses
him off, and he takes a mean-spirited pleasure in discrediting it.
In his most recent work Wolfe's wit has declined as his cranki-
ness has increased. The Painted Word parlays a slight and dubious
85
thesis into a long and boring polemic. And Mauve Gloves & Mad-
men, Clutter & Vine, Wolfe's latest and weakest anthology, hits a
note of asperity that suggests nothing so much as the cur-
mudgeonly irritation of an old Tory. The title piece is a heavy-
handed, son-of-radical-chic expose of that ungrateful wretch, the
rich West Side writer who finances his rich West Side existence
with jeremiads about repression and recession. "The Intelligent Co-
Ed's Guide to America," a frankly conservative attack on radical
intellectuals cum defense of American democracy, could have
been lifted, minus a few exclamation points, from the pages of
Commentary.
Then there is "The Me Decade and the Third Great Awaken-
ing," in which Wolfe attempts to graft his standard happiness-is-
postwar-prosperity number to a report on the popularity of vari-
ous therapeutic/sexual/religious invitations to self-fulfillment. The
result has an oddly schizophrenic quality. On the one hand, the
current preoccupation with "me" is a product of leisure and
money, hence to be applauded as further evidence against the dis-
aster mongers. On the other hand, it is not lower-class kids who
show up at Esalen and EST but West Side writers 'who are bored
with Martha's Vineyard, and anyway, all that silly self-absorption
—all that psychic muckraking—what is it, really, but a form of
internal disaster mongering? Wolfe does not try to reconcile these
opposing trains of thought; he just scatters cheap shots in all direc-
tions and ends up saying less about middle-class narcissism than
any random Feiffer cartoon.
The one memorable piece in Mauve Gloves is "The Truest
Sport: Jousting with Sam and Charlie," a day-in-the-life account
of Navy bomber pilots flying missions over North Vietnam.
Wolfe's greatest strength is his ability to write from inside his
subjects, even when they are inarticulate, and since that skill re-
quires empathy rather than spleen, he has always written best
about people he admires. He admires the bomber pilots. They are
prototypical American heroes—not eccentric offshoots of the
genre, like Kesey, but the real thing: men who do much and say
86
little, who master rather than submit to machines, who test their
skills to the limit, keep their cool in the face of death, and enjoy a
mystical confrontation with the universe denied ordinary mortals.
A few years ago, Wolfe wrote about the same brand of heroism
in his Rolling Stone series on the Apollo 17 astronauts. But as-
tronauts are one thing, bomber pilots quite another. The real
suspense of "The Truest Sport" is not whether Dowd and Flint
will make it back from their deadly trip over Haiphong harbor,
but whether Wolfe can compel his readers—most of whom, he
knows, are inclined to regard Vietnam bomber pilots as war crim-
inals—to see these men as complex human beings who are in cer-
tain ways admirable, more admirable perhaps than you or I. Im-
probably, he succeeds, at least with me. "The Truest Sport" is an
impressive tour de force. It has, however, one rather disturbing
flaw: the Vietnamese are as invisible to Wolfe as they were to the
pilots.
What bothers me is not that Wolfe didn't write an antiwar tract
but that the issue of whether the war was right or wrong, the
bombings necessary or criminal, is not even an implicit issue in the
piece. What matters to Wolfe is that he prefers the pilots' stoic
style to that of whiny, bad-sport peaceniks who never put their
lives on the line but whose influence on the conduct of the war—
particularly the restrictions placed on bombing raids—made the
pilots' task more difficult and dangerous. I wish I could believe that
Wolfe's use of the sporting metaphor (it is one of the pilots who
compares the bombing missions to jousting) is at least a bit ironic.
But I'm afraid the truth is that Wolfe simply refuses to entertain
the possibility that there are times when style is beside the point.
The continuing inability of someone as intelligent and percep-
tive as Tom Wolfe to confront unpleasant political realities in any
serious way—even to admit that, like it or not, they exist—strikes
me as not just obtuse but neurotic. It comes, I think, from Wolfe's
failure to resolve the contradiction between his populist faith in
human possibility and his essentially conservative political in-
stincts. The cultural excitement of the sixties allowed Wolfe to
8?
avoid facing that conflict; it was possible then to nourish the illusion
that politics didn't matter, that the real action was elsewhere. For all
the prominence of political movements, it was the idea of cultural
revolution—whether in its right-wing (pop) or left-wing (psyche-
delic) versions—that dominated the sixties imagination; Kesey was
antipolitical, in his way a classic American individualist, and Wolfe
loved the way the Pranksters' anarchism befuddled the straight
left. But the times changed, abruptly and rudely exposing the
fragility of that idea—and of the prosperity on which it had de-
pended. Cultural revolution had been a side effect of expanding
American empire; thanks to the Vietnamese, the expansive days
were over. The vaunted postscarcity economy, which would make
all that nasty conflict between classes academic, had failed to ar-
rive; if you believed the projections of ecologists, it never would.
And in the absence of a political spark the happiness explosion was
fizzling out.
Deprived of cultural fireworks to celebrate, Wolfe diverted his
energy to attacking the left—to, as it were, killing the bearer of
bad news. But the repressed always returns. At this point Wolfe's
optimism, such as it is, denies rather than affirms. The voice he
raises against his archenemies, the disaster mongers, is the strident,
defensive, Fm-all-right-Jack voice of official rationalization, a neg-
ative voice worthy of the archenemies themselves. It is, one might
say, the sound of the . . . old sensibility . . . once again having the
last whine. For the time being.
'911
88
O n November 7, I admitted I was turned on by the Sex Pistols.

That morning I had gone from my shrink to my office and
found that a friend who takes an interest in my musical welfare
had sent me a package of British punk singles and albums. He had
been urging me to listen to the stuff, and I had been resisting;
I was skeptical about punk, in both its British and American
versions. The revolt against musical and social pretension, the
attempts to pare rock to its essentials, the New York bands'
Velvetesque ironic distance had a certain deja vu quality: Wasn't
all that happening five years ago? When I had first heard "God
Save the Queen" on the radio, my main reaction had been, "They
sound like Mott the Hoople—what's the big deal?" And the
Ramones bored me; I felt they were not only distanced but distant,
apologists for coldness as a world view. I had dutifully gone to
see them at CBGB's and bought their first album, hoping to be
interested in what they were trying to do, but duty goes only so
far. I was also put off by the heavy overlay of misogyny in the
punk stance.
In October I had gone to an art show opening in Queens and
89
had run into another punk evangelist, Bob Christgau. He argued

that people who put down the punk bands as "fascist" were really
objecting to their lack of gentility. The English bands, he said,
were overtly antifascist, and after all it was in England that fascism
was a serious threat, not here. I wasn't so sure, I said, either that
fascism wasn't a threat here or that the punk rockers were incapa-
ble of flirting with it.
I wasn't referring to the swastikas or sadomasochistic regalia that
some punk bands affected to prove they were shocking, though I
felt that to use Nazi symbolism for any purpose was both stupid
and vicious. I meant that sexism combined with anger was always
potentially fascistic, for when you stripped the gentility from the
relations between the sexes, what too often remained was male
power in its most brutal form. And given the present political
atmosphere, that potential was worrisome. The American right
was on the move; the backlash against feminism was particularly
ominous. Jimmy Carter, with his opposition to abortion, his fun-
damentalist religion, and his glorification of the traditional (i.e.,
male-dominated) family, was encouraging cultural reaction in a
way that was all the more difficult to combat because he was a
Democrat and supposedly a populist. Closer to home, I found it
deeply disturbing that so many liberal and leftist men I knew
considered Mario Cuomo* some sort of working-class hero—that
they were at best willing to ignore, at worst secretly attracted to,
Cuomo's antifeminist attitudes. The punk rockers were scarcely
defenders of the family, or of tradition, but like pseudopopulist
politicians they tended to equate championing the common man
with promoting the oppression of women. That the equation was
as inherently contradictory as "national socialist" was unlikely to
deter men from embracing it.
The following week I went hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
At the inn where I was staying I took a lot of more or less friendly
kidding about being from New York, to which I responded with
more or less friendly defensiveness: no, there had been no looting
* A candidate for mayor of New York in 1977.

90
in my neighborhood during the blackout, and yes, I walked around

at night by myself. Back in the city, in the early morning, my
clock-radio clicked on to wake me up. I lay in bed drifting. The
dee jay delivered a commercial about a Voice article on punk
rock: "A cult explodes and a movement is born!" Then came the
news: The West German commandos had made their triumphant
raid on the terrorists at Mogadishu. I lay in bed confused. Were
the punk rockers the terrorists or the raiders?
Some friends of mine were giving a Halloween costume party. I
decided to go as a punk. I wore a black T-shirt that read in yellow
letters "Anarchy in Queens" (I would love to be able to say I
found it somewhere, but in fact I had it made up), a huge safety-
pin earring, pasty white makeup, green food coloring on my teeth,
and fake vomit that I had bought in a magicians' supply store.
Around the same time I was beginning to emerge from a confus-
ing and depressing period in my life. I had a problem I needed to
face, a painful and scary choice to make, and I had been refusing
to think about it. In such circumstances, music was my enemy. It
had a way of foiling my attempts at evasion; when I was least
prepared, some line or riff or vocal nuance would invariably con-
front me with whatever I was struggling to repress. And so I had
simply stopped listening. I told myself that the trouble was I was
tired of old music, and there was no new music that excited me. I
wondered if I were coming to the end of an era—was rock-and-
roll no longer going to be important in my life?
Then I gave up trying to censor my thoughts. Immediately
there were plenty of records I needed to hear: Blood on the
Tracks; Loaded; Heat Treatment and Howlin Wind; Astral
Weeks; Exile on Main St.; The Bessie Smith Story, Volume 4,
which includes "Send Me to the 'Lectric Chair" and "Empty Bed
Blues." I realized with a shock that although I'd listened to "Send
Me to the 'Lectric Chair" hundreds of times over the years, I had
never really heard it before. It was a fierce, frightening song: a
woman described how she had killed her lover, reeling off the
brutally graphic details with almost casual defiance, saying in
effect "I lost my temper and I blew it and I'm sorry now but it's
91
too late so fuck it." Bessie had concentrated more intensity in that
one song than Janis Joplin had achieved in her whole career. I
played it over and over.
And now I had all these punk-rock records, by the Sex Pistols,
the Clash, Slaughter and the Dogs, the Unwanted, Wire, the Ad-
verts, Johnny Moped, Eater, X-Ray Spex, the Buzzcocks, Chelsea,
the Rezillos. I liked them; they made most of what passed for rock
these days sound not only genteel but out of focus. And I was
knocked out by the Sex Pistols. How could I have denied that they
had a distinctive sound? I knew I might react differently if I saw
them live, or if I could hear more than about i percent of their
lyrics, but for the moment—as had so often happened in the past—
my conceptual reservations were overwhelmed by the immediate,
angry force of the music. WE DON'T CARE!—but they cared
about not caring.
Later I listened to my Ramones album and found that it moved
me more than it had before. It seemed that the British had done it
again—beamed my culture back at me in a way that gave it new
resonances. The last time (when "swinging London" was prosper-
ous and euphoric) they had done this by achieving an aesthetic
distance—based on their detachment from America's racial history
—that was also a kind of innocence. This time (when England was
in deep economic and political trouble) they were doing it by
ignoring—or more precisely smashing—the distance the American
punk bands had taken uninnocent pains to achieve. It was not that
groups like the Sex Pistols and the Clash had no irony of their
own, that their punk persona was not a calculated creation. But the
passion with which they acted out that persona reflected England's
unambiguously awful situation; the Ramones were stuck with the
American dilemma, which is that the system is bad enough to piss
us off, and not bad enough so that we can make up our minds what
to do about it.
Months before my capitulation to the Sex Pistols I was talking to

an editor and we got on the subject of pop music. I said that I still
92
felt involved with the increasingly distinct subgenre of contem-

porary rock-and-roll, but there wasn't that much of it around, and
what there was was often disappointing. The editor asked what
sort of music I was talking about. "Well, the bands that play
CBGB's . . . Graham Parker . . . Springsteen . . ." "Patti Smith?"
"Yes." The editor shook her head. "All these people," she said,
"are still caught up in the past, in the myth of the sixties." "I
disagree," I said, feeling a bit prickly because I'd had this argument
before. "It's just that they acknowledge the sixties, instead of try-
ing to pretend all that stuff never happened."
The argument bothered me. Talk about irony: the worst insult
you could throw at those of us who had been formed by the sixties
was to imply that we were living in the past; not to be totally
wired into the immediate moment meant getting old, which we
hoped we would die before. The thing was, I really felt not guilty.
In the last couple of years, especially, the sixties had seemed very
distant to me. When I thought of the person I had been in 1967, or
even 1970, she was almost as much of a stranger as my college-
student self. I rarely played music that had been popular in the
sixties; most of it lacked a certain dour edge that felt necessary in
this crabbed decade. It was nevertheless true that many of my
favorite records had been made by veterans of the sixties, just as it
was true that I was still interested in my past, felt a continuing
need to understand and absorb it. Was this need regressive?
I had once raised the question in a letter to Greil Marcus, and he
had replied: "Well, we're caught in our own trap. We promoted
and got across a myth of the '6os and now we're paying for it—
having it thrown back on us as some sort of strange aberration that
we all caught a disease from—i.e. it wasn't a real era, wherein real
things happened, it was some giant anomaly. Well, it can seem
like that, because so much of such intensity happened so fast. . . .
more happened in rock and roll in six months of '65 than in all of
the '705. . . . More happened politically in ipdS-in terms of stuff
we will live with and think about all our lives with great emotion
and puzzlement—than since. Etc."
That was part of the problem—too much had happened to as-
93
similate all at once. Culturally and politically, the seventies had

been at best dull, at worst grim, yet for me the retreat into work
and introspection had its positive side; it was a chance to consoli-
date what I'd learned, live down some of the egregious silliness I'd
been party to. How else was I to figure out where I was heading?
Feminism, drugs, Vietnam, the flowering of pop culture had
changed me. They were no longer "the sixties"; they were part of
my baggage.
Yet what was finally most insidious about the whole "You're
caught in the myth of the sixties" business was not its denial that
the sixties were real—and therefore consequential—as well as
mythical, but its use of "the sixties" as a dismissive label with
which to quarantine certain ideas and attitudes. What, for instance,
did it really mean to relegate Patti Smith or the Ramones to the
sixties? True, seventies rock and roll had roots in the sixties, but
then so did disco, which editors and other cultural arbiters agreed
was quintessential seventies music: the original disco audience—
middle-class blacks who retained a black cultural identity rather
than imitating whites—had been created by the civil rights move-
ment and black nationalism. The difference was that rock-and-roll,
as a musical language, was always on some level about rebellion,
freedom, and the expression of emotion, while disco was about
cooling out as you move up, about stylizing and containing emo-
tion.* I knew I was supposed to consider the first set of concerns
as outdated as the miniskirt. Yet owing to the parlous state of New
* While this is all true as far as it goes, it is a bit beside the point. Despite
its base in minority subcultures (black and gay), disco is a mass cultural
phenomenon and so inevitably embodies the spirit of the times in a more
immediate and central way than rock-and-roll, which has become a some-
what abstracted comment on itself and (like jazz in the fifties) an essentially
bohemian taste. In any case, seventies rock-and-roll is obsessed with its
formal tradition, a concern that links it to the past in a special way. Finally,
there are distinctions to be made: Bruce Springsteen is far more tied into
the sixties than the punk and new wave bands. (For elucidation of these last
two points, see my essay on the Velvet Underground.)
94
York's economy, I was, for the first time ever, somewhat down-
wardly mobile; I aspired to have less control over my feelings, not
more; liberation was still a potent idea for me, not because I was
clinging to the Utopian sixties but because I was still oppressed as a
woman—and still angry about it—in the conservative seventies. In
short, though I had nothing against disco, rock-and-roll had a lot
more to do with my life. And I couldn't help suspecting that
"You're still living in the sixties" was often nothing more than
code for "You refuse to admit that what really matters to you is to
stake out a comfortable position in the upper middle class." Well,
not only did I refuse to admit that: I didn't even think it was
true.
I was grappling with my uncensored thoughts, finding them no

less scary and painful, the night I went to see Ms. Clawdy at the
Women's Coffee House. Ms. Clawdy is a singer-songwriter from
Oakland. In the early seventies she managed and wrote songs for
an all-female rock-and-roll band called Eyes; later she sang with
another women's band, Rosie and the Riveters; now she performs
alone, accompanying herself on the piano. She has a local follow-
ing, particularly though not exclusively in the San Francisco Bay
Area's lesbian/feminist/alternative-women's-culture community,
but she is unknown outside California. I've rooted for Ms. Clawdy
for years, not only because she is good but because of what she is
good at. Her music successfully combines two of my main pas-
sions: feminism and rock-and-roll. The Women's Coffee House
gig was her first performance in New York, and to see it I had
passed up Graham Parker at the Palladium.
For those of us who crave music by women who will break out
of traditional molds, write and sing honestly about their (and our)
experience, and create art so powerful that men and the society in
general will have to come to terms with it whether they want to or
not, the seventies have offered scant comfort. Though many
women performers give me pleasure, few have touched those spe-
95
cifically feminist yearnings. There is the Joy of Cooking, whose

music endures but whose lyrics seem dated and sentimental now;
Joni Mitchell's "Blue," ditto; some of Yoko Ono's stuff; great
songs here and there like Helen Reddy's "Summer of "71," Carly
Simon's "You're So Vain," Patti Smith's "Redondo Beach" . . .
give me an hour and I'll think of a dozen more examples, but that
only proves my point.
As a woman who has made a significant contribution to what
I've called contemporary rock-and-roll, Patti Smith stands alone.
Her best songs are as good as any in rock-and-roll, and she is
capable of an electrifying live performance. But she is erratic; in
concerts she has a habit of generating enormous energy, then
diffusing it with rambling, pointless raps. I've always wondered if
she were afraid of her considerable power. I'm also uncomfortable
with her androgynous, one-of-the-guys image; its rebelliousness is
seductive, but it plays into a kind of misogyny—endemic to bo-
hemian circles and, no doubt, to the punk-rock scene—that con-
sents to distinguish a woman who acts like one of the guys (and is
also sexy and conspicuously "liberated") from the general run of
stupid girls.
So Patti Smith may be a rock-and-roll hero, but she is not quite a
feminist heroine. Ms. Clawdy, on the other hand . . . I watched her
with an avidity that came from discovering someone who was
distinctively herself, yet fit my generic fantasy. Her style was at
once functional and matter-of-factly sensual; her plump, womanly
body was encased in red mechanic's overalls. She was funny, ironic,
passionate, self-deprecating without being masochistic, vulnerable
without being pathetic, and political in the best sense—that is,
willing to tell the truth about the conditions of her life. I enjoyed
her funny songs—especially a discourse on compulsive eating
called "Ice Cream Cone"—but I liked her best at her most serious.
Of her newest songs the one that most compelled me was "The
Dark Side," which she introduced by noting that Chairman Mao
had urged revolutionary artists to emphasize the bright side of life
and that she hadn't followed his advice. But my favorite was still
96
her signature song, "Night Blindness." Whenever she sang it I

heard something new. This time, the lines that got to me were
"We all need love, it's worth any price you pay/ That's what my
mother said, and she lives alone today."
I had gone to the show with a woman friend, and afterward we
were so high that we ran down the street, shouted, and hugged.
Some weeks later, I had dinner with Ms. Clawdy, a.k.a. Ella Hirst,
and we talked about the possibilities for an alternative women's
culture. I had once been attracted to the idea but had long since
become convinced that it was unworkable and even reactionary. It
was, I believed, inseparable both in theory and in practice from
political ideas I had rejected: that sexual and cultural separatism
were a solution to the oppression of women or an effective strat-
egy for ending that oppression. For me feminism meant confront-
ing men and male power and demanding that women be free to be
themselves everywhere, not just in a voluntary ghetto. Separatists
argued that a consistent feminist had to break all sexual and emo-
tional ties with men, yet it seemed to me that not to need men for
sex or love could as easily blunt one's rage and pain and therefore
one's militance; I also had the feeling that there was a lot of denial
floating around the separatist community—denial that breaking
with men did not solve everything, that even between women love
had its inescapable problems. I suspected that a culture based on
separatist assumptions was unlikely to be angry enough, or truthful
enough, to be revolutionary.
I had arrived at these conclusions not by thinking about the issue
abstractly, but by trying to answer a specific question: why did I
like so little of the women's-culture music I had heard? The femi-
nist music scene had two main tendencies. One was a women's
version of political folk music, which replicated all the virtues
(simplicity, intimacy, community) and all the faults (sentimental-
ity, insularity, heavy rhetoric) of the genre. Some of it was fun to
listen to, but the idiom was too well worn to promise anything
exciting or original. The other tendency actively turned me off: it
was a slick, technically accomplished, rock-influenced but basically
97
conventional pop. I believed that this music could be a commercial

success; supposedly the product of a dissident culture, it struck me
as altogether compatible with the MOR blandness of most white
pop music.
What disturbed me most about both brands of women's-culture
music was that so much of it was so conventionally feminine.
Years ago Ella Hirst had told me that she thought most female
performers did not have a direct line to their emotions, the way
men did—they were too busy trying to please. It seemed to me
that too many of the women's-culture people had merely switched
from trying to please men to trying to please other women.
A couple of years ago I had gone to see the feminist folk-rock
group, the Deadly Nightshade, at a lesbian bar in Boston. They
sang "Honky Tonk Women" with rewritten, nonsexist lyrics.
Someone in the audience sent them an outraged note, attacking
them for singing an antiwoman song. The lead singer read the note
aloud and nervously and defensively complained that the writer
hadn't been listening. The incident had helped me understand why
I wasn't enthusiastic about the group. They did not have the confi-
dence, or the arrogance, to say or feel "If you don't like it, tough
shit." It was not that I thought performers should be indifferent to
the response of their audience. I just thought that the question
they ought to ask was not "How can I make them like me?" but
"How can I make them hear me?"
Ella protested that I was harder on these women, who were at
least trying to create an alternative system of values, than on tra-
ditional female performers. She had a point. Why did the Deadly
Nightshade's wimpiness bother me more than Linda Ronstadt's sex-
kitten routine? For the same reason, probably, that the radical
left's offenses against women always incensed me more than
everyone else's.
But rock-and-roll, as always, posed a more troublesome paradox.
Listening to the Sex Pistols, trying to figure out if "Bodies" was
really an antiabortion song, I discovered that it was something
even worse. It was an outburst of loathing for human physicality, a
98
loathing projected onto women because they have babies and abor-
tions and are "a fucking bloody mess," but finally recoiling against
the singer himself: "I'm not an animal!" he bellowed in useless
protest, his own animal sounds giving him the lie. It was an out-
rageous song, yet I could not simply dismiss it with outrage. The
extremity of its disgust forced me to admit that I was no stranger
to such feelings—though unlike Johnny Rotten I recognized that
the disgust, not the body, was the enemy. And there lay the para-
dox: music that boldly and aggressively laid out what the singer
wanted, loved, hated—as good rock-and-roll did—challenged me
to do the same, and so, even when the content was antiwoman,
antisexual, in a sense antihuman, the form encouraged my struggle
for liberation. Similarly, timid music made me feel timid, whatever
its ostensible politics. What I loved most about Ms. Clawdy was
that I could have liberating form and content both; I could re-
spond as a whole person. Listening to most rock-and-roll was like
walking down the street at night, automatically checking out the
men in my vicinity: this one's okay; that one could be trouble,
watch out. Listening to most feminist music was like taking a
warm bath. Ms. Clawdy did not make me wary—but that didn't
mean she let me relax.
The other day, I was sitting on a bench in front of the laundro-

mat on my corner. While I waited for my wash, I thought about
the choice I still had to make. For some reason I happened to
glance upward, and my eyes hit a stop sign. I laughed; if my life
had to be a series of metaphors, I ought to pick some better ones.
Like, say, the last verse of "Night Blindness": "I never thought
that anyone would know me like you do./ If I let you make me
happy you could make me unhappy too./ I told my friend, she said
she knows just how I feel/ But I have to take a chance and find out
if it's real."
November ipjj
99
How's the Family?
C hristmas week: if Phyllis Schlafly and her cohorts could

observe my friends right now, they might conclude that the
plot against the American family is a paper tiger. As a group,
the people I know are surely in the vanguard of the plot if it
exists at all; they travel light, have sharp elbows, and are deeply
ambivalent about marital and parental bliss. But come December
and they all seem as obsessed with family as if they had never
read Marcuse: they worry about aging parents and confused
siblings, haggle with ex-spouses over who gets the kids for which
holidays, have second thoughts about arriving in their mid-thirties
unencumbered—and unconnected. They are sensitive to the need
for friends to be family to each other; careful to make sure no
one is unwillingly alone on Christmas or New Year's. They joke
seriously about getting together when they're seventy-five and
starting a commune.
As usual, I'm feeling somewhat insulated from the seasonal angst;
since my family, being Jewish, has never made a big deal of Christ-
mas, it doesn't have a lot of heavy associations for me. Rather, I
think of the holidays as a period when the pace of the city slows
100
How's the Family?
down, the phone rings less, people I have to talk to aren't in their
offices, and I have more time than usual to read, go to the movies,
wander around, shop. On Christmas Eve, with a modicum of con-
scious perversity, I go alone to see Looking for Mr. Goodbar.
Everyone has been warning me against it; the consensus is that it's
bad in an uninteresting way. I'm stubborn—the movie has Diane
Keaton, it's a cultural event, and it's playing three blocks from my
house. But the consensus is right: Mr. Goodbar is a study in inco-
herence untrammeled by notions of motivation, though I'm willing
to believe that the strain of being a saintly guru to cherubic deaf
children is enough to drive anyone to singles bars. I leave the
theater feeling irritated, wishing I had stayed home with the Mar-
garet Drabble novel I just bought. But reading The Realms of
Gold, I get irritated all over again. The book has a marvelous,
dense texture; its world is real, its characters alive; yet its craft
cannot hide a certain, well, banality. What do I (or the characters)
learn from the anthropologist heroine's relationship with a married
man? That love is mysterious, that lovers accept each other's im-
perfect humanity? No shit. Drabble avoids moral complexity by
making the wife a dedicated pain in the ass. I cheat and turn to the
end: the wife conveniently becomes a lesbian. I get it—it's the plot
against the family (British, in this case) with no plotters and no
victims.
Christmas day: a man I used to live with has invited me to
dinner. He has roasted a turkey. I have never roasted a turkey
because I can't seem to shake the idea that turkey roasting is an
infinitely complicated process that only my mother can handle.
Later in the week I try another movie—Close Encounters of the
Third Kind. It's a matinee; the audience is full of obstreperous
kids. I love the movie. It's not just that I'm a sucker for science-
fiction movies, though I am. What moves me is that, for all his
sentimentality, Spielberg has managed—with certain shots of
Richard Dreyfuss's face and Frangois Truffaut's smile; with
Dreyfuss's dirt-and-shrub replica of the mountain; with the inter-
planetary duet; even with a sensual, charismatic version of that
101
stock character, the practical wife who stands in the hero's way—
to convey the frustration of struggling to follow a vision others
don't share and the triumph of vindication. The movie's view of
the family has a nice (if sexist) balance. Dreyfuss leaves his wife
and children to pursue the vision. But Melinda Dillon pursues it by
pursuing her child, who is, of course, visionary by definition.
New Year's Eve: having considered and rejected the idea of
organizing an expedition to see Patti Smith and Richard Hell and
the Voidoids, I have a choice of three parties—two large ones and
a small one. I go to the small one, where the order of the night is
shameless indulgence in champagne and old rock-and-roll. Some-
time after midnight with Guy Lombardo's brother, the Stones are
crooning "She comes in colors." "I wonder how you do that?" I
muse. A silly question—obviously you have to take some evil drug.
The last time I took an evil drug on New Year's Eve I was living
with three other people in a small town in the Catskills. Before we
dropped our little pink tabs we had a conference about our cat,
Molly (short for Molotov Cocktail). She was in heat, and we had
been keeping her in the house. It occurred to us that once we were
high, we might feel sorry for her and decide that it was absurd to
be so uptight about letting nature take its course. We solemnly
agreed that no matter how expansive we felt, we would be respon-
sible and not let Molly out. But in the morning we realized that at
some point in our revels we had simply forgotten about the whole
thing and left the door open. Molly was gone; she didn't come
back for two days. She had two kittens. One of them died last fall,
of a liver ailment, but Molly is still around. The man I used to live
with has custody; I didn't want the bother of keeping a cat in the
city. But I still think of her as partly mine.
February ipj8
IO2
Jackie, We Hardly Knew You
T hey say that Jackie's father, "Black Jack" Bouvier, was flam-
boyant, sexy, and irresponsible, while her stepfather, Hugh
Auchincloss, was kind, solid, and dull. Kitty Kelley's Jackie Oh!
is the sort of book Black Jack might have grinned at; Hugh would
no doubt have preferred Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis, by
Stephen Birmingham, author of The Right People. All the trap-
pings of the Kelley book—the title, the garish cover, the Lyle
Stuart imprint, photographs by the intrepid Ron Galella—shout
juicy trash; Birmingham's book exudes a claustrophobic aura of
good taste. The content of both books corresponds to their
packaging. The result is that while J.B.K.O. may be more faithful
to the provable facts, Jackie Oh! makes a more convincing stab
at the unprovable truth.
As a participant in public life—in history—Jackie is insignifi-
cant. No one has ever claimed that she has had the slightest influ-
ence on public affairs, and although her style contributed to the
glamor of the Kennedy era, it has had no enduring impact on the
way Americans behave or think. Jackie was an icon to admire, not
a model to emulate. As first lady she charmed Charles de Gaulle,
103
redecorated the White House, played the role of heroic national

widow, and that was about it. The source of the public's (particu-
larly the female public's) continuing obsession with Jackie is her
private life as the wife of spectacularly rich and powerful men.
Which means that the prurient details J.B.K.O. discreetly plays
down are of the essence. Birmingham is obtuse about this. He can
go on for pages about Jackie's busy-work in the White House
while expending all of a paragraph on the observation that "the
marriage had become, by now, little more than a matter of mutual
convenience." "Some of the rumors were no doubt true" is his
word on JFK's womanizing. But what anyone who would bother
to pick up the book wants to know is: Was the marriage ever
more than convenient? Did she marry power, he an ornament, or
was it more complicated? Was she jealous of his affairs? And so
on.
Birmingham's attitude toward Jackie is embarrassingly respect-
ful, as is his attitude toward the upper classes generally. He seems
most in his element when he is chronicling (at excessive length)
the history of the Bouviers and the Auchinclosses, and he has a
fondness for remarks like "[Jackie] bore the genes of designers
and decorators." His take on the Jackie myth is an updated version
of the familiar idea that she fulfilled America's craving for an
aristocracy; he implies that her celebrity survived her inelegant
second marriage and its aftermath because she was too classy to be
dragged down.
Kitty Kelley is not respectful. If her book leaves one overriding
impression, it is that morality is indeed a middle-class concern,
alien to the rich. Jackie, the Kennedy family, and especially John
F. himself are portrayed—not with disapproval but with wicked
relish—as strong-willed, self-centered, greedy, hedonistic, and to-
tally untrammeled by anything we might recognize as a system of
values or a notion of other people's rights. Proprieties and rules of
behavior are for public relations; power is the only law that
counts.
Jackie Oh! is as vivid and as broadly drawn as a popular novel.
104
Jackie, We Hardly Knew You
Even its minor characters are full of obsessive passions: Jackie's

mother hates her ex-husband and allegedly sees to it that Black
Jack is too drunk to make it to his daughter's wedding; the indig-
nant landlady of one of JFK's girlfriends embarks on a one-woman
crusade to discredit him. But Kelley's best creations are the fasci-
nating and appalling Kennedys. They appear in the first chapter,
forcing an ostentatious Catholic politician's wedding on the im-
peccably genteel WASP Auchinclosses, and they dominate most of
the book. JFK emerges as a larger-than-life egomaniac whose
compulsive Don Juanism—according to Kelley, he was a lousy
lover, interested only in conquest—serves as a metaphor for his
pursuit of power. Jackie's character develops through coping with
him, getting around him, making her position work for her. If
their marriage is one of convenience for him, it is, as Kelley sees it,
less cynical and more bitter for her. Still, she learns to apply a
Kennedyesque stubbornness to her hatred of politics, her con-
tempt for the official duties of a first lady, her love of luxury, her
outrageously expensive restoration project, her war with the hap-
less Bill Manchester.
Kelley gives little space to Jackie's years with Onassis. Too bad,
because those years provide the necessary climax to the Jackie
myth: the shy, insecure debutante who was intimidated by the
overbearing Kennedys has become a determined woman whose
"classiness" does not inhibit her from fighting hard for what she
wants—a sizable chunk of the Onassis estate. Jackie is the mirror
image of her closest rival for preeminent female celebrity, Eliza-
beth Taylor. While Liz broke all the rules, had her own work,
flaunted her sexuality, and engaged in open, equal combat with her
men, Jackie played the game, took traditional femininity as far as it
could go, and managed to end up on her own with 20 million
bucks. In a way, she beat the system. Which could be why Kelley
—like most women I know—regards her with a kind of covert
glee.
December 1978
105
Classical and Baroque Sex
in Everyday Life
T here are two kinds of sex, classical and baroque. Classical sex
is romantic, profound, serious, emotional, moral, mysterious,
spontaneous, abandoned, focused on a particular person, and ste-
reotypically feminine. Baroque sex is pop, playful, funny, experi-
mental, conscious, deliberate, amoral, anonymous, focused on
sensation for sensation's sake, and stereotypically masculine. The
classical mentality taken to an extreme is sentimental and finally
puritanical; the baroque mentality taken to an extreme is por-
nographic and finally obscene. Ideally, a sexual relationship ought
to create a satisfying tension between the two modes (a baroque
idea, particularly if the tension is ironic) or else blend them so
well that the distinction disappears (a classical aspiration). Love-
making cannot be totally classical unless it is also totally baroque,
since you can't abandon all restraints without being willing to
try anything. Similarly, it is impossible to be truly baroque without
allowing oneself to abandon all restraints and so attain a classical
intensity. In practice, however, most people are more inclined
to one mode than to the other. A very classical person will be
incompatible with a very baroque person unless each can bring
106
Classical and Baroque Sex in Everyday Life
out the other's latent opposite side. Two people who are very
one-sided in the same direction can be extremely compatible but
risk missing a whole dimension of experience unless they get so
deeply into one mode that it becomes the other.
Freud, the father of the sexual revolution, was a committed
classicist who regarded most baroque impulses as infantile and per-
verse. Nevertheless, the sexual revolution, as it is usually defined,
has been almost exclusively concerned with liberating those im-
pulses from the confines of an exaggeratedly classical puritanism.
The result, to my mind, has been an equally distorting cultural
obsession with the baroque. Consider, for example, that quintessen-
tial expression of baroque angst (a contradiction in terms, the
product of Jewish guilt; Christian guilt is classical all the way),
Lenny Bruce's notorious monologue about fucking a chicken. Or,
come to think of it (puns are baroque), Portnoy's adventures with
liver. I mean seriously (classically, that is), is fucking chickens and
livers what sex is all about?
Curiously, contemporary sexual "experts" never mention this cru-
cial polarity. This is because they have a vested interest in what
might be called establishment or middlebrow baroque—really an
attempt to compromise with proclassical traditionalists who insist
that sex should be somehow worthwhile, not just fun. Thus the
basic axiom of establishment baroque is that consensual sex in any
form is wholesome and good for you; a subsidiary premise is that
good sex depends on technical skill and is therefore an achieve-
ment. Kinsey, with his matter-of-fact statistical approach to his
subject, was a pioneer of establishment baroque. Masters and John-
son belong in this category, as do all behavior therapists. The
apotheosis of multiple orgasm is an establishment baroque substi-
tute for the old-fashioned classical ideal of coming together, Real
baroque sex has no ideals. Much as I hate to admit it, what I have
in mind here is a sort of middlebrow baroque project—to report
on the two kinds of sex in everyday life.
Time: Night is classical; so are sunrise and sunset. High noon
and half an hour before dinner (or during dinner) are baroque.
107
Location: Outdoors is classical, except for crowded nude

beaches. The back seat of a car is classical if you're a teen-ager,
baroque otherwise. The shower is classical; the bathtub is baroque.
Number: Two is classical. One or three or more is baroque.
Lighting: Total darkness is ultraclassical except when it's a
baroque variation. Dim lights and candlelight are classical. Flood-
lights and fluorescent lights are definitely baroque.
Clothing: The only truly classical outfit is nothing. Clothing
evokes fantasy and fantasies are baroque. Black lace underwear is
of course the classic baroque outfit. Red is baroque, as is anything
see-through. Frilly white nightgowns are a baroque impulse with
classical content.
Food: Eating in bed is baroque, although artichoke hearts and
sour cream are more classical than potato chips and pizza.
Tongues, tastes, and flavors are inherently baroque. Comparing sex
with food is usually middlebrow baroque, except when a classicist,
quarreling with the baroque idea that getting off is getting off no
matter how you do it, points out that "Steak and hamburger may
both be protein but they still taste different." Putting food any-
where but in your mouth is superbaroque.
Drugs: Wine and marijuana are classical. Cocaine and quaaludes
are baroque.
Music: Comparisons between sex and music are classical even if
the music itself is baroque. Rock-and-roll is a good mixture of both
sensibilities. My favorite classical sex song is Rod Stewart's "To-
night's the Night"; my favorite baroque sex song is "Starfucker."
Rock-and-roll is usually more classical than disco.
Pornography: Porn is basically a baroque phenomenon. Much of
it (Hustler, most X-rated movies) is belligerently anticlassical and
therefore a form of inverted puritanism. Some of it (Playboy) is
pure middlebrow baroque. Many porn classics (like Fanny Hill)
have a fairly large classical element. The larger the classical ele-
ment, the likelier that a piece of pornography will be judged to
have redeeming social value. If it is classical enough, it stops being
porn altogether and becomes art, but this is a very subjective and
relative matter. Lady Chatterley's Lover was once considered por-
108
Classical and Baroque Sex in Everyday Life
nographic because it used certain baroque words, but by contem-

porary standards it is cornball classical. (Actually, Lawrence seems
to have intended a classical celebration of the joy of the baroque,
and he might have pulled it off if it weren't for all that solemn
phallic worship and particularly those ridiculous flowers. One
thing he did accomplish, though: he made "fuck" into a classical
word without sacrificing its baroque connotations.) Pornography
also becomes art when it is so baroque it is classical, like The Story
ofO.
Sex manuals: Love Without Fear is echt-classical. The Kama
Sutra is baroque with classical trappings (all that religious over-
lay). The Joy of Sex, with its sections headed "Starters," "Main
Courses," and "Sauces and Pickles," is middlebrow baroque except
for its rather classical illustrations.
Devices: All technology is baroque, including contraceptives,
vibrators, and air conditioning.
Sexism: Classical sexism is the mystique of yin and yang, mascu-
line strength and feminine surrender, noble savage and earth
mother, D. H. Lawrence, Norman Mailer. Baroque sexism is the
objectification of women, black garter belts and six-inch heels,
Larry Flynt, Helmut Newton.
Feminism: Classical feminism is a vision of total equality, the
transcendence of artificial social roles, love and respect for one's
partner as an individual. Baroque feminism asserts women's right
to be baroque, traditionally a male prerogative; rejects preconcep-
tions about what is natural and moral; insists that anything goes for
either sex so long as it feels good.
National characters: The Italians are classical. So are the French,
though they pretend otherwise. The Communist countries and
Sweden are middlebrow baroque. As a rule, wildly baroque coun-
tries exist only in their conquerors' imagination. Americans have
classical leanings, but the world headquarters of baroque is New
York City. In Manhattan you can eat a chicken and the waiter
won't even notice.
May i<fl9
109
Velvet Underground
This essay originally appeared in Stranded, an anthology

of critics' responses to the question "What rock and roll
album would you take to a desert island?"
ILL L E T Y O U B E I N MY D R E A M
A Change of fantasy: I have just won the first annual Keith

Moon Memorial Essay Contest. (This year's subject was "Is
Ecstasy Dead?") The prize is a fallout shelter in the bowels of
Manhattan, reachable only through a secret entrance in CBGB's
basement. It is fully stocked: on entering the contest I was asked
to specify my choice of drugs (LSD), junk food (Milky Way),
T-shirt ("Eat the Rich"), book (Parade's End), movie (The
Wizard of Oz),* rock-and-roll single ("Anarchy in the U.K."),
and rock-and-roll album. The album is Velvet Underground, an
anthology culled from the Velvets' first three L.P.s. (My specially
ordered version of this collection is slightly different from the
original; for "Afterhours," a song I've never liked much, it substi-
tutes "Pale Blue Eyes," one of my favorites.) The songs on Velvet
Underground are all about sin and salvation. As luck would have it,
* On second thought, I'd rather have Gone With the Wind, or maybe The
Harder They Come.
no
Velvet Underground
I am inspecting my winnings at the very moment that a massive

earthquake destroys a secret biological warfare laboratory inside
the Indian Point nuclear power plant, contaminating New York
City with a virulent, radioactive form of legionnaire's disease. It
seems that I will be contemplating sin and salvation for a long
time to come.
I LOVE THE S O U N D OF B R E A K I N G GLASS
In New York City in the middle sixties the Velvet Underground's

lead singer, guitarist, and auteur, Lou Reed, made a fateful connec-
tion between two seemingly disparate ideas—the rock-and-roller as
self-conscious aesthete and the rock-and-roller as self-conscious
punk. (Though the word "punk" was not used genetically until
the early seventies, when critics began applying it to unregenerate
rock-and-rollers with an aggressively lower-class style, the concept
goes all the way back to Elvis.) The Velvets broke up in 1970, but
the aesthete-punk connection was carried on, mainly in New York
and England, by Velvets-influenced performers like Mott the
Hoople, David Bowie (in his All the Young Dudes rather than his
Ziggy Stardust mode), Roxy Music and its offshoots, the New
York Dolls and the lesser protopunk bands that played Manhattan's
Mercer Arts Center before it (literally) collapsed, the antipunk
Modern Lovers, the archpunk Iggy Stooge/ Pop. By 1977 the same
duality had surfaced in new ways, with new force, under new
conditions, to become the basis of rock-and-roll's new wave.
There are important differences, both temperamental and musi-
cal, that divide today's punks and punkoids from the Velvets and
other precursors and from each other; American punk (still cen-
tered in New York) and its British counterpart are not only differ-
ent but in a sense opposed. Yet all this music belongs to a coherent
genre, implicitly defined by the tension between the term "punk"
and the more inclusive "new wave," with its arty connotations. If
the Velvets invented this genre, it was clearly anticipated by the
iii
Who: Pete Townshend, after all, is something of an aesthete, and

Roger Daltrey something of a punk. It was not surprising that the
impulse to make music that united formal elegance and defiant
crudity should arise among working-class Englishmen and take
shape among New York bohemians; each environment was, in its
own way, highly structured and ridden with conflict. And as a
vehicle for that impulse, rock-and-roll had unique advantages: it
was defiantly crude, yet for those who were tuned in to it it was
also a musical, verbal, and emotional language rich in formal pos-
sibilities.
The Who, the Velvets, and the new wave bands have all shared
this conception of rock-and-roll; their basic aesthetic assumptions
have little to do with what is popularly known as "art rock." The
notion of rock-as-art inspired by Dylan's conversion to the electric
guitar—the idea of making rock-and-roll more musically and lyri-
cally complex, of combining elements of jazz, folk, classical, and
avant-garde music with a rock beat, of creating "rock opera" and
"rock poetry"—was from the rock-and-roll fan's perspective a
dubious one. At best it stimulated a vital and imaginative eclecti-
cism that spread the values of rock-and-roll even as it diffused and
diluted them. At worst it rationalized a form of cultural upward
mobility, concerned with achieving the appearance and pretensions
of art rather than the reality—the point being to "improve" rock-
and-roll by making it palatable to the upper middle class. Either
way, it submerged rock-and-roll in something more amorphous
and high-toned called rock. But from the early sixties (Phil Spec-
tor was the first major example) there was a countertradition in
rock-and-roll that had much more in common with "high" art—in
particular avant-garde art—than the ballyhooed art-rock syn-
theses: it involved more or less consciously using the basic formal
canons of rock-and-roll as material (much as the pop artists used
mass art in general) and refining, elaborating, playing off that ma-
terial to produce what might be called rock-and-roll art. While art
rock was implicitly based on the claim that rock-and-roll was or
could be as worthy as more established art forms, rock-and-roll art
I 12
Velvet Underground
came out of an obsessive commitment to the language of rock-and-

roll and an equally obsessive disdain for those who rejected that
language or wanted it watered down, made easier. In the sixties the
best rock often worked both ways: the special virtue of sixties
culture was its capacity for blurring boundaries, transcending con-
tradictions, pulling off everything at once. But in the seventies the
two tendencies have increasingly polarized: while art rock has
fulfilled its most philistine possibilities in kitsch like Yes (or, for
that matter, Meat Loaf), the new wave has inherited the counter-
tradition, which is both less popular and more conscious of itself as
a tradition than it was a decade ago.
The Velvets straddled the categories. They were nothing if not
eclectic: their music and sensibility suggested influences as diverse
as Bob Dylan and Andy Warhol, Peter Townshend and John
Cage; they experimented with demented feedback and isolated,
pure notes and noise for noise's sake; they were partial to sweet,
almost folk-like melodies; they played the electric viola on Desola-
tion Row. But they were basically rock-and-roll artists, building
their songs on a beat that was sometimes implied rather than heard,
on simple, tough, pithy lyrics about their hard-edged urban
demimonde, on rock-and-roll's oldest metaphor for modern city
life—anarchic energy contained by a tight, repetitive structure.
Some of the Velvets' best songs—"Heroin," especially—redefined
how rock-and-roll was supposed to sound. Others—"I'm Waiting
for the Man," "White Light/ White Heat," "Beginning to See the
Light," "Rock & Roll"—used basic rock-and-roll patterns to rede-
fine how the music was supposed to feel.
The Velvets were the first important rock-and-roll artists who
had no real chance of attracting a mass audience. This was para-
doxical. Rock-and-roll was a mass art, whose direct, immediate
appeal to basic emotions subverted class and educational distinc-
tions and whose formal canons all embodied the perception that
mass art was not only possible but satisfying in new and liberating
ways. Insofar as it incorporates the elite, formalist values of the
avant-garde, the very idea of rock-and-roll art rests on a contradic-
"3
tion. Its greatest exponents—the Beatles, the Stones, and (espe-

cially) the Who—undercut the contradiction by making the
surface of their music deceptively casual, then demolished it by
reaching millions of kids. But the Velvets' music was too overtly
intellectual, stylized, and distanced to be commercial. Like pop art,
which was very much a part of the Velvets' world, it was antiart
art made by antielite elitists. Lou Reed's aesthete-punk persona,
which had its obvious precedent in the avant-garde tradition of
artist-as-criminal-as-outlaw, was also paradoxical in the context of
rock-and-roll. The prototypical rock-and-roll punk was the (usu-
ally white) working-class kid hanging out on the corner with his (it
was usually his) pals; by middle-class and/or adult standards he
might be a fuck-off, a hell-raiser, even a delinquent, but he was not
really sinister or criminal. Reed's punk was closer to that bohemian
(and usually black) hero, the hipster: he wore shades, took hard
drugs, engaged in various forms of polymorphous perversity; he
didn't just hang out on the corner, he lived out on the street, and
he was a loner.
As white exploitation of black music, rock-and-roll has always
had its built-in ironies, and as the music went further from its
origins, the ironies got more acute. Where, say, Mick Jagger's
irony was about a white middle-class English bohemian's (and later
a rich rock star's) identification with and distance from his music's
black American roots, his working-class image, and his teen-age
audience, Lou Reed's irony made a further leap. It was not only
about a white middle-class Jewish bohemian's identification with
and distance from black hipsters (an ambiguity neatly defined
when Reed-as-junkie, waiting for his man on a Harlem street cor-
ner, is challenged, "Hey white boy! Whatchou doin' uptown?")
but about his use of a mass art form to express his aesthetic and
social alienation from just about everyone. And one of the forms
that alienation took pointed to yet another irony. While the orig-
inal, primal impulse of rock-and-roll was to celebrate the body,
which meant affirming sexual and material pleasure, Reed's tem-
perament was not only cerebral but ascetic. There was nothing
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Velvet Underground
resembling lustiness in the Velvets' music, let alone any hippie

notions about the joys of sexual liberation. Reed did not celebrate
the sadomasochism of "Venus in Furs" any more than he cele-
brated heroin; he only acknowledged the attraction of what he saw
as flowers of evil. Nor did he share his generation's enthusiasm for
hedonistic consumption—to Reed the flash of the affluent sixties
was fool's gold. Like Andy Warhol and the other pop artists he
responded to the aesthetic potency of mass cultural styles; like
Warhol he was fascinated by decadence—that is, style without
meaning or moral content; but he was unmoved by that aspect of
the pop mentality, and of rock-and-roll, that got off on the Amer-
ican dream. In a sense, the self-conscious formalism of his music—
the quality that made the Velvets uncommercial—was an attempt
to purify rock-and-roll, to purge it of all those associations with
material goodies and erotic good times.
Though it's probable that only the anything-goes atmosphere of
the sixties could have inspired a group like the Velvets, their music
was prophetic of a leaner, meaner time. They were from—and
of—hard-headed, suspicious New York, not Utopian, good-vibes
California. For all Lou Reed's admiration of Bob Dylan, he had
none of Dylan's faith in the liberating possibilities of the edge—
what he had taken from Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on
Blonde was the sound of the edge fraying. Like his punk inheri-
tors, he saw the world as a hostile place and did not expect it to
change. In rejecting the optimistic consensus of the sixties, he pre-
figured the punks' attack on the smug consensus of the seventies;
his thoroughgoing iconoclasm anticipated the punks' contempt for
all authority—including the aesthetic and moral authority of rock-
and-roll itself.
Throughout this decade rock-and-roll has been struggling to
reclaim its identity as a music of cultural opposition, not only
distinct from but antagonistic to its own cultural conglomerate,
rock. The chief accomplishment of the punks has been to make
that antagonism explicit and public in a way that is clearly con-
temporary—that is, has nothing to do with "reviving" anything
"5
except the spirit of opposition itself. What is new in rock-and-

roll—what is uncomfortable and abrasive and demanding—is the
extent to which it insists on a defensive stance; the authentic late
seventies note is nothing so much as cranky. Though the British
punk movement was in some respects a classic revolt of youth—a
class-conscious revolt, at that—its self-mocking nihilism is a classic
crank attitude, while the American new wave makes up in alien-
ated smart-assism for what it lacks in shit-smearing belligerence.
The power and vitality of the crank posture are attested to by the
way it makes less discordant sensibilities sound corny, even to
those of us who might prefer to feel otherwise. Bruce Springsteen
may still pull off a credible melange of fifties teen-age-street-kid
insurgency, sixties apocalyptic romance, and early/mid-seventies
angst, but he is an anomaly; so is Graham Parker, whose stubborn
and convincing faith in traditional rock-and-roll values recalls John
Fogerty's. Patti Smith, on the other hand, is a transitional figure,
half cranky messiah, half messianic crank. The rock-and-rollers
who exemplify the current aesthetic do so with wide variations in
intensity, from Johnny Rotten (maniacal crank) to Elvis Costello
(passionate crank) to Nick Lowe or Talking Heads (cerebral
cranks) to the Ramones (cranks of convenience). (The Clash, one
convolution ahead, is boldly anti- or post-crank—the first eighties
band?) The obvious core of their crankiness is their consciousness
of themselves as a dissident minority, but it's more complicated
than that. Real, undiluted rock-and-roll is almost by definition the
province of a dissident minority (larger at some times than at
others); it achieved its cultural hegemony in the sixties only by
becoming rock—by absorbing competing cultural values and in
turn being absorbed, making a new rebellion necessary. What is
different now is that for the first time in the music's twenty-five-
year history, rock-and-rollers seem to accept their minority status
as given and even to revel in it. Which poses an enormous contra-
diction, for real rock-and-roll almost by definition aspires to con-
vert the world.
In some ways the crankiness of current rock-and-rollers resem-
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Velvet Underground
bles the disaffection of an earlier era of bohemians and avant-

gardists convinced they had a vision the public was too intractably
stupid and complacent to comprehend. But because the vision of
rock-and-roll is inherently populist, the punks can't take them-
selves seriously as alienated artists; their crankiness is leavened with
irony. At the same time, having given up on the world, they can't
really take themselves seriously as rock-and-rollers, either. They are
not only antiart artists but antipeople populists—the English
punks, especially, seem to abhor not only the queen, America, rich
rock stars, and the uncomprehending public but humanity itself.
The punks' working-class-cum-lumpen style is implicitly political;
it suggests collective opposition and therefore communal affirma-
tion. But it is affirmation of a peculiarly limited and joyless sort.
For the new wave's minimalist conception of rock-and-roll tends
to exclude not only sensual pleasure but the entire range of posi-
tive human emotions, leaving only what is hard and violent, or
hard and distanced, or both: if the punks make sex an obscenity,
they make love an embarrassment.
In reducing rock-and-roll to its harshest essentials, the new wave
took Lou Reed's aesthete-punk conceit to a place he never in-
tended. For the Velvets the aesthete-punk stance was a way of
surviving in a world that was out to kill you; the point was not to
glorify the punk, or even to say fuck you to the world, but to be
honest about the strategies people adopt in a desperate situation.
The Velvets were not nihilists but moralists. In their universe
nihilism regularly appears as a vivid but unholy temptation, love
and its attendant vulnerability as scary and poignant imperatives.
Though Lou Reed rejected optimism, he was enough of his time to
crave transcendence. And finally—as "Rock & Roll" makes explicit
—the Velvets' use of a mass art form was a metaphor for transcen-
dence, for connection, for resistance to solipsism and despair.
Which is also what it is for the punks; whether they admit it or
not, that is what their irony is about. It may be sheer coincidence,
but it was in the wake of the new wave that Reed recorded "Street
Hassle," a three-part, eleven-minute antinihilist anthem that is by
"7
far the most compelling piece of work he has done in his post-
Velvets solo career. In it he represents nihilism as double damna-
tion: loss of faith that love is possible, compounded by denial that
it matters. "That's just a lie," he mutters at the beginning of part
three. "That's why she tells her friends. 'Cause the real song—the
real song she won't even admit to herself."
THE R E A L SONG, OR ILL BE YOUR MIRROR
If the Velvets suggested continuity between art and violence,

order and chaos, they posed a radical split between body and spirit.
In this way too they were closer to the Who than to any other
contemporaries. Like the Velvets the Who were fundamentally
ascetic; they too saw the world as hostile—particularly the world
as organized by the British class system. Their defiance was cruder
than the Velvets', their early music as hard and violent as any to
come out of the new wave. But they were not cranks; they were
determined to convert the world, and Townshend's guitar-smash-
ing expressed his need to break through to his audience as well as
his contempt for authority, including the authority of rock-and-roll
itself. That need to connect also took another form: even before
Townshend discovered Meher Baba, the Who's music had a side
that could only be called religious. If it seemed, at first, surprising
that the same band could produce music as uncompromising in its
bitterness as "Substitute" and as miraculously transcendent as the
"You are forgiven!" chorus of "A Quick One," it was no contra-
diction; on the contrary, it was precisely Townshend's sense of the
harshness of life, the implacability of the world, that generated his
spiritual hunger.
The same can be said of Lou Reed, except that "spiritual hun-
ger" seems too self-important a phrase to apply to him; the Vel-
vets' brand of spirituality has little in common with the Who's
grand bursts of mystical ecstasy or Townshend's self-conscious
preoccupation with the quest for enlightenment. It's impossible to
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Velvet Underground
imagine Lou Reed taking up with a guru, though he might well

write a savagely funny (and maybe chillingly serious) song about
one. The aesthete-punk and his fellow demimondaines are not seek-
ing enlightenment, though they stumble on it from time to time;
like most of us they are pilgrims in spite of themselves. For Town-
shend moral sensitivity is a path to spiritual awareness; for Reed
awareness and the lack—or refusal—of it have an intrinsically
moral dimension. While he is not averse to using the metaphors of
illusion and enlightenment—sometimes to brilliant effect, as in
"Beginning to See the Light" and "I'll Be Your Mirror"—they are
less central to his theology than the concepts of sin and grace,
damnation and salvation. Some of his songs ("Heroin," "Jesus,"
"Pale Blue Eyes") explicitly invoke that Judeo-Christian language;
many more imply it.
But "theology" too is an unfairly pretentious word. The Velvets
do not deal in abstractions but in states of mind. Their songs are
about the feelings the vocabulary of religion was invented to de-
scribe—profound and unspeakable feelings of despair, disgust, iso-
lation, confusion, guilt, longing, relief, peace, clarity, freedom,
love—and about the ways we (and they) habitually bury those
feelings, deny them, sentimentalize them, mock them, inspect them
from a safe, sophisticated distance in order to get along in the
hostile, corrupt world. For the Velvets the roots of sin are in this
ingrained resistance to facing our deepest, most painful, and most
sacred emotions; the essence of grace is the comprehension that
our sophistication is a sham, that our deepest, most painful, most
sacred desire is to recover a childlike innocence we have never, in
our heart of hearts, really lost. And the essence of love is sharing
that redemptive truth: on the Velvets' first album, which is domi-
nated by images of decadence and death, suddenly, out of no-
where, comes Nico's artless voice singing, "I'll be your mirror/ . . .
The light on your door to show that you're home./ When you
think the night has seen your mind/ That inside you're twisted and
unkind/ . . . Please put down your hands, cause I see you."
For a sophisticated rock-and-roll band with a sophisticated audi-
119
ence this vision is, to say the least, risky. The idea of childlike
innocence is such an invitation to bathos that making it credible
seems scarcely less difficult than getting the camel of the gospels
through the needle's eye. And the Velvets' alienation is also
problematic: it's one thing for working-class English kids to decide
life is shit, but how bad can things be for Lou Reed? Yet the
Velvets bring it off-—make us believe/admit that the psychic
wounds we inflict on each other are real and terrible, that to scoff
at innocence is to indulge in a desperate lie—because they never
succumb to self-pity. Life may be a brutal struggle, sin inevitable,
innocence elusive and transient, grace a gift, not a reward ("Some
people work very hard/ But still they never get it right," Lou Reed
observes in "Beginning to See the Light"); nevertheless we are
responsible for who and what we become. Reed does not attempt
to resolve this familiar spiritual paradox, nor does he regard it as
unfair. His basic religious assumption (like Baudelaire's) is that
like it or not we inhabit a moral universe, that we have free will,
that we must choose between good and evil, and that our choices
matter absolutely. If we are rarely strong enough to make the right
choices, if we can never count on the moments of illumination that
make them possible, still it is spiritual death to give up the effort.
That the Velvets are hardly innocents, that they maintain their
aesthetic and emotional distance even when describing—and
evoking—utter spiritual nakedness, does not undercut what they
are saying; if anything, it does the opposite. The Velvets compel
belief in part because, given its context, what they are saying is so
bold: not only do they implicitly criticize their own aesthetic
stance—they risk undermining it altogether, ending up with sin-
cere but embarrassingly banal home truths. The risk is real because
the Velvets do not use irony as a net, a way of evading responsibil-
ity by keeping everyone guessing about what they really mean. On
the contrary, their irony functions as a metaphor for the spiritual
paradox, affirming that the need to face one's nakedness and the
impulse to cover it up are equally real, equally human. If the
Velvets' distancing is self-protective (hence in their terms damn-
120
Velvet Underground
ing), it is also revelatory (hence redeeming); it makes clear that

the feelings being protected are so unbearably intense that if not
controlled and contained they would overwhelm both the Velvets
and their audience. The Velvets' real song is how hard it is to
admit, even to themselves.
That song in its many variations is the substance of Velvet
Underground. This album can be conceived of—nonlinearly; the
cuts are not at all in the right order—as the aesthete-punk's Pil-
grim's Progress, in four movements. ("Sha la la, man, whyn't you
just slip away?" I can hear Lou Reed say to that.)
One: Worldly Seduction and Betrayal. "Sunday Morning," a
song about vague and ominous anxiety, sums up the emotional tone
of this movement: "Watch out, the world's behind you." "Here
She Comes Now" and "Femme Fatale," two songs about beautiful
but unfeeling women (in the unlovable tradition of pop—not to
mention religious—misogyny, Lou Reed's women are usually
demonic or angelic icons, not people), sum up its philosophy:
"Aah, it looks so good/ Aah, but she's made out of wood." These
songs underscore the point by juxtaposing simple, sweet, catchy
melodies with bitter lyrics sung in flat, almost affectless voices (in
"Sunday Morning," Reed's voice takes on a breathiness that sug-
gests suppressed panic). "White Light/ White Heat," a song about
shooting speed, starts out by coming as close as any Velvets song
does to expressing the euphoria of sheer physical energy; by the
end of the trip the music has turned into bludgeoning, deadening
noise, the words into a semiarticulate mumble.
Two: The Sin of Despair. "Heroin" is the Velvets' masterpiece
—seven minutes of excruciating spiritual extremity. No other
work of art I know about has made the junkie's experience so
powerful, so horrible, so appealing; listening to "Heroin" I feel
simultaneously impelled to somehow save this man and to reach
for the needle. The song is built around the tension between the
rush and the nod—expressed musically by an accelerating beat
giving way to slow, solemn chords that sound like a bell tolling;
metaphorically by the addict's vision of smack as a path to tran-
121
scendence and freedom, alternating with his stark recognition that

what it really offers is the numbness of death, that his embrace of
the drug ("It's my wife and it's my life") is a total, willful rejec-
tion of the corrupt world, other people, feeling. In the beginning
he likens shooting up to a spiritual journey: he's gonna try for the
Kingdom; when he's rushing on his run he feels like Jesus' son. At
the end, with a blasphemous defiance that belies his words, he
avows, "Thank your God that I'm not aware/ And thank God that
I just don't care!" The whole song seems to rush outward and then
close in on itself, on the moment of truth when the junkie know-
ingly and deliberately chooses death over life—chooses damnation.
It is the clarity of his consciousness that gives the sin its enormity.
Yet the clarity also offers a glimmer of redemption. In the very
act of choosing numbness the singer admits the depths of his pain
and bitterness, his longing for something better; he is aware of
every nuance of his rejection of awareness; he sings a magnifi-
cently heartfelt song about how he doesn't care. (A decade later,
Johnny Rotten will do the same thing in an entirely different
way.) A clear, sustained note runs through the song like a bright
thread; it fades out or is drowned out by chaotic, painful distor-
tion and feedback, then comes through again, like the still small
voice of the soul. Reed ends each verse with the refrain, "And I
guess that I just don't know." His fate is not settled yet.
Three: Paradise Sought, Glimpsed, Recollected. This movement
consists of four songs about world-weary sophistication and the
yearning for innocence. "Candy Says" defines the problem: "I've
come to hate my body and all that it requires in this world/ . . . I'd
like to know completely what others so discreetly talk about."
"Jesus" is a prayer: "Help me in my weakness, for I've fallen out
of grace." In "I'm Set Free" the singer has his illumination, but
even as he tries to tell about it, to pin it down, it slips away: "I saw
my head laughing, rolling on the ground/ And now I'm set free to
find a new illusion." In "Pale Blue Eyes" the world has gotten in
the way of the singer's transcendent love: "If I could make the
122
Velvet Underground
world as pure and strange as what I see/ I'd put you in the mirror I
put in front of me."
Musically these songs are of a piece. They are all gentle, reflec-
tive. They all make use of the tension between flat, detached
voices and sweet melodies. They all have limpid guitar lines that
carry the basic emotion, which is bittersweet: it is consoling to
know that innocence is possible, inexpressibly painful that it al-
ways seems just out of reach. In "Pale Blue Eyes" a tambourine
keeps the beat, or rather is slightly off where the beat ought to be,
while a spectacular guitar takes over completely, rolling in on
wave after wave of pure feeling.
Four: Salvation and Its Pitfalls. "Beginning to See the Light" is
the mirror held up to "Heroin." I've always been convinced that
it's about an acid trip, perhaps because I first really heard it during
one and found it utterly appropriate. Perhaps also because both the
song and the acid made me think of a description of a peyote high
by a beat writer named Jack Green: "a group of us, on peyote,
had little to share with a group on marijuana the marijuana smok-
ers were discussing questions of the utmost profundity and we
were sticking our fingers in our navels & giggling." In "Beginning
to See the Light" enlightenment (or salvation) is getting out from
under the burden of self-seriousness, of egotism, of imagining that
one's sufferings fill the universe; childlike innocence means being
able to play. There is no lovelier moment in rock-and-roll than
when Lou Reed laughs and sings, with amazement, joy, gratitude,
"I just wanta tell you, everything is all right!"
But "Beginning to See the Light" is also wickedly ironic.
Toward the end, carried away by euphoria, Reed cries, "There are
problems in these times/But ooh, none of them are mine!" Sud-
denly we are through the mirror, back to the manifesto of
"Heroin": "I just don't care!" Enlightenment has begotten spir-
itual pride, a sin that like its inverted form, nihilism, cuts the sinner
off from the rest of the human race. Especially from those people
who, you know, work very hard but never get it right. Finally we
are left with yet another version of the spiritual paradox: to ex-
i23
perience grace is to be conscious of it; to be conscious of it is to

lose it.
CODA: I D LOVE TO TURN YOU ON
Like all geniuses, Lou Reed is unpredictable. In "Street Hassle"

he does as good a job as anyone of showing what was always
missing in his and the Velvets' vision. As the song begins, a woman
(or transvestite?) in a bar is buying a night with a sexy young boy.
This sort of encounter is supposed to be squalid; it turns out to be
transcendent. Reed's account of the odd couple's lovemaking is as
tender as it is erotic: "And then sha la la la la he entered her slowly
and showed her where he was coming from/ And then sha la la la la
he made love to her gently, it was like she'd never ever come." Of
course, in part two he almost takes it all back by linking sex with
death. Still.
What it comes down to for me—as a Velvets fan, a lover of
rock-and-roll, a New Yorker, an aesthete, a punk, a sinner, a some-
time seeker of enlightenment (and love) (and sex)—is this: I be-
lieve that we are all, openly or secretly, struggling against one or
another kind of nihilism. I believe that body and spirit are not
really separate, though it often seems that way. I believe that re-
demption is never impossible and always equivocal. But I guess
that I just don't know.
1918
124
Part Two
American
Girls Want
Everything
Learning from Chicago
T he Chicago protest was one of those rare political events that

is not merely attended, but lived. What was most remarkable
about it was how much living was concentrated in such a short
time; the week of the Democratic Convention summed up a period
of movement history as no other action has done since the historic
Mississippi Summer Project. Chicago was an emotional marathon;
between bouts of rage and fear, exhaustion and boredom, pessimism
and euphoria, we slept little and badly. It was an experience from
which, as I write this, I am still learning.
It started out badly. The Mobilization had never recovered from
the confusion following President Johnson's withdrawal (was the
war over? was Robert Kennedy going to lead us into the light?),
while Mayor Daley's scare campaign was a triumph of reverse
public relations. McCarthy and Lowenstein urged their supporters
to stay home; SDS was noncommittal; hippies accused the Yippies
of luring kids to a bloodbath instead of a "Festival of Life"; local
radical organizers worried about repression that would make it
more difficult for them to operate within their communities. Only
a tiny fraction of the expected 200,000 people showed up, and
127
AMERICAN GIRLS WANT EVERYTHING
some of the local organizers even left town to make sure the police
couldn't blame them for anything. Poor organization resulted in
potentially disastrous gaffes: centering the protest in isolated Lin-
coln Park rather than a downtown site; staging an illegal march in
the middle of a park, with the only escape routes a few easily
blocked bridges.
Yet sometimes a political demonstration (like a play, or a love
affair) just miraculously jells. Chicago jelled. All our mistakes
somehow turned into assets; all Daley's mistakes got him deeper in
trouble. We succeeded in disrupting the convention—spiritually at
least—and demoralizing the Democratic Party. But this was sec-
ondary; like typical Americans, we got our biggest kicks from
contemplating our image in the media. The publicity was graphic
and slanted in our favor, and we obtained it at notably little cost:
no one died demonstrating, and most injuries were painful rather
than disabling. Instead of the bitterness, political infighting, and
accusations of contrived martyrdom that would have followed kill-
ings, there was a feeling of community that almost transcended
ideological differences; added to the comradeship that came from
spending so much time on the streets of a strange city was the
solidarity forced on us by the authorities, who treated us all—hard-
core street-fighters, McCarthy liberals, and those somewhere be-
tween (me)—with equal animus.
After Black Wednesday we walked the streets grinning, greet-
ing strangers "Peace, brother," and meaning it, flashing the V sign
at every opportunity. Our expansiveness was accentuated by the
unexpected friendliness of local people. Blacks radiated especially
welcome sympathy. I had not experienced such genuine interracial
good will in years; genuine, I say, because looking suspiciously for
sarcasm and secret glee at white injuries, I found only respect for
kids willing to put their bodies on the line. But white workers (not
necessarily under thirty) also gave us the V; even a young cop,
directing traffic on Michigan Avenue, spread two fingers and
winked and smiled. Then there were the Chicago kids. All week
they had been coming up to Lincoln Park to play dialogue with
128
the weirdos—tensely polite high school footballers arguing sol-

emnly with revolutionaries, teenies asking half-seriously how to go
about breaking away from their parents. There wasn't much overt
hostility from the public. I heard that a few demonstrators got
beaten up in the white working-class neighborhood near the Inter-
national Amphitheater. Thursday night some white vocational stu-
dents lay in wait for Dick Gregory's march up Michigan and
chanted, without much enthusiasm, "Hippies go home." But that
was about it.
I went to Chicago mainly for negative reasons. I thought that
the movement could not, without looking foolish, allow the Dem-
ocrats to play their game in a complacent, business-as-usual at-
mosphere; further, to have panicked in the face of Daley's threats
would have been to display weakness and invite a general
crackdown on dissent. I left knowing that something very positive
had happened to me. Specifically: never had I been so conscious
that what I was involved in was a rebel community, whose emo-
tions and sensations had a collective life of their own; although I
didn't always agree with what was happening, I was always part of
it. At the same time I became more acutely sensitive than ever
before to our problematic relations with the larger community. In
its name we had been clubbed and gassed, yet in some ways it had
been far more hospitable to us than we deserved. For we were and
still are too much disposed to see ourselves as the beautiful green
planet around which the vast body of the American people slug-
gishly revolves. What we need, if we are to understand and change
this society, is a Copernican theory of politics.
11
The Yippies saw the Chicago action as theater, and they were
right. The clashes between demonstrators and police—four major
"confrontations," from the first skirmish in Lincoln Park on con-
vention eve to the Wednesday night extravaganza, and dozens of
129
minor conflicts—were theater that bordered on religious ritual.

This is not to imply that the emotions and the injuries were in any
sense unreal; on the contrary, they were superreal—not only per-
sonal and concrete but collective and symbolic. On the streets and
in the parks of Chicago the movement lived two of its most potent
myths: the myth of insurrection (let's stop talking about it and do
it) and the myth of revelation (this time we're going to make
everyone see the whole motherfucking mess once and for all).
The insurrectionary myth could be seen at its purest in Lincoln
Park. Since the atmosphere of the city, as well as direct restric-
tions, had squelched the Yippies' counterconvention festival before
it began, and since the Mobilization had planned no activities early
in the week, the focus of the protest had shifted completely away
from the convention and Vietnam to a battle over turf. What
made the battle mythic was that so many of the participants be-
lieved—or at least convinced themselves they believed—that its
outcome was in doubt. In fact, the main argument among the
militants in the crowd was whether the three thousand of us
should concentrate on liberating the park or taking over the city.
Would-be organizers who tried to give advice on how to get out
of the park in a hurry, or information on free housing, were re-
ceived with almost universal hostility. It was as if stagehands were
to interrupt a play to tell the actors where the emergency exit was
or to set up props for the next scene.
During the tense precurfew hours, against a background of gar-
bage fires and African drumming, the militants' exhortations and
responses functioned as an improvised Greek chorus:
"If one of us dies, how many pigs will die?"
"Ten!"
"Twenty!"
"They got the guns, but we got the numbers."
"We gonna stay in the park. We all gonna stay together, right?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Let's get out on the streets. Fuck over the city. Do them in."
"The park is ours!"
130
"The streets are ours!"

The images on everyone's mind were Paris and Columbia; the
presiding spirit was Che's. But no one seemed to realize that Paris
was a defeat, leaving de Gaulle stronger than before; that Colum-
bia was still a slumlord and still part of the war machine; that Che
had died without creating a single Vietnam. Nor in all the self-
congratulatory talk about the courage of "the people"—meaning
us, not the 70 percent of Chicagoans who had given Mayor Daley
his last election victory—was there any recognition that revolution
is a matter of life and death, not split scalps and dented police cars.
The mythic impulse disdained such practical details.
The drama of insurrection developed more or less spontaneously
as a reflex response to Mayor Daley's ban on camping in the park.
The drama of revelation, on the other hand, was carefully planned
—produced and directed by the movement's most inventive image
maker, Jerry Rubin. Not only were the Festival of Life and Pig-
for-President ploys more effective than any of Mobe's efforts in
getting people to come to Chicago, but Rubin's nominal organiza-
tion of perhaps a dozen activists impressed the media so much that
"Yippie" became virtually a generic term for demonstrator. (In
the aftermath of the protests, police claimed that TV officials had
told Rubin where cameras would be located so that he could plan
accordingly—a not implausible charge.) The Yippie conception of
the demonstrations as radical theater for a mass audience was a
more sophisticated, imaginative extension of the line espoused by
straight radicals like Tom Hayden and Rennie Davis—that the
purpose of confrontation was to prove to millions that our puta-
tive democracy is governed not by consent but by force.
This rationale has always made me uncomfortable, because I
don't believe that confrontations, in themselves, prove anything of
the sort. The government has never pretended not to back its laws
with force; what radicals must demonstrate is that the laws do not
represent the majority will or—what is even more complicated—
that the majority will is consistently manipulated to oppose its own
interests. The Chicago confrontations showed only that Daley's
HI
actions were possibly unconstitutional and certainly vindictive and

that the police were unnecessarily violent. Liberals might easily
argue that it was not the inherent repressiveness of the system that
had been exposed, but the stubbornness of a particularly dicta-
torial, xenophobic politician and the general benightedness of po-
licemen; the remedy, then, was not revolution but reform of the
Democratic Party and a college education for cops. As for the
mass of Americans, they could be expected to conclude that the
troublemaking freaks—and after all, none of us denied that we
came to make trouble, to disrupt a national convention, no less—
simply got what they asked for.
Nevertheless, the theory of revelation-through-confrontation

was tenaciously defended. When it was suggested to Tom Hay den
that Mayor Lindsay would have given the demonstrators Central
Park, let them march wherever they wanted, and ordered the po-
lice to keep hands off, Hayden replied that since Lindsay would
not have scared away potential demonstrators, a New York action
would have drawn 750,000 people, too many to be peacefully con-
tained. Besides, he said, the prevalent belief that the war was going
to end because corporate liberals had decided it was a mistake was
all wrong; on the contrary, the war was going to be pressed, and
the reaction of the Chicago police showed that the power struc-
ture had decided to crush dissent. I thought Hayden's statistic was
fanciful—after all, the highest total estimate of demonstrators in
Chicago had been 15,000 ("And that," remarked one disappointed
radical, "is if you count everybody twice"). His analysis of the
political situation struck me as equally facile. The outcome of the
war was still in doubt, but the extent and respectability of the
opposition, which had split the nation's ruling party, could not
help but reflect bitter conflicts of interest among the powerful—
conflicts that were reflected not only in differing policies but in
differing styles. Hayden underestimated the ability of the Lindsay-
style politician to neutralize dissent by avoiding conspicuous abra-
132
sion. After Martin Luther King's death the New York police had
stood by while arsonists gutted several blocks of Lenox Avenue
stores. Many peculiar things were possible in this peculiar moment
of history.
Of course, I am oversimplifying. For one thing, most big-city
mayors are more like Daley than Lindsay. For another, the se-
curity measures at the convention and Daley's prohibition of the
march on the amphitheater were not simply whim, but were
rooted in the social crisis: the danger of assassinations was real, and
so was the possibility of a violent clash between demonstrators and
angry residents of the stockyards neighborhood. And in calling on
the National Guard and federal troops, Daley was merely behaving
like a conscientious liberal—the Kerner Report had recommended
the use of large numbers of police to intimidate rioters without
bloodshed. If the Chicago convulsion was no metaphysical neces-
sity, neither was it just a fluke. In a sense it did reveal the system—
though only at its crudest, at its most rigid, inflammatory, and
provincial. Radicals who took that part for the whole were making
an understandable inductive leap to a not improbable future. The
problem was, it was not ourselves we had to convince—it was
those people Out There.
It soon became clear that favorable publicity could not be
equated with favorable public opinion; poll after poll showed that
a large majority supported the police action. Publicity had been
sympathetic because Daley had tried to restrict television cover-
age, because newsmen had been manhandled by police and security
guards, and most of all because the average reporter is a good
liberal, with the proper aristocratic prejudices against cops and
machine politicians. But people who are not good liberals—that is,
most people—do not necessarily take their cues from the media
any more than radicals do. More likely, they lump reporters with
those pseudointellectuals George Wallace reviled. Anyway, the
honeymoon between the media and the demonstrators ended al-
most simultaneously with the convention. Under pressure from
indignant citizens as well as Mayor Daley, his police chief, the
133
Democratic Party, and the United States government (ominously,

the FCC announced it would investigate charges of bias in televi-
sion coverage of the demonstrations), the newspapers and TV
stations went into paroxysms of self-doubt: Did we get too in-
volved instead of maintaining our objectivity? Were we unfair to
the police? If "the other side of the story" had indeed been stinted,
it soon came into its own; September was the month of the On-the-
Other-Hand press. Besides atoning for real or imagined mis-
feasances, the media had the burden of reporting all the evidence
various police and government sources were accumulating to show
that the disturbances had been engineered by "a handful of dedi-
cated revolutionaries": an undercover cop accused Jerry Rubin of
plotting to kill a policeman; a cache of vituric acid (the active
ingredient in stink bombs) was discovered in a bus-station locker;
and so forth and so on.
Yet the reaction that many dreaded has so far turned out to be
rather mild, its tone more propolice than antidemonstrator. The
HUAC hearings were a joke, and the President's Commission on
Violence even labeled the events in Chicago a "police riot." It may
be that neither the radical left nor the right benefited as much
from Chicago as the Democratic doves. The one thing the dem-
onstrations certainly accomplished was to strengthen the anti-
Humphrey forces in the party and galvanize local reformers. And
since the movement to the right is more one of desperation than of
positive enthusiasm—in the preelection polls a significant per-
centage of Wallace voters revealed that their second choice had
been Robert Kennedy or even Gene McCarthy—the antiwar lib-
erals could mop up in 1972.* The way the week ended—with
dissenting liberal delegates sitting in the dirt, singing "We Shall
Overcome," getting arrested, and otherwise adopting the style of
* Though I had enough sense to hedge, this piece of wishful thinking stands
as the worst prediction I ever made, except perhaps for a rock review in
which I suggested that David Bowie did not have much of a future in
America.
134
protest politics circa 1963 (liberals have their myths, too)—seems

a portent. Radicals have been accused of duping hordes of inno-
cent McCarthy kids into risking life and limb. But suppose it's just
the opposite—suppose the street-fighters were really only shock
troops for the reform Democrats, stalking-horses for Teddy Ken-
nedy? Suppose the power structure isn't preparing to crush us,
only to absorb us, as usual? America—and we ought to know
this by now—is not a gun but a gigantic vacuum cleaner.
No matter. We forced a national political conclave under the
gun. Every such activity saps the efficiency of government, divert-
ing energy, money, manpower. More, it forces the authorities to
keep taking us into account. If they know that whenever they do
A we will do B, they have to stop each time and calculate: is it
worth the trouble? And whether or not the publicity created any
new radicals, if it just showed some kid in Des Moines that we
exist, it served its purpose. Visibility is the difference between a
movement and ten thousand people in search of one.
111
The Chicago project cannot be judged simply by its concrete

political results. In the long run, its influence on the attitudes of
the participants may be more important. For all of us it was,
among other things, a week-long exercise in political education, in
which tactical experiments succeeded or failed, in which prejudice
—and myth-making—came up against experience. The street
community provided a continuing forum for gut-level debate
about what had been and what should be done. Spokesmen for a
variety of issues—Huey Newton, the Chicago transit strike, the
California grape boycott, chemical and biological warfare—came
to state their cases and mobilize subsidiary demonstrations. The
constant argument and exchange of information, which meshed
with the action in a way that should have delighted progressive
educators as well as revolutionaries, was extended and amplified by
'35
the street media: the Ramparts-sponsored Wallposter, the best

source of street news and analysis;* SDS's polemical broadside,
Handwriting on the Wall, which was tacked to trees in the park;
the usual underground and radical press; and leaflets on every con-
ceivable subject.
For obvious reasons, our most impassioned discussion concerned
the police. Before I go on, I should say that I am a policeman's
daughter. My father is atypical (Jewish, liberal, educated) and
anyway, since cops distrust all civilians, my entree to the police
subculture is limited. But from years of parental inside-dopesterism
and personal contact with policemen I have learned many things.
One of the simplest is that cops are not by definition vicious sub-
humans. This is not a truth generally accepted among political
activists. In Chicago the street fighters saw the demonstrations
almost exclusively in terms of "the people" versus the cops, who
were, depending on one's favorite metaphor, either animals or
machines. For most of the week this attitude dominated, at least on
a rhetorical level. Shouted in anger, "pig" was a relatively mild
epithet; used as a routine synonym in the Black Panther mode
("And then three pigs got out of their car . . ."), it became
monstrous. I thought it was self-deceptive—another pretense that
white bohemians and radicals are as oppressed as ghetto blacks; and
arrogant—a special case of that fierce bohemian contempt for all
those slobs who haven't seen the light. Many cops thought it was
funny; they made jokes about "bringing home the bacon" and
"Lincoln Pork."
First to question the cop-hating orgy were the McCarthy kids
and the few genuine hippies. With no revolutionary machismo to
protect, they could afford to observe that most of the cops were
doing their job with no special zeal, that some of them were even
friendly ("We're all different—you're a nonconformist, and I'm a
conformist"), and that in any case, the practice of reading whole
groups of people out of the human race has a bad history. For
* For the first few days; later, Ramparts editor Warren Hinckle insisted on
playing up convention gossip and the Chicago staff quit in protest.
I36
many radicals, second thoughts began when the National Guard

arrived. An important recent development on the left has been the
discovery that servicemen are people—that a soldier is not neces-
sarily a fascist because he would rather serve than go to jail, or
because he thought he would get good training in the army, or
because he believed what the government said about our mission in
Vietnam. And though there were shouts of "Sieg Heil!" at the
troops in Chicago, the consensus was that these boys were not our
enemies; they were only being used. Although there are obvious
differences between soldiers and cops—a policeman's job is perma-
nent and always voluntary—there are also obvious analogies. The
police-baiting began to cool, and the crowd to hear don't-blame-
the-cops-but-the-system speeches with increasing frequency. At
the Mobilization rally on Wednesday afternoon a line of cops
rushed into the bewildered crowd, sending at least two people to
the hospital; the cause of the disturbance, it turned out, was an
attempt—which most of the demonstrators had not even seen—to
lower an American flag and run up a red flag in its place. Shortly
after this incident, Dick Gregory spoke: "At least after World
War II, people blamed Hitler first and the troops second. The
police are worse off than you—at least you can demonstrate. The
police are the new niggers. They can whup your heads, but it
won't get them a raise—they gotta go downtown and ask."
Though antipolice feeling had been aggravated by the gratuitous
violence, Gregory got an enthusiastic ovation and inspired cries of
"More pay for cops!" and "Join us!"
The reaction was a good sign. The police issue is really part of
the much larger problem of anti-working-class prejudice. The
authoritarian character, far from being a special affliction of the
policeman, is endemic to the lower socioeconomic brackets.* (If
* Though the idea of this piece was to defend American workers against the
condescending bigotry of middle-class radicals, my own middle-class bias
permeates it. The "authoritarian character" comes in more than one guise,
and sixties leftists were hardly free of authoritarian tendencies; the left's
arrogance toward the working class was, among other things, symptomatic of
its implicit faith in its own superior enlightenment. There is, for example,
*37
anything, cops are more tolerant of deviant behavior than the

average workingman—they see so much of it they get calloused.)
The policeman happens to be doing the dirty work; the others just
wish they could. Liberals and radicals dislike cops not only because
they have the guns and the clubs, but because they are under-
educated proles who like television and think Negroes are lazy.
And almost invariably, virulent cop-haters have little use for ordi-
nary people. The guerrilla mentality that came to full flower in
Chicago denies the first principle of guerrilla warfare—that the
population must be sympathetic or at least not actively hostile.
The street-fighters think they can and should do it all by them-
selves; Mark Rudd has put down organizing as a cowardly alterna-
tive to rebellion.
Before the Wallace campaign, most radicals assumed that white

workers were too well integrated into the system to be an impor-
tant force for change. Those leftists who did insist on the impor-
tance of working-class organizing tended to explain away workers'
conservative, racist attitudes as a superficial aberration, the result
of ruling-class divide-and-conquer tactics. The flaw in this analysis
was its failure to observe that divide-and-conquer tactics work
both ways: radicals also lashed out at the white working class
because their real enemies were beyond reach. White workers,
economically and psychologically ill equipped to cope with
change, were the group most affected by domestic social upheaval.
They suffered most from increasing crime, paid most—percent-
agewise—for welfare and poverty programs, depended most on
the disintegrating public school.* But the left, preoccupied with its
the underlying assumption of this article that radical organizing is basically

a public relations problem. Nowhere do I suggest that workers' resistance
to the left might have anything to do with justified skepticism about some of
our ideas.
* Actually, poor black people are the most frequent victims of crime. And for
blacks the public schools were a disaster long before 1968.
138
own oppression, could not see them as human beings with real
grievances. Liberal politicians (with the concurrence of radicals)
dismissed the workingman's fear of crime as racist paranoia and his
resentment at having to support people who did not work as social
backwardness. Liberal experts (with the silent complicity of radi-
cals) proclaimed that poor blacks and students must be consulted
on policies that affected them, but treated white workers like inert
material to be socially engineered at will.
It took George Wallace to make radicals understand that white
workers were in fact a vast disaffected constituency that had been
fairly begging for someone to care about its problems. Then, just
as this new consciousness began to make a substantial impact on
the left, Chicago happened. For anyone who wanted to look at it
that way, Chicago was a case study in the indifference-cum-
contempt that radicals, especially posthippies, reserved for ordi-
nary Americans. Many of us felt the contradiction very deeply.
Talking to local activists, I began to realize that the problem of
elitism was at least partly a function of geography. Most radicals
came from New York or San Francisco, where dissidents were
numerous enough to develop subcultures and where even larger
numbers of liberal sympathizers stood ready to support mass dem-
onstrations. In such an environment an emphasis on cultural radi-
calism and confrontation politics came naturally. But outside the
coastal enclaves and their microcosms, the university campuses,
radicals found themselves isolated. If they wanted to have any
effect at all, they had to go to the people. In Chicago itself there
were several fairly sophisticated projects aimed at improving rela-
tions between radicals and white workers. Organizers lived in
working-class city and suburban neighborhoods, worked with the
people on consumer problems, taught in local schools. Cities like
Cleveland had similar programs. But for the cosmopolite left this
was unexplored territory; it was hard even to imagine a typical
New York radical cutting off his hair and moving to Queens.
Given these social facts, it meant something that the demonstra-
tions took place in Chicago, without a Lindsay or 900,000 liberals
139
AMERICAN GIRLS W ANT EVERYTHING
to act as a buffer between us and the people—as represented by

Daley's cops but also, let us not forget, by the construction work-
ers who gave us the V sign and the high school kids who asked us
why we liked the, uh, Viet Cong. We could not have learned
nearly so much from a New York protest.
In recent months radicals have been increasingly critical of con-
frontation politics—not as one sometimes-useful tactic among oth-
ers, but as an all-purpose religious rite. Discussion about working
whites has become at once more sympathetic and more realistic.
The next step is for radicals in significant numbers to break out
of their ghettos and go live in America. It's too late to do any-
thing about the cops—most of them, anyway. But we need their
children.
1968
140
Herbert Marcuse,
1898-1979
W hen I heard that Herbert Marcuse had died, I immediately-

thought, "The same year as John Wayne." For people
like me Marcuse was something of a star, a presence, a symbol of
certain values. I felt connected to him, though not in any simple
way. I discovered his books at a time when I was groping toward
a radicalism that would make sense of my experience as a middle-
class American. Eros and Civilization and One Dimensional Man
excited me because they were about problems I was struggling
with—the relation of psychology to politics, the idea of a cultural
revolution, the prospects for radical change in a society where
most people had enough to eat. Still, my copies of the books are
filled with comments like "European elitism" and "glib" and "what
bullshit!" As my politics matured, I found that I disagreed with
most of what Marcuse said and hated what the new left made
of his ideas. In some ways I defined my political outlook in reaction
to Marcuse's, an acknowledgment that he'd made certain territory
his own.
In his monolithically bleak view of advanced capitalism and his
contempt for American workers' enjoyment of their material
141
gains, Marcuse was hardly distinguishable from conservative critics

of mass culture. His version of that perennial aristocratic night-
mare, "mass man," was the passive, manipulated consumer who had
no autonomous desires, only socially imposed "false needs" for the
system's products and spectacles. He could see no value in the
formal political liberties that might seem to give American rebels
room to maneuver, or in the prosperity that encouraged cultural
experiment as well as consumption; he argued that, on the con-
trary, this society's superficial tolerance only reinforced ruling-
class power, maintaining an illusion of freedom and harmlessly
absorbing dissent. From Marcuse's standpoint the only revolu-
tionary act was to stand outside the system and say no; to try to
make positive changes was to be taken over and used. The line
between his sort of apocalyptic utopianism and nihilistic pessimism
is not easy to draw. Though Marcuse refrained from pursuing the
rougher edges of his vision, many who shared his assumptions were
less cautious. According to his obituary in the Times, Marcuse
"despised" being called "father of the new left." I doubt that, say,
the Weather Underground would particularly appreciate being
called "children of Marcuse." But I don't think it's unfair to make
the connection.
What Marcuse had most obviously in common with many of his
new left children, or cousins, was the alienated snobbery of the
middle-class intellectual. Classes that take money for granted are
always horrified at the naive delight of the "vulgar" nouveau riche
in getting and spending. But a deeper, more complicated kind of
class bias denned the relationship between the new left and the rest
of America. Marcuse and like-minded radicals simply assumed that
their perception of social reality was more accurate than that of
the average nonrevolutionary worker. It did not occur to them
that in some ways the opposite might be true. Yet I think their one-
dimensional view of American life, their obsession with consumer
goods as the root of all evil, and their conviction that most people
were satisfied robots had less to do with the objective workings of
the system than with the way many middle-class intellectuals ex-
142
Herbert Marcuse, 1898-19-19
perienced themselves. Trapped in abstractions, cut off from a sense

of their own autonomous desires, they projected their self-estrange-
ment onto others. Their hatred of things—which was mixed with a
fascination that bordered on prurience—was a form of identifica-
tion; while they felt impotent, objectified, they endowed objects
with seductive power. I say "they," but I don't want to claim too
much distance. I can remember, some fifteen years ago, having a
screaming fight with my then-husband because he wanted to buy a
TV set to watch the news and I didn't want to have one in the
house. Secretly I felt a bit foolish. A TV set was just a TV set—
what was I so afraid of? The answer was simple: I knew that the
morning after the set arrived I would wake up and find myself
transformed into a suburban housewife. This fantasy of demonic
possession by things, of paralyzed inability to resist (except by
saying no! television get thee hence!) what an all-powerful system
chose to make of me, did not really jibe with my life, in which I
acted, complained, fought, directly or deviously tried to get what I
wanted, sometimes even succeeded. In the same way the left dis-
torted reality by denying that people were agents.
Not that I didn't learn a good deal from Marcuse; his analysis
had its core of truth. (So, for that matter, did my fantasy.) He
was right in his contention that the modern capitalist state has
immense resources for social control, that it operates as much by
manipulation as by direct coercion. He was right, certainly, in
thinking that the American ruling class uses liberalism as one of its
many weapons, trying whenever it can to pass off the appearance
of freedom as the reality. But for a Marxist he was a curiously
undialectical thinker, despite his fondness for oxymorons like "re-
pressive tolerance." Liberalism, after all, is a strategy forced on the
state by people's pressure for greater freedom and a higher stan-
dard of living; rulers do their best to take back liberal concessions
whenever they have the opportunity—as the last few years surely
prove. If American workers have not hated their lives enough to
make a revolution, it is in part because liberalism meets some gen-
uine human needs. But it is also because however pissed off they
143
may be (and Americans usually are), most people, understandably,

don't want to risk what they have unless they see a practical alter-
native and feel they have a real chance at it. In the meantime, there
is struggle in small, daily ways and the opportunity to sneak out to
a movie now and then.
The Times quotes Marcuse wistfully referring to the "heroic
period" of "the hippies and yippies." I wonder if he understood
how thoroughly his heroes' values were rooted in mass culture.
What did he think it meant when the Yippies got the Chicago
police and the news media to cooperate in bringing revolutionary
theater to millions? But then, he may have been more appreciative
of such ironies than I tend to assume. I met Marcuse once; a friend
and I were in La Jolla, so we went to see the great man. I liked
him. The main thing I remember is that at one point he demanded,
"Tell me—is there a way to define the difference between art and
nonart?" I felt like a student being tested; anyway, I suspected him
of thinking rock-and-roll was trash. With trepidation, I said "No."
He nodded and looked pleased. "I agree with you!"
August 75)79
144
Glossary for the Eighties
A ; the seventies draw to a close, it is painfully obvious that

militant critics of our society have fallen on hard times.
Young, eager, and sexy only a decade ago, they have aged badly.
By now the least perceptive of them have realized that radical is
no longer chic; where once crowds of people hung on their every
word, now the same words are almost certain to elicit an uncom-
fortable silence, a tactful change of subject, or an outright sneer.
But most radicals have not yet caught on that "the same words" are
actually at the root of their problem. In keeping with a general
tendency to cling to the manners and mores of their beloved sixties
(radicals are a conservative lot), they have failed to master the
subtleties of contemporary discourse. It's impossible for people
to communicate if they don't speak the same language. And so,
for those who would rather not spend the eighties standing alone
in a corner muttering "The country is swinging to the right!" I've
compiled a basic vocabulary.
DOGMA: a political belief one is unreasonably committed to, such as

the notion that freedom is good and slavery is bad.
H5
BIAS: predilection for a particular dogma. For example, the fem-

inist bias is that women are equal to men and the male chauvinist
bias is that women are inferior. The unbiased view is that the truth
lies somewhere in between.
IDEOLOGY: a body of dogma, usually based on the stubborn belief

that some social injustice exists and ought to be corrected. Not
to be confused with "ideas," which are common-sense propositions
like "The truth lies somewhere in between" and "Life is unfair."
IDEOLOGICAL FANATIC: a compulsive purveyor of ideology. In par-

ticular, one who can't resist bringing up pet dogmas at awkward or
inappropriate moments, such as during a sensible discussion of
more important issues or at a social gathering where someone has
unwittingly offended the fanatic's beliefs (see SUPERSENSITIVE,
below). The term is often applied to women who drag feminism
into everything, as when they make a fuss because some terrific
populist politician thinks abortion is murder. Also used of people
who make themselves into terrible bores by repeatedly criticizing
the same social evil, simply because nothing has been done about it.
PARTY LINE: an opinion shared by three or more ideological

fanatics.
INDEPENDENT THINKERS: people who refuse to do the easy thing,

the popular thing, who boldly repudiate party lines. For example,
women who declare that it's okay to be a sex object again; straight
liberals who confess that the scene on Christopher Street makes
them sick.
STALINIST: a particularly abrasive ideological fanatic. One who

hews to the party line and accuses independent thinkers of telling
the people in power what they want to hear. Stalinists can never
get it through their heads that a person can be sympathetic to their
cause without being an ideological fanatic; a typical Stalinist trick
is to insinuate that such people are not as sympathetic as they
146
Glossary for the Eighties
pretend. For instance, Stalinists invariably get their backs up when

male friends of the women's movement refer to Bella Abzug as
"that loudmouthed bitch." (cf. popular sixties epithet, "fascist")
HUMORLESS: what you are if you do not find the following subjects
funny: rape, big breasts, sex with little girls. It carries no imputa-
tion of humorlessness if you do not find the following subjects
funny: impotence, castration, vaginas with teeth.
SUPERSENSITIVE: in the habit of hearing insult and bigotry where

none is intended. Jews are traditionally the worst offenders, being
inclined to take constructive criticism like "Pale-faced Jew-boy, I
wish you were dead" as evidence of anti-Semitism. The especially
supersensitive may even react angrily to compliments, such as "I
prefer liberated women, they're better fucks."
SHRILL: female.
PARANOID: Jewish.
ZIONIST: paranoid.
CRANK: see IDEOLOGICAL FANATIC. Also SUPERSENSITIVE.
OPPRESSION: the endless abuses committed by ideological fanatics—

especially pushy blacks, women, Jews, and homosexuals—against
long-suffering regular people. Oppressors have often been known
to corner their victims at dinner parties and subject them to Stal-
inist harangues. Another common form of oppression consists of
asking the victim tactless personal questions, such as "Do you share
child care with your wife?"
SURVIVOR: a white middle-class person who manages to function

despite recurrent nightmares about being chased by giant black
lesbians with pitchforks.
H7
DECADENT: preoccupied with insignificant matters of Life Style,

such as one's need for a satisfying sexual relationship; frivolous. (It
carries no imputation of decadence if you are frivolous about rape,
big breasts, or sex with little girls.)
NARCISSIST: (thanks to Tom Wolfe, this clinical term is beginning to

be supplanted by the more colorful "child of the me decade"): one
who selfishly pursues personal freedom and pleasure instead of
buckling down to the grim but necessary duties of a mature adult.
Specifically, anyone who gets a divorce, has an abortion, sleeps
with someone of the same sex, lives alone, lives with a lover with
no intention of getting married, leaves a moribund relationship for
a vital one, or is reluctant to have children (unless there is a good
reason for the reluctance, such as having had a hysterectomy).
Also, a woman who thinks it's important that she have orgasms,
complains about being cooped up at home with her kids, insists
that even middle-class women have problems, or believes that free-
ing women is more important than strengthening the family. Con-
tradictory as it may seem, many narcissists are also ideological
fanatics.
January 1979
148
The Family:
Love It or Leave It
T yf Then I talk about my family, I mean the one I grew up in.

V V I have been married, lived with men, and participated in
various communal and semicommunal arrangements, but for most
of the past six years—nearly all of my thirties—I have lived alone.
This is neither an accident nor a deliberate choice, but the result,
of an accretion of large and small choices, many of which I had
no idea I was making at the time. Conscious or not, these choices
have been profoundly influenced by the cultural and political
radicalism of the sixties, especially radical feminism. The sense
of possibility, of hope for great changes that pervaded those years
affected all my aspirations; compromises that might once have
seemed reasonable, or simply to be expected, felt stifling. A rebel-
lious community of peers supported me in wanting something other
than conventional family life; feminist consciousness clarified and
deepened my ambivalence toward men, my skepticism about mar-
riage. Single women were still marginal, but their position was
dignified in a way it had never been before: it was possible to
conceive of being alone as a choice rather than a failure.
For me the issue was less the right to be alone, in itself, than the
149
right to take as much time and room as I needed to decide what

kind of life I wanted, what I could hold out for. Intimate connec-
tions are important to me. I want a mate, or so I believe, and
possibly a child. Before the counterculture existed I was attracted
to the idea of communal living and I still am. Yet obviously other
priorities have intervened: I haven't found what I supposedly want
on terms I can accept. The psychologist in me suggests that I don't
want it as wholeheartedly as I think, the feminist retorts that it's
not my fault if a sexist society keeps offering me a choice between
unequal relationships and none, and I'm sure they're both right.
Anyway, I wouldn't take back the choices I've made. I would not
wish to be a different person, or to have been shaped by a different
time.
Still, I can't help being uneasy about the gap between the lessons
I learned during that time and the rules of the game in this one. As
the conservative backlash gains momentum, I feel a bit like an
explorer camped on a peninsula, who looks back to discover that
the rising tide has made it into an island and that it threatens to
become a mere sandbar, or perhaps disappear altogether. If there is
one cultural trend that has defined the seventies, it is the aggressive
resurgence of family chauvinism, flanked by its close relatives,
antifeminism and homophobia. The right's impassioned defense of
traditional family values—the common theme of its attacks on the
Equal Rights Amendment, legal abortion, gay rights, sexual per-
missiveness, child care for working mothers, and "immoral" (read
unattached female) welfare recipients—has affected the social at-
mosphere even in the liberal, educated middle class that produced
the cultural radicals. The new consensus is that the family is our
last refuge, our only defense against universal predatory selfish-
ness, loneliness, and rootlessness; the idea that there could be de-
sirable alternatives to the family is no longer taken seriously. I've
also noticed a rise in the level of tension between married and
single people. Over the years family boosters have subjected me to
my share of hints that I'm pathetic, missing out on real life, or that
the way I live is selfish and shallow, or both; I've indulged an
150
The Family: Love It or Leave It
unworthy tendency to respond in kind, flaunting my indepen-

dence and my freedom from the burdens of parenthood while
implying that I see through their facade of happiness to the quiet
desperation beneath. Lately these exchanges have become edgier;
sometimes they explode into rights. As I said, I'm uneasy.
Of course, "family" is one of those concepts that invite stretch-
ing. One might reasonably define a family as any group of people
'who live under the same roof, function as an economic unit, and
have a serious commitment to each other—a definition that could
include communes and unmarried couples of whatever sexual
preference. But the family as it exists for most people in the real
world—in a social and historical context—is nothing so amorphous
or pluralistic. It is an institution, a set of laws, customs, and beliefs
that define what a family is or ought to be, the rights and duties of
its members, and its relation to society. This institution embraces
only households of people related by birth or marriage. It is rooted
in the assumption of male authority over dependent women and
children, the sexual double standard, and the traditional exchange
of the husband's financial support for the wife's domestic and sex-
ual services. It defines the pursuit of individual freedom as selfish
and irresponsible ("narcissistic" in current jargon), the subordina-
tion of personal happiness to domestic obligations as the hallmark
of adulthood and the basis of morals. Above all, the family is
supposed to control sex and legitimize it through procreation; fam-
ily morality regards sensual pleasure for its own sake as frivolous,
sexual passion as dangerous and fundamentally antisocial. In a
family-centered society prevailing attitudes toward people who
live differently range from pity to indifference to hostile envy to
condemnation. Women who step outside the home into the world
become fair game for economic and sexual exploitation; children
who have no parents, or whose parents cannot or will not give
them adequate care, get minimal attention from a community that
regards them as aliens in a land where only citizens have rights.
On the left, family chauvinism often takes the form of nostalgic
declarations that the family, with its admitted faults, has been
151
vitiated by modern capitalism, which is much worse (at least the

family is based on personal relations rather than soulless cash, etc.,
etc.). Christopher Lasch's The Culture of Narcissism is the latest
polemic to suggest that radicals who criticize the family are beat-
ing a dead (and presumably mourned) horse. True, capitalism has
eroded patriarchal authority; the family has been drastically al-
tered by modern developments from industrialism to women's
participation in the labor force to the hedonism implicit in mass
culture. (Personally, I prefer the present system, with its admitted
faults, to one that allowed women no rights at all.) But it is per-
verse to deny that the family and its ideology continue to shape
our lives. Most of us have been brought up by parents or other
relatives. It is in the family that children discover their sexuality
and learn how women and men are supposed to behave, toward the
world and each other. The family is still the main source of wom-
en's oppression and the main focus of feminist politics, which is
probably why male leftists are so inclined to premature announce-
ments of its demise.
Whether or not they work outside the home, most women base
their lives on marriage and motherhood; since job discrimination
ensures that women earn roughly half as much as men and lack of
public child-care facilities is a further deterrent to single mother-
hood, women's employment has not ended their dependence on
marriage, nor has it relieved them of the chief responsibility for
housework and child rearing. Though families who conform to the
classic patriarchal pattern are now in the minority, most domestic-
relations laws define the obligations of husband and wife in terms
of their traditional roles. So does the government. Nixon vetoed
federally funded child care on the grounds that the state should
not usurp the prerogative of the family, code for "Mothers should
stay home where they belong and if they don't, it's their children's
tough luck." The Carter administration's response to the poverty
of families dependent on a female breadwinner was to suggest that
federal job programs employ men, the assumption being that
women should be married to men who can support them. Despite
J
52
all the activism of the past ten years, our society still regards wife
beating as a private domestic matter, condones rape within mar-
riage, hesitates to condemn men for raping independent or sexually
active women, restricts women's access to contraception and abor-
tion, discriminates against homosexuals and even throws them in
jail. In most states it is still legal to punish a spouse by using
evidence of sexual "immorality" as a weapon in contested divorces
and child-custody disputes. Social prejudice against single people
remains pervasive: we are immature, unreliable, and incapable of
deep attachments, we don't own property, we like loud music, our
sexual activities are offensive, and if too many of us are allowed in
we'll ruin the neighborhood. (The stereotype goes double for
homosexuals.) Unmarried couples and groups also encounter
various forms of discrimination, from difficulty in renting apart-
ments, obtaining mortgages, and buying insurance to ordinances
that limit or ban communal housing to tax laws that allow only the
legally married to file joint returns. Nor do "illegitimate" children
have equal legal rights.
The relation of capitalism to the family is in fact far more
dialectical than analyses like Lasch's suggest. When families were
economically self-sufficient, they provided jobs for those who
could work and took care of those who could not. In an industrial
economy, where workers must find buyers for their labor, anyone
who cannot command a living wage faces a grim existence; even
the white middle-class man at the height of his earning power may
find that a technological advance, an economic downturn, or an
illness has made him unemployable. While government services
like unemployment insurance and social security purport to fill the
gaps, in practice they offer a bare minimum of protection against
disaster and do nothing to alleviate the day-to-day anxiety of cop-
ing with a hostile system. For most people the only alternative to
facing that anxiety alone is to be part of a family. At least in
theory, family members are committed to each other's survival;
small, unstable, and vulnerable as the contemporary nuclear family
may be, it is better than nothing.
153
Capitalists have an obvious stake in encouraging dependence on

the family and upholding its mythology. If people stopped looking
to the family for security, they might start looking to full employ-
ment and expanded public services. If enough parents or com-
munal households were determined to share child rearing, they
might insist that working hours and conditions be adapted to their
domestic needs. If enough women refused to work for no pay in
the home and demanded genuine parity on the job, our economy
would be in deep trouble. There is a direct link between the con-
servative trend of American capitalism and the backlash on so-
called cultural issues. During the past decade, the loss of the Viet-
nam War, the general decline in American influence, and the
growing power of the oil industry have led to an intensive cor-
porate drive to increase profits by reducing social services, raising
prices faster than wages and convincing the public to have "lower
expectations"; in the same period blatant family chauvinism has
become official government policy. Under the circumstances it is
not surprising that most people are less inclined to demand change
—with all the risk and uncertainty such demands entail—than to
cling to what they have and defend it against attack. These days
"my family first" is only a slightly less insular version of the "me
first" psychology the insecurity of capitalism provokes. Both are
based on the dismaying knowledge that if you and your family are
not first, they are all too likely to be last. People who are clinging
are never eager to share their branch, nor do they look kindly on
anyone who insists it's rotten wood.
Like most educated white middle-class women of my genera-

tion, I did not grow up worrying about economic survival My
central problems had to do with the conflict between a conserva-
tive upbringing and the "sexual revolution," between traditional
definitions of femininity and a strong desire for worldly achieve-
ment and independence. For me the cultural revolt began in the
late fifties with the libertarian campaign against obscenity laws and
»54
conventional sexual morality. I was for it, but I was also suspicious,
and no wonder: quite aside from my own internal conflicts, the
sexual freedom movement was full of contradictions. The liber-
tarians did not concern themselves with the quality of sexual rela-
tionships or the larger social and emotional causes of sexual
frustration. They were less influenced by feminism than their
counterparts in the twenties; in theory they advocated the sexual
liberation of women, but in practice their outlook was male-
centered and often downright misogynist. They took for granted
that prostitution and pornography were liberating. They carried
on about the hypocrisy of the sexual game—by which they meant
men's impatience with having to court women and pay lip service
to their demands for love, respect, and commitment. No one sug-
gested that men's isolation of sex from feeling might actually be
part of the problem, rather than the solution.
Around the same time, more radical ideas were beginning to
surface. While I was in high school, I was fascinated by the beats
and their rejection of the "square" institution of marriage. Later I
began to read and learn from radical Freudians like Paul Goodman,
Norman Mailer, Herbert Marcuse, and—especially—the original
radical Freudian, Wilhelm Reich. Where Freud contended that civ-
ilization required instinctual repression, Reich argued that what
Freud took to be civilization, in some absolute sense, was a specific,
changeable social structure—authoritarian, patriarchal, class-
bound. In Reich's view the incestuous fantasies, perverse impulses,
and sadistic aggression that dominated the Freudian unconscious
were themselves the product of repression—the child's response to
the frustration of its natural sexual needs. He claimed that when
his patients managed to overcome their neurotic sexual inhibitions
they became spontaneously decent, rational, and cooperative; the
problem, from the conservative moralist's standpoint, was that
they also developed a sense of independence and self-respect that
made them question arbitrary authority, compulsive work, passion-
less marriage, and conventional moral and religious ideas. The
function of sexual repression, Reich concluded, was to instill in
'55
children the submissive attitudes demanded by patriarchal "civili-

zation." Thus a truly revolutionary program could not be limited
to economic issues, but must include demands for sexual liberation,
the emancipation of women, and the transformation of the family.
(Unsurprisingly, Goodman, Mailer, and other cultural radicals
heavily influenced by Reich's work did not pick up on his femi-
nism.)
To my mind, Reich's most revolutionary assertion was also his
simplest (some would say most simpleminded): that natural sexu-
ality is the physical manifestation of love. He insisted that the
perception of tenderness and sensuality as separate, even antag-
onistic phenomena was the collective neurosis of an antisexual
culture, that pornography, prostitution, rape, and other forms of
alienated sex were the by-products of ascetic moralism, the under-
side of patriarchy, the social equivalent of the Freudian uncon-
scious. These ideas have encountered near-universal resistance; the
belief in an intrinsic split between lust and love is one of our most
deeply ingrained and cherished prejudices. Most people agree that
untrammeled pursuit of sexual pleasure is one thing, socially
responsible relationships quite another; debate is usually over the
proper ratio of license to repression. Though all democratic
thought is based on the premise that freedom is compatible with
civilization, that under the right conditions people are capable of
self-regulation, even dedicated democrats hesitate to apply this
premise to sex and family life. Radicals criticize the conservative
assumption that people are innately acquisitive, violent, and power-
hungry; yet most swallow the parallel idea that the sexual drive is
innately solipsistic. Sex, they assume, is different. Why? It just is.
Everybody knows that.
What everybody knows is not necessarily wrong. But it seems
clear to me that if there were no inherent opposition between
freedom and responsibility, pleasure and duty, "mere" sex and
serious love, the patriarchal family would create it. I believe that
sexual love in its most passionate sense is as basic to happiness as
food is to life and that living and sleeping with a mate one does not
156
love in this sense violates fundamental human impulses. Which is

to say that since passion is by definition spontaneous—we can be-
have in ways that inhibit or nurture it, but finally we feel it or we
don't—a marital arrangement based on legal, economic, or moral
coercion is oppressive. But the whole point of marriage is to be a
binding social alliance, and it cannot fulfill that function unless
mates are forced or intimidated into staying together. Traditional
patriarchal societies dealt with this contradiction by refusing to
recognize passionate love as a legitimate need. For men it was seen
as an illicit disruptive force that had nothing to do with the seri-
ous business of family; for women it was usually proscribed alto-
gether. The modern celebration of romantic love muddled the
issue: now we want marriage to serve two basically incompatible
purposes, to be at once a love relationship and a contract. We exalt
love as the highest motive for marriage, but tell couples that of
course passion fades into "mature" conjugal affection. We want
our mates to be faithful out of love, yet define monogamy as an
obligation whose breach justifies moral outrage and legal revenge.
We agree that spouses who don't love each other should not have
to stay together, even for the sake of the children; yet we uphold a
system that makes women economic prisoners and condone re-
strictive adversary divorce laws. We argue that without the legal
and moral pressure of marriage lovers won't make the effort re-
quired to live intimately with someone else; but by equating emo-
tional commitment with the will to live up to a contract, we im-
plicitly define passion as unserious, peripheral to real life.
Another equally insoluble conflict is built into the nuclear fam-
ily. Children are a twenty-four-hour-a-day responsibility, yet par-
ents have legitimate needs for personal freedom, privacy, and
spontaneity in their lives. The brunt of this conflict falls on
mothers, but even if fathers shared child care equally, the basic
problem would remain. Child rearing is too big a job for one or
even two people to handle without an unnatural degree of self-
sacrifice, destructive for both generations.
A different kind of family structure could solve or ease these
'57
problems. In matrilineal societies mothers, children, and their

blood relatives were the ongoing social unit; the permanence of
sexual relationships apparently became an issue with the rise of
patriarchy. In traditional patriarchies the extended family at least
gave parents some relief from responsibility for their offspring.
The logical postpatriarchal unit is some version of the commune.
Groups of people who agreed to take responsibility for each other,
pool their economic resources, and share housework and child care
would have a basis for stability independent of any one couple's
sexual bond; children would have the added security of close ties
to adults other than their biological parents (and if the commune
were large and flexible enough, parents who had stopped being
lovers might choose to remain in it); communal child rearing,
shared by both sexes, would remove the element of martyrdom
from parenthood.
I realize that the kind of change I'm talking about amounts to a
social and psychic revolution of almost inconceivable magnitude.
Yet to refuse to fight for love that is both free and responsible is in
a sense to reject the possibility of love itself. I suspect that in a
truly free society sexual love would be at once more satisfying and
less terrifying, that lovers would be more spontaneously monoga-
mous but less jealous, more willing to commit themselves deeply
yet less devastated if a relationship had to end. Still, there is an
inherent, irreducible risk in loving: it means surrendering detach-
ment and control, giving our lovers the power to hurt us by with-
drawing their love, leaving, or wanting someone else. The
marriage contract appeals to our self-contradictory desire to
negate that risk, nullify that power. I don't mean to suggest that
people who reject marriage are less afflicted with this desire than
anyone else; remaining single can be an excellent way of distancing
oneself from love, or avoiding it altogether. But I am convinced
that contrary to its myth, the institution supports our fear of love
rather than our yearning for it. We can embrace marriage, hoping
to transcend its contradictions, or reject it, hoping to find some-
thing better; either way we are likely to be disappointed.
158
Until recently I had no doubt which route I preferred. I had

married at twenty, left three years later, and though I did not rule
out marrying again if I had some specific practical reason, the idea
bothered me the way the thought of signing a loyalty oath always
had. It was not the public, ceremonial aspect of marriage I ob-
jected to—I thought the decision to share one's life with a lover
was worth celebrating—but the essence of marriage, the contract.
Whatever two people's private view of their relationship, however
they might adapt the ceremony, in getting legally married they
officially agreed to be bound by the rules of a patriarchal institu-
tion—one of which was that the state defined the circumstances in
which they could be unbound. Besides, most people made endless
assumptions about married couples and treated them accordingly;
it wasn't so easy to get married and pretend you weren't.
I was also put off by the marriages I observed; domestic life as
most of my peers lived it made me feel claustrophobic. What
disturbed me was the degree of emotional repression most "suc-
cessful" (that is, stable and reasonably contented) marriages
seemed to involve. Given the basic contradictions of the family, it
inevitably provoked conflicts that had to be submerged. But the
conditions of contemporary middle-class marriage—the prevalence
of divorce and infidelity, the emergence of feminism, the nagging
ambivalence about whether we were supposed to enjoy life or be
Adults—tended to bring those conflicts into the open, requiring a
whole extra layer of evasions to keep them at bay. While some
couples had managed to fight out the battle of the sexes to a real
understanding instead of a divorce, most successful marriages I
knew of were based on a sexist detente: the husband had made it
clear that he would not give up certain prerogatives and the wife
pretended not to hate him for it. Add a bit of sexual and emotional
boredom in an era when not to be madly in love with your spouse
was a social embarrassment, and it was not surprising that so many
"happy" couples radiated stifling dependence or low-level static.
No, I would think, with a fair amount of smugness, better alone
than trapped.
'59
But the year I turned thirty-five, an odd thing happened: I had a

persistent fantasy about getting married. It was—on the surface at
least—a fantasy of triumph. At the time of my actual marriage, I
had felt that my life was totally out of control. I was a scared kid
making a promise I suspected I wouldn't keep, at a conventional
wedding I didn't want, in a dress I'd been talked into getting. A
rabbi I hardly knew presided over the traditional Jewish ritual, in
which the bride gets to say precisely nothing. Since then I had, as
they say, come a long way, but it had been a rocky trip. While I
had rebelled against the idea that a woman needs a man to run her
life, I had struggled with an undertow of conviction that such
rebellion was disastrous hubris. On the level of social reality this
made perfect sense; if feminism had taught me anything, it was
that the liberated woman was a myth, that women who deviated
from prescribed feminine behavior always paid a price. But the
connection between the personal and the political is usually more
convoluted than it seems. In fact, my conflict had less to do with
the real social consequences of nonconformity than with an un-
conscious fear that I could not, after all, be female and yet compe-
tent to make my way through the world. In my relationships I had
found it hard to draw the essential line between the power men
have over women and the power all lovers have over each other—
but I had begun to understand that what I was really fighting,
more often than not, was the power of my own worst impulses
to give in, give up, and be dependent.
That year, I felt the struggle was paying off. Some balance had
shifted; emotionally I was on my own in a way I had not been
before. And so my marriage fantasy was a kind of exorcism. Now
that I was strong enough to love a man and preserve my identity,
confident enough to make a choice that wouldn't be easy to get
out of, I would do it over again and do it right—I would get to
talk, play rock-and-roll, wear what I pleased. By marrying I would
beat the system, give the lie to all the old farts who insisted that
women could not have autonomy and love too. As the noted femi-
nist Mick Jagger was to put it a couple of years later, American
girls want everything—and I was no exception.
160
Though I sensed an underside to all this, I was too proud of my

psychic victory to realize I was doing yet another version of the
liberated woman tap dance, one that contained its own negation.
These days the formula is familiar: women, we are told (often by
women themselves) are now free enough so that they can choose
to be sex objects/wear six-inch heels/do the housework without
feeling oppressed. The unspoken question, of course, is whether
women can refuse to be sex objects/wear six-inch heels/do the
housework without getting zapped. When women start answering,
in effect "We've made our point—let's not push our luck," it is a
sure sign of backlash. And in retrospect it seems clear that my
sudden interest in marriage (it's just a silly fantasy, I kept telling
myself) was an early sign that the backlash was getting to me. As
it intensified, I found myself, in moments of rank self-pity, think-
ing about marriage in a very different spirit. Okay (I would ad-
dress the world), I've fought, I've paid my dues. I'm tired of being
a crank, of being marginal. I want in!
As a single woman, and a writer who will probably never make
much money, I feel more vulnerable now than I ever have before.
My income has not kept up with inflation. I am approaching the
biological deadline for maternity, confronting the possibility that
the folklore of my adolescence—if a woman doesn't settle down
with a man before she's thirty, forget it—may turn out to apply to
me after all. I am very conscious of the sustenance I have always
gotten (and mostly taken for granted) from the family I grew up
in: the intense bonds of affection and loyalty; the acceptance born
of long intimacy; the power of "we," of a shared slant on the
world, a collective history and mythology, a language of familiar
jokes and gestures. In some ways I have recreated these bonds with
my closest friends, but it is not quite the same. The difference has
to do with home being the place where when you have to go there
they have to take you in—and also being (as the less-quoted next
line of the poem has it) something you haven't to deserve. I have
friends who would take me in, but on some level I think I have to
deserve them.
Around the time I began having these feelings, but before I
161
AMERICAN GIRLS WA NT EVERYTHING
had quite faced them, I broke a long-standing taboo and had a love
affair with a married man. At night I would sit in my kitchen
arguing with myself, debates that usually began with the reflection
that what I was doing was selfish, irresponsible, and an egregious
breach of female solidarity. But goddammit, I would protest, I
refuse to define it that way! I really believe there's such a thing as
a basic human right to love whom you love and act on it.
But if you're hurting another woman? Making her unequal
struggle with this whole fucked-up system more difficult?
Well, the fact is, it hurts if your mate wants someone else! That's
an inescapable part of life—no matter what the almighty contract
says!
Oh, yeah, right—life is unfair. And the children?
Silence, more coffee.
I never did resolve that argument; it just settled undigested in
my stomach. Afterward, I had to admit I could not come up with a
handy moral, except perhaps that there is no such thing as a free
lunch. Morals aside, there was the matter of all those unacknowl-
edged illusions about what I could get away with—humiliating
perhaps, humbling certainly. At odd moments an old image would
float into my mind. Once, as a bus I was riding in pulled out of a
station, a silly-looking dog danced alongside, coming dangerously
close to the wheels and yapping its lungs out. The bus rolled on.
Recently a friend reminded me that in the early, heady days of

feminist activism I had said to her, "We're not going to see the
results of this revolution in our lifetime; we're making it for the
women who come after us." A judicious and sensible comment,
but I'm not sure I ever really meant it. The reason feminism
touched me so deeply was that I wanted the revolution for myself;
I can't help being disappointed and angry that it is turning out to
be every bit as difficult as I claimed to believe. Reaction is always
temporary, I know that—what I'm afraid of is that it won't end in
time to do me any good. But I also realize that kind of pessimism
162
feeds the reaction and is in fact part of it. For all the external
pressures that have contributed to the retrenchment of the erst-
while dissident community, in a sense reaction was built into its
passionate optimism. The mentality that currently inspires sixties
veterans to say things like "We didn't succeed in abolishing the
family. This proves we were wrong—the family is necessary" is of
a piece with the counterculture's notorious impatience. Our ambi-
tions outstripped both the immediate practical possibilities and our
own limitations. People turned themselves and each other inside
out; terrible bitterness between women and men came to the sur-
face; everything seemed to be coming apart, with no imminent
prospect of our finding a better way to put it back together. A lot
of people were relieved when the conservative mood of the seven-
ties gave them an excuse to stop struggling and stretching them-
selves to uncertain purpose; a lot of men were particularly relieved
when the backlash gave them support for digging in their heels
against feminism. Some former rebels have turned against their
past altogether, dismissing their vision as adolescent extravagance,
reducing a decade of history to the part of it that was—inevitably
—foolish and excessive. Many more have responded to the reaction
with confusion and malaise. If women must reconcile their raised
consciousness with the limits of a conservative time, men are torn
between their more regressive impulses and their desire to be (or
be thought) good guys. Increasingly, both sexes tend to define
feminism and related cultural questions not as public issues calling
for political action but as a matter of private "life styles" and
"options." This sort of individualism is not only a retreat from
sixties radicalism but in very real ways an extension of it—a more
modest liberal version of the counterculture's faith that simply by
dropping out of the system we could have the world and have it
now.
That we did not manage in a few years to revolutionize an
institution that has lasted for thousands, serving indispensable
functions as well as oppressive ones, is hardly something to be
surprised at or ashamed of. Rather, what needs to be repudiated is
163
the naive arrogance implicit in slogans like "abolish the family"

and "smash monogamy," in the illusion of so many countercul-
turists that revolution meant moving in with a bunch of people and
calling it a commune. Far from being revolutionary, the cultural
left was basically apolitical. That so much of its opposition was
expressed in terms of contempt for capitalism and consumerism
only confirms how little most sixties radicals understood the Amer-
ican social system or their own place in it. There is a neat irony in
the fact that leftists are now romanticizing the family and blaming
capitalism for its collapse, while ten years ago they were trashing
the family and blaming capitalism for its persistence. Ah, dialec-
tics: if an increasingly conservative capitalism has propelled the
seventies backlash, it was a dynamic liberal capitalism that fostered
the sixties revolt. The expansion of the American economy after
World War II produced two decades of unprecedented prosper-
ity, which allowed masses of people unprecedented latitude in mak-
ing choices about how to live. Just as more and more people could
afford to buy houses, cars, and appliances, they could choose to
work less—or at less lucrative occupations—and still earn enough
to survive without undue hardship, especially if they didn't have
kids to support. As a result a growing minority—particularly
among the children of the upper middle class—felt free to question
the dominant social arrangements, to experiment and take risks,
to extend student life with its essentially bohemian values into
adulthood rather than graduate to professional jobs, nuclear fami-
lies, and the suburbs.
What most counterculture opposition to capitalism amounted to
was this minority's anger at the majority for refusing to make the
same choice. Even the organized left, which should have known
better, acted as if the way to change American society was for
each person individually to renounce the family, material comfort,
and social respectability. That most people were doing no such
thing was glibly attributed to sexual repression, greed, and/or
"brainwashing" by the mass media—the implication being that rad-
icals and bohemians were sexier, smarter, less corrupt, and gener-
164
ally more terrific than everyone else. Actually, what they mostly
were was younger and more privileged: it was easy to be a self-
righteous antimaterialist if you had never known anxiety about
money; easy to sneer at the security of marriage if you had solici-
tous middle-class parents; easy, if you were twenty years old and
childless, to blame those parents for the ills of the world. Not that
radicals were wrong in believing that a sexually free, communal
society was incompatible with capitalism, or in perceiving connec-
tions between sexual repression, obsessive concern with material
goods, and social conformity. But they did not understand that,
psychology aside, most people submit to the power of institutions
because they suffer unpleasant consequences if they don't. It made
no sense to talk of abolishing the family without considering the
genuine needs it served and organizing against the social pressures
that inhibited us from satisfying those needs in other ways. In the
seventies the left itself would provide the best illustration of that
truth: it was when economic conditions worsened, around the
time most sixties rebels were reaching an age where anxieties about
the future were not so easy to dismiss, that radicals began to
change their line on the family.
But if the political myopia of the counterculture was partly a
matter of class and age, it was even more a matter of sex. Like
every other segment of society, the counterculture was dominated
by men, who benefited from the male privileges built into the
family structure and so did not care to examine it too closely.
While they were not averse to freeing themselves from their tra-
ditional obligations in the family, they had no intention of giving
up their prerogatives. To support a woman, promise permanence
or fidelity, or take responsibility for the children one fathered
might be bourgeois, but to expect the same woman to cook and
clean, take care of the kids, and fuck on command was only nat-
ural. Despite an overlay of radical Freudian rhetoric, their sexual
ethos was more or less standard liberal permissiveness; they were
not interested in getting rid of the roles of wife and whore, only in
"liberating" women to play either as the occasion demanded.
165
It remained for the women's liberation movement to begin to

understand the family in a political way. Radical feminists exposed
the hypocrisy of a "cultural revolution" based on sexual inequality,
attributed that inequality to the historic, institutionalized power of
men as a group over women as a group, and called for a mass
movement to end it. Feminism became the only contemporary
political movement to make an organized effort to change, rather
than simply drop out of the patriarchal family.
Feminist consciousness-raising and analysis produced a mass of
information about the family as an instrument of female oppres-
sion. But on those aspects of family chauvinism that did not di-
rectly involve the subordination of women, the movement had
little to say. (There were individual exceptions, notably Shulamith
Firestone in The Dialectic of Sex.) Radical feminists tended to be
skeptical of the counterculture's vision of a communal Utopia.
Many defended the nuclear family, arguing that it was not mar-
riage, only traditional marital sex roles that oppressed women; at
the other extreme were factions that challenged the value of hetero-
sexuality and even sex itself.
In a sense, radical feminism defined itself in opposition to the
psychological explanations of behavior so prevalent on the left.
Most early women's liberationists had come out of a left-counter-
culture milieu where they were under heavy pressure to go along
with the men's notion of sexual freedom. As soon as feminism
surfaced, the left began to resist it by arguing that the conven-
tional pattern of male-female relationships was the result of capital-
ist conditioning, that men were not oppressors but fellow victims.
As feminists pointed out, this argument ignored the advantages
men's privileged status conferred, their reluctance to give up those
advantages, and the day-to-day social and economic constraints
that kept women in their place. In effect it absolved men of all
responsibility for their actions and implied that women could
remedy their condition simply by straightening out their heads.
Vital as it was to combat the left's mushy, self-serving psycholo-
gism, radical feminists have tended to fall into the opposite error
166
of dismissing psychology altogether. This bias has been particu-

larly limiting when applied to the crucial subject of sex. Feminists
have been inclined to blame women's sexual problems solely on
men's exploitative behavior and lack of consideration for women's
needs, whether emotional or specifically erotic. The criticism is
accurate so far as it goes. But it is impossible to understand female
—or for that matter male—sexuality without acknowledging the
impact of growing up in a culture that despite its surface permis-
siveness is deeply antisexual. A distorted, negative view of sex is
basic to patriarchal psychology: since girls learn to regard their
genitals as a badge of inferiority, boys to equate theirs with domi-
nance and aggression, sexual pleasure gets tangled up with sadistic
and masochistic feelings and hostility between the sexes. At the
same time, both sexes have a powerful emotional investment in
traditionally masculine and feminine behavior because they associate
it with their sexual identities and with sex itself.
Just as a real sexual revolution must be feminist, a genuinely
radical feminism must include a critique of sexual repression and
the family structure that perpetuates it. Yet the two questions
remain distinct in most people's mind—a distinction that con-
tributes to the backlash, since it allows people to succumb to fam-
ily chauvinist attitudes without confronting their antifeminist
implications. As it so often does, the right has a clearer grasp of the
problem than its opposition, which is one reason "pro-family" re-
actionaries have been more politically effective than feminists who
protest that they're not against the family, they just want women
to have equality within it. The issue of family chauvinism is at the
core of the conflict between feminist and antifeminist women,
as well as the antagonism that smolders even in sophisticated fem-
inist circles between wives who feel that single women do not
support them or understand their problems and single women who
feel that wives are collaborating with the system. While feminists
have rightly emphasized the common oppression of married and
single women and the ways men have pitted us against each other,
this kind of analysis ignores the fact that the family has its own
167
imperatives: just as women can ally with men to defend the inter-
ests of a class or race, they can share their husbands' family
chauvinism. Women in a patriarchy have every reason to distrust
male sexuality and fear their own. Under present conditions
heterosexuality really is dangerous for women, not only because it
involves the risk of pregnancy and of exploitation and marginality,
but because it is emotionally bound up with the idea of submission.
And so long as women are economically dependent on their hus-
bands, they cannot afford to countenance the idea that men have a
right to anything so unpredictable as passion. As a result, women
are as likely as men—if not more so—to see the family as our only
alternative to unbridled lust and rapine.
To regard marriage and singleness simply as "options," or even
as situations equally favorable to men and oppressive to women,
misses the point. The institution of the family and the people who
enforce its rules and uphold its values define the lives of both
married and single people, just as capitalism defines the lives of
workers and dropouts alike. The family system divides us up into
insiders and outsiders; as insiders, married people are more likely to
identify with the established order, and when they do, they are not
simply expressing a personal preference but taking a political
stand. The issue, finally, is whether we have the right to hope for a
freer, more humane way of connecting with each other. Defenders
of the family seem to think that we have already gone too far, that
the problem of this painful and confusing time is too much free-
dom. I think there's no such thing as too much freedom—only too
little nerve.
'979
i6S
Postscript: The Backlash
According to Irving
T here is no more conspicuous evidence of postsixties confusion

than the enormous success, both critical and popular (over
2,500,000 paperback copies in print), of The World According to
Garp. Though Garp has its virtues as a novel, I think it owes its
status as a phenomenon to its point of view: John Irving attempts
to square an emancipated, profeminist stance with a profoundly
conservative defense of the family, and because he is such a good
storyteller he almost pulls it off. The novel evokes the positive
side of family life with vivid conviction, and Garp's unorthodox
household—he stays home with the kids and writes; his wife,
Helen, is a college professor—is both credible and appealing. But
ultimately the author's conservatism takes over the book. Both
he and his protagonist are Victorians (or Freudians) at heart,
bemused by what they see as the foolishness of sex, distrustful of its
anarchic potential. For Garp the paradigmatic act of violence and
evil is rape, which he uneasily connects with his own lust, judging
his predatory, impersonal seduction of a teen-age babysitter a
"rapelike situation." Directly or not, sex—particularly infidelity,
the paradigmatic betrayal of the family tie—causes most of the
169
trouble in the novel. Though Irving is committed to the central

importance of the family as a source of human values, he does not
hold with the myth of the family as a haven in a violent world:
the world is us, our dangerous sexuality. This attitude is bound
up with the most traditional kind of sexism. Irving regards lust
as men's besetting sin, and implies that women—at least the right
sort of women—are more admirable than men because they are
less subject to this weakness. (The two women in the book who
are preoccupied with sex are portrayed with utter condescension—
one is a pathetic, stupid adolescent; the other a slob, a failed wife,
and an incompetent mother.) Nor does Irving's horror of rape
reflect feminist consciousness; from a feminist perspective rape
is not, as the novel renders it, an expression of bestial impulses
unfettered by civilized morality, but an assertion of power and
woman-hatred, a patriarchal perversion.
In the book's climactic episode, Helen Garp's affair with a stu-
dent leads to a gruesome accident in which one of the Garp chil-
dren dies, another loses an eye, and Helen bites off her lover's
penis. Helen's infidelity is nearly as exploitative as her husband's
(though her motives have less to do with lust than with anger at
Garp); she begins sleeping with Michael Milton in part because he
is too much of a lightweight to take seriously. When Garp finds
out, Helen calls Michael and summarily dumps him. He is dis-
traught. Helen, who takes for granted her right to make all the
rules, is annoyed that he won't just slink off without a fuss. In-
stead, he insists on coming to see her, with disastrous results.
Though he ends up worse off than any of the surviving Garps, he
gets no discernible sympathy, either from Helen or from the au-
thor, who turns him into a mean joke, everyhusband's fantasy of
the perfect revenge. Except for a few offhand and/or nasty refer-
ences to his condition, he disappears from the book; he and his
feelings are irrelevant, outside the purview of the Garps' anguish
for each other. Irving makes it hard for the reader to care about
Michael Milton; he is an unattractive character, and the situation is
ludicrous. But in giving Milton such a horrifying fate (at least it
170
Postscript: The Backlash According to Irving
horrified me), Irving overplays his hand. Unless you get off on the
idea of single men being castrated for fucking married women, the
Garps' reaction seems callous (particularly since it was Garp's
jealousy and carelessness that caused the accident) and the author's
special pleading becomes intrusive. Garp would have been a more
honest novel had Irving been willing to present the boy's mutila-
tion as tragic—like the death of little Walt Garp—instead of
comic. After all, what better metaphor for the traditionalist's belief
in the wages of sexual sin? Or for the way people who break the
rules are cut off from the connections the family offers?
Garp also caters to the privatism of the seventies by arguing
insistently for the virtues of an individual moral outlook, as op-
posed (in the author's mind) to a political one. For Irving fem-
inism as a positive force is embodied in individuals—in the Garps'
disregard for conventional marital roles, or in the way Garp's
mother, Jenny, leads her eccentric life exactly as she pleases. The
collective approach to feminism is represented by the Ellen
Jamesians, a group of violent, self-mutilating fanatics. That Jenny's
version of independence involves renouncing sex is indicative of
Irving's hang-ups; he fails to comprehend that it is when women
want independence and sex that they run into trouble. The Garps'
domestic arrangement is more congenial to my own fantasies. Still,
I can't help thinking about a couple I know that tried to switch
roles. The wife loved it; the husband hated it. He had an affair
with a woman who was also home during the day, went to live
with her, and got a job. She stayed home with her kid and his.
September 197 9
171
Toward a National Man Policy
A ; if the United States didn't have enough problems, it seems

that we are suffering from a serious man shortage. At first,
most women assumed the situation was temporary, a side effect
of unavoidable dislocations in the country's psychic economy.
There was a lot of private grumbling, but no calls for action. As
recently as last month, the optimists were urging, "Let's wait and
see what happens. These things are cyclical. Men always wilt
in humid weather." But lately the atmosphere has begun to change.
More and more I hear ominous talk of a "man crisis" and allegations
that the government and the media have been covering it up.
At a party the other night I ran into a friend, a militant feminist,
who demanded to know what I thought should be done.
"Well, I'm skeptical about this crisis talk," I said. "Are you sure
it isn't just you and me and a few of our friends going through a
lean period?"
"Oh, come on!" said my friend scornfully. "That's just what
they want us to believe—that it's our problem. But I've been com-
paring notes, and everyone has the same story. 'I haven't slept with
anyone in six months.' 'I haven't had a serious love affair in two
years.' Something very fishy is going on."
172
By this time a few dozen women, attracted by the conversation,

had crowded around us. The two or three men at the party were
nowhere in sight. Women kept interrupting each other in their
eagerness to contribute their horror stories.
"The agencies these days are unbelievable. The last time out, all
I asked for was someone who would do half the housework. They
laughed in my face! One broker said to me, 'Haven't you heard,
honey? This is a time of lowered expectations.' "
"My cousin from Iowa went to one of those rip-off referral
services. They sent her to a married man, a fourteen-year-old kid,
and a few guys whose names they had obviously lifted from the
divorce announcements in the newspaper. My cousin could have
done that herself, for nothing."
"Divorce announcements! What a waste of time! Either the
man's wife kicked him out, for good reasons, or he left her for
someone else."
"Has anyone tried obituaries?"
"A cop I know tipped me off that this guy's wife had just died
in a car crash. But it was on the Upper East Side, and by the time I
got there, the line was around the block. And there was a sign that
said 'No Odd Women.' "
A depressed silence fell. Finally my friend said belligerently,
"Well, are we going to let them get away with this? Or are we
going to fight?"
"There's no easy short-range solution," said a soft-spoken
woman wearing an antinuclear button. "It's an environmental
problem. They die faster than we do, and pollution is making it
worse."
"Pollution has nothing to do with it," said my friend. "This
shortage has been deliberately contrived for political reasons."
"The Arabs are buying up our men," another woman suggested,
"so they can dictate our Middle East policy."
My friend rolled her eyes.
"That's xenophobic bullshit. The fact is, men are holding them-
selves off the market in retaliation for feminism. Look at the re-
"73
suits. We sit around worrying that it's our fault. We fight over
each other's husbands. We start having lower expectations."
"I agree," said a woman I recognized as a lesbian activist, "but
it's also a strategy for attacking gay rights. Already you hear the
propaganda—'What a shame, with all these men turning gay,
heterosexual women can't find mates.' Let me tell you, this isn't
just a straight women's issue. They're going to use it as an excuse
to crack down on all homosexuals, even though lesbians don't use
up any men at all."
The woman next to me was squirming and making irritated
noises. I had last seen her at a demonstration, carrying a sign that
said "Two, Three, Many Ayatollahs."
"You bourgeois feminists always miss the point," she said finally.
"It's not men who are behind this so-called shortage, it's the ruling
class. The 'man crisis' is nothing more and nothing less than the
newest method of population control for the poor. If there's a
shortage of men, who'll get first crack at them? Not poor or black
or Hispanic women, you can be sure of that."
"Well, one thing is clear," said the antinuclear woman. "We
have to start thinking in terms of alternatives. We can be sexually
self-sufficient—after all, we do have each other."
"That's all very nice and ecological," my friend grumbled, "but
it lets the men off the hook. And anyone who calls me a bourgeois
feminist had better smile."
"Anyway," said Two Three Many, smiling, "I think we can all
agree that there's only one solution. Short of revolution, that is.
First we have to nationalize the men. Then, if it's really necessary,
we can ration them."
"That'll be the day," my friend said. "Did you read about the
president's press conference? A woman reporter asked him if there
was anything to these rumors of a man crisis. He pooh-poohed
the whole thing. Said there was no man shortage a little feminine
charm wouldn't cure."
We groaned. I was getting angry. The discussion had convinced
me we had a real struggle on our hands.
174
"But the reporter kept pushing," my friend continued. "She

wanted to know, if the shortage got worse, how would the presi-
dent handle it? He told her that of course, his first concern was to
preserve the integrity of the American family. Therefore, in the
event of a genuine man crisis he would propose a remedy that had
already been tried and found workable by upstanding, God-fear-
ing, family-oriented people."
"What's that? "I said.
"Polygamy."
September 1979
'75
The Trial of Arline Hunt
i
JII ewel's is one of a cluster of singles bars on Union Street near
San Francisco's fashionable Pacific Heights district. The can-
opy over the door is stamped with the bar's motto, "Where
Incredible Friendships Begin." At the entrance a sign warns that
"blue jeans, T-shirts, collarless jerseys, tank shirts, transvestites,
etc." are "taboos." The doorman wears a suit. Inside, the middle-
brow, stained-glass-and-wood-paneling decor seems a perfunctory
attempt to disguise the stark functionalism of the place, which is
dominated by two bars, one sitdown and one standup, surrounded
by lots of space. Unlike Hal's Pub across the street, Jewel's serves
no food, not even coffee. A few small tables are tucked in the
corners like afterthoughts. A slick rock band plays but there is
rarely much room to dance. Jewel's attracts a mixed crowd—
salesmen, secretaries, students, some freaks, a few blacks, an occa-
sional young executive. The "taboos" are not strictly enforced
but most patrons dress neatly, the women in pantsuits, the men
All names, places, dates, and other identifying details have been changed
to protect the anonymity of participants in the case discussed.
I76
in neo-mod suits or sport jackets or turtlenecks and styled hair.

There are always more men and they set the tone, a compound
of sexual bravado and joking belligerence. On a busy night Jewel's
is so crowded that forced proximity becomes a kind of intimacy.
Men overflow into the street, cruising the women who walk by.
September 18, 1974—a Wednesday—was not a busy night. It
was raining and Jewel's was almost empty when two young
"women from the neighborhood came in and sat down at the bar.
Arline Hunt and her roommate and best friend, Bobbie Richards,
were both office workers in their early twenties. Arline was small
and slim and had dark hair and a puckish, wry little smile. She
wore a navy knit shirt with a collar and long sleeves, navy bell-bot-
toms, clunky shoes, a long silver chain and dangling earrings. From
a distance she gave an impression of sophistication; up close her
candid, friendly face suggested a college freshman. Bobbie, dressed
in jeans and a sweater, looked like a fair, even younger version of
Arline. They often dropped in for a few drinks at one or another
of the bars on Union Street. That night they ordered beers and
chatted with the bartender.
An hour or so later, a man walked in and sat next to Arline. Fred
Dumond, the thirty-two-year-old owner of an agency for tem-
porary typists, was a familiar figure on the dating bar strip. Fred
was well put together, if a bit packaged-looking—a shortish but
muscular body, hair styled in a shag cut, brown leather jacket over
turtleneck jersey—and he projected a kind of self-confidence some
would call glib. He had a reputation for being a ladies' man; the
word people used was "swinger" or sometimes, less kindly, "opera-
tor." He ordered a bottle of Schlitz and started a conversation
with Bobbie while Arline was in the ladies' room. When Arline
came back, Fred began to focus on her with a caustic banter that
made her laugh. He joked about the way people's profiles revealed
their characters—take Barbra Streisand's, for instance. He talked
about a car he wanted to buy and made sarcastic jokes about his
split with his wife. Arline asked him questions. They all drank
more beer. Fred kept bantering and Arline continued to be
177
amused. Around 10:30, Bobbie had to leave; she was expecting a

phone call from her boyfriend. Arline got up to go with her but
Bobbie told her to stay if she felt like it. Fred urged her to have
another drink; he would take her home. She decided to stay awhile
and told Bobbie, "I'll be home in half an hour."
It took Bobbie twenty minutes to walk back to the apartment

she shared with Arline and a third woman, Joanne Kovacs. They
were all close friends from high school in the semirural town of
Shelton, California. Their apartment was cheerful and unpreten-
tious, with Arline's charcoal drawings on the walls and Cosmo and
Mademoiselle on the coffeetable and beer in the refrigerator and a
cat named Minestrone and Bobbie's tropical fish tank.
Bobbie received her phone call and went to bed. She was not,
she recalls, at all worried about Arline. "It never occurred to me
that there might be anything wrong. Fred seemed like a nice guy,
friendly, even though I wasn't too impressed with him. He wasn't
really our type of person. He made me think of a high-school
greaser who had grown up and gotten neat clothes and a haircut.
I didn't get the feeling that Arline was interested in him or that he
was coming on strong to her. She was just enjoying a nice conver-
sation. She likes to draw people out, to joke around with people.
She is a very compassionate person and he was telling her about his
problems. Later she told me, 'He looked sad, I thought he was
lonely.' It was nothing unusual for her."
But then, around 3:00 a.m., the telephone rang again, waking
Bobbie up. It was Arline. "Bobbie," she said, "I have just been
raped." Bobbie heard a man's voice in the background yell, "That's
a hell of a thing to say!" She heard Arline reply, "That's a hell of a
thing to do!"
"I could tell she was really upset. I was really frightened—you
know how you always have visions of murder. I said, 'Arline,
where are you?' She said, 'Somewhere on Geary.' I asked her, 'Are
you okay?' She whispered, 'I don't know, I'm scared, Bobbie, I
178
think he's sick.' I know her, I knew she was petrified. I told her,
which was asinine, 'Try to find out where you are.' So she said to
him, 'What's this address?' and the phone went bang. From the
way the guy hung up I thought, If Arline gets out of there alive,
she's lucky. I woke Joanne and told her Arline was in trouble and
then I called the police. They said they'd do what they could, but
Geary was an awfully long road."
Bobbie and Joanne turned out the lights and sat by the kitchen
window with a flashlight. They thought Fred might take Arline
home; if they spotted him, they would call the police again. They
sat and waited.
Number 2211 Geary Boulevard is part of a huge, bleak beehive

of a luxury apartment complex owned by the Christian Science
Church. Fred Dumond lived on the twelfth floor in apartment 1209.
His next door neighbors, in apartment 1210, were John and Maureen
Hollis, a solidly middle-American married couple in their fifties,
the parents of grown children. Both of them worked as administra-
tors in the church.
On September 18 the Hollises went to bed, as usual, at 10:00
p.m. Around 2:30 they woke up to the sounds of a woman scream-
ing, which they later described as "terrifying" and "blood-
curdling." "It was screaming at the top of the voice saying, 'Help
me, please help me,' " said John Hollis. "I jumped out of bed," his
wife recalled. "The phone was on my side of the bed and I called
security and I said, 'I think there's a murder being committed.'"
At first, dazed and sleepy, she couldn't tell where the sounds were
coming from; they simply filled the room. But then she was sure:
they were coming from next door, through the common wall that
separated the bedroom of apartment 1209 from her own. She could
also hear bumping noises and a man's voice. "I couldn't stand it. I
went into the living room and I could still hear them in there. I
'was just terrified."
The screams continued—they went on, intermittently, for fif-
'79
teen or twenty minutes altogether—and when there was no re-

sponse from the building's security office, John Hollis made a
second urgent call. Then he got dressed and went outside to see if
there were lights in the windows of any of the apartments near his.
He stood in front of the building and peered upward. There was a
light in the bedroom of apartment 1209. He turned and saw a
young woman standing about ten feet away.
"I've been raped," she said.
He took her to the security office, where the guards finally
called the police.
When patrolman Martin Atkins and his partner, Robert Mitchell,
arrived at 2211 Geary, Arline was laughing hysterically. "It's a
nervous reaction," she apologized. "You can check with my psy-
chiatrist." The two policemen questioned her, called for another
radio car to take her to Pacific Hospital, and went up to 1209 to
arrest the suspect. Patrolman Atkins knocked several times. When
he got no response, the security man opened the door. They
walked past a bathroom to the left of the front door and a kitchen
on the right, into the living room, and then into the bedroom,
which was off to the left of the living room, right next to the
bathroom. Fred was lying in bed, apparently asleep, dressed in
jockey shorts. There was a splatter of what looked like bloodstains
on the sheet. Patrolman Mitchell shook him awake. Atkins told
him he was under arrest for rape and advised him of his rights.
Fred Dumond said, "You've got to be kidding."
Pacific Hospital boasts a model program for the treatment and

counseling of rape victims. The project, initiated by a psychiatric
nurse and a sociologist in 1972, has been an education for all con-
cerned. "The emergency staff used to be into the whole phenom-
enon of blaming the victim," says Joan Christiansen, assistant
nursing director in charge of emergency services. "She was either
drinking, or being seductive, or walking around at 3:00 a.m. Since
we've had the program there has been a total change in attitude.
180
Rape is a crisis. Different women react differently—some are

upset, some calm, some in a state of shock—but every victim's life
is disrupted in four ways: physically, emotionally, socially, sexu-
ally." At Pacific, nurses trained in counseling skills try to ease
these disruptions by helping the rape victim to express her feelings
and cope with specific problems, such as whether to press charges.
When Arline Hunt arrived in Pacific's emergency room, a nurse
met her and saw her through the hospital routine. After receiving
her consent, a gynecology resident examined her genitals for in-
juries, took smears for sperm and for a gonorrhea culture, gave her
a prophylactic shot of penicillin and morning-after pills. The nurse
told her to be sure and get a follow-up examination, since rape
victims often get vaginal and urinary infections.
At 5:00 a.m., a counselor came and listened to Arline's story.
Her report described Arline as "attractive, neatly dressed, co-
operative, coherent, responding, pretty verbal." After the inter-
view Arline tried to call her roommates, forgot her own telephone
number, and had to look it up. By the time the police took her
home she didn't feel like talking at all. Her period had started
earlier that day and she was bleeding heavily. She hadn't had a
chance to clean up at the hospital—the doctor had explained that
washing might destroy evidence—and she felt, as she put it later,
"filthy and disgusting." There was only one thing she wanted to
do: take a shower.
11
. . . A few years ago, I signed up with a computer dating

service. Dozens of men 1 knew absolutely nothing about had
my address and phone number. They came to my apartment
to pick me up, I -went to theirs for drinks or dinner. It didn't
occur to me till years later how dangerous this was. Anything
could have happened....
181
. . . We met in a bar. Like it or not, it's one of the few ways

to meet men in this city. I liked him; there weren't any
suspicious vibes. He did make a couple of jokes about my tits,
but I put it down to normal male obnoxiousness. He drove
me home and I let him in because he said he had to use the
bathroom....
. . . As I was unlocking the hall door, a man came up behind

me. I tried to slam the door on him, but couldn't. I was so
embarrassed about acting paranoid that I apologized. I could
have gone to a ground floor apartment and rung the bell or
yelled, but I was afraid of being hysterical and paranoid and
making a scene for nothing. So I just started walking casually
upstairs. He followed me and pulled a knife....
. . . While he was raping me I started getting the strangest

feeling that all this was somehow familiar. 1 realized that it
wasn't so different from times I'd fucked guys 1 didn't really
want to fuck because I couldn't think of a graceful way to
refuse.. ..
—FRAGMENTS FROM A CONSCIOUSNESS-RAISING SESSION ON RAPE
When Arline talks about September 18 her voice takes on a sar-

donic edge, as if she were describing not only her own horror but
the folly of the human condition.
"We stayed for a couple of hours after Bobbie left, maybe more.
I liked him. He was funny; he was making me laugh. And he
seemed to need someone to talk to. But I didn't want to go out
with him. He asked me and I said no, it's been nice talking to you
but this is it. I was trying to explain without being too blunt. He
wasn't my type. He was bragging about his money and that stuff
doesn't impress me.
"A friend of his came in and bought us a few beers. Then I said
182
I had to leave. I got my coat and umbrella and gave him my

pocketbook so I could put my coat on. We went outside and he
hailed a cab—I assumed he was going to take me home. I asked him
for my pocketbook. He said, 'Wait a minute.' We got in and he
gave the cabdriver his address. I said, 'Hey, I've got to go home,
I've got to work tomorrow,' and I told the driver to go to my
place. Fred said, 'No, we'll work this out later.' He gave his ad-
dress again, and I gave mine again. The cabdriver just kept going
to 2211 Geary. I thought well, this guy is being childish. He's
playing a little game. We got out in front of his building and I
said, 'Can I have it back now?' and he went inside, and I followed
him up in the elevator. I couldn't leave without my pocketbook—
it had my money, my keys, my identification, my Valium. Just
everything I needed. And he was just ignoring me. I figured he'll
have his fun, he'll have his little joke, and when he gets tired of it
he'll give me my pocketbook. I wasn't scared at all. It didn't occur
to me. I meet a lot of guys who play these dumb games and it's
annoying but they're not rapists. You can't go around suspecting
everybody.
"I followed him into his apartment and he slammed the door and
stood in front of it. I said, 'Okay, stop playing games, can I please
have my pocketbook so I can get a cab and go home?' And he said,
'You are not going anywhere.' I said, 'What do you mean?' All of
a sudden it was like he was a totally different person. The change
in him was incredible. He said, 'You are not going anywhere. Go
in the bedroom and take your clothes off.' I thought, I can't take
this seriously. I felt sick. Sick and weak. I said, 'I promise I won't
tell anybody about this if you'll just let me leave right now.'
"He pulled me into the bathroom and pushed me down on the
side of the tub and went to the toilet and urinated. I was disgusted.
I stood up and he pushed me down again. I picked up my umbrella
and tried to use it against him, but he just pulled it away from me
and started laughing. I still had my coat on. He pushed me into the
bedroom and made a phone call to some guy. I don't remember
what they said. Then I started to feel really faint. I didn't want to
183
lie down, or it would be all over. So I asked him for a glass of

water. He said, 'All right, but don't try anything.' He went into
the kitchen and I ran over to the phone and dialed the operator.
[The kitchen was between the bedroom and the door.] But he got
back too quickly and hung up the phone and said, 'Don't you do
that again.' And then he pushed me over to the bed.
"He pushed me down on the bed and I got back up again and he
pushed me down again. I started screaming at the top of my lungs
and he was saying, 'Shut up, they are making me do this.' And I
said 'Who?' and he said, 'I can't tell you, but if you go out of here,
they are going to get you anyway.' And so I started to scream
again because at this point I didn't know what was happening and I
didn't care. I just wanted somebody to hear me or something to
happen. Then he started pulling down my pants—they were
stretchy with an elastic waist—and I was righting him but finally
he pulled them off, and my underpants. I tried to push my fingers
in his neck, and I tried to get him in the groin but it didn't work.
He stuck his fingers into my throat so I couldn't scream.
"I saw there was no point resisting. I was afraid of what he
might do. I knew he was crazy. He had a violent temper, he kept
yelling at me to shut up. And he was strong. I was afraid he would
try to strangle me with my necklace or rip my earrings out, so I
took them off. I took my top off.
"I told him I had my period and he said, 'I don't care,' and
ripped out my Tampax and threw it on the floor. He pinned my
hands above my head. Then he got on top of me and had sexual
intercourse and stuck his finger in the back part of me.
"After he stopped, I got off the bed. I saw my Tampax on the
floor and I picked it up and said, 'You're disgusting!' and threw it
down again. He was still lying in bed. I dialed the operator and
said, 'There's been a rape at this number.' He grabbed the receiver
and slammed it down. Then I called Bobbie. I felt almost fearless at
that point.
"I got dressed and got my pocketbook and umbrella out of the
bathroom and ran out. He was yelling at me that I was stupid, I
184
The Trial of Artine Hunt
was the stupidest woman he'd ever seen. I ran down twelve flights
of stairs"
A woman who grows up in a big city learns early that her purse
is a third arm, never to be relinquished, least of all to a man she has
just met at a bar. Perhaps Arline Hunt had not been in San Fran-
cisco long enough to abandon the sheltered, upper-middle-class
mentality of Shelton for urban war-zone smarts. Perhaps, on the
other hand, something in her simply refused to live that way.
"I can't ask myself why did I do this or that. Why did I give
him my pocketbook, why didn't I scream in the cab. Because I
know I wouldn't have done anything different—I don't mean now,
knowing what I know, but then. I guess," she says—that sardonic
tone again—"I'm trusting, naive, dumb or whatever."
A friend and occasional lover, an advertising writer named
Gary, put it another way. "There's something almost Zen about
Arline: whatever will be will be, don't expect much and don't
demand anything, just go along with whatever's happening. Arline
never asks, 'What are we doing tonight?' She just comes in and sits
down and asks for a beer. I would say Arline has a deflated opinion
of herself, but she doesn't get bent out of shape. She likes to get
fucked up and have a good time."
When Arline went off to her parents' alma mater, a small college
in Kansas—ending up there because she hadn't felt like shopping
around for schools—she expected to hate it. But she met some
good people and had good times. She smoked grass, and took speed
to stay up all night writing her C papers, and experimented with
acid, which made her laugh and laugh, magnifying the laughter
to freaky proportions. After two years she quit and went home.
When she moved to San Franscisco in 1973 it was without any
great enthusiasm. She had been living with her parents for the last
year, working at dull clerical jobs, and she was anxious to get
away. The city itself did not excite her, but in the city she would
have her friends.
185
People, relationships—what else really mattered? She hated her

job as a clerk in a textbook company. She thought about finding
something she would really like doing, perhaps something con-
nected with art—she had been painting and drawing since child-
hood. Gary urged her to promote herself, to put together a
portfolio and try to get a job designing greeting cards or place
mats, but she never did.
So what it came down to was people and a good time. People
who were sincere and not out for what they could get. People, she
never failed to emphasize, who had an absurd sense of humor and
could make her laugh.
Not that Arline's life was all fun and games. For one thing, there
was Graham. Graham was Arline's first lover. They met when she
was sixteen; he was out of high school and engaged. She thought
he was an aggressive bastard and didn't understand what was driv-
ing her to sleep with him. She hated it: it was uncomfortable, she
was just doing it to please him, and she felt guilty besides.
All through college Arline went out with lots of men, but she
didn't have sex again until the summer she returned to Shelton. She
fell in love with a young Englishman and agreed to marry him, but
by the following winter she had changed her mind. Shortly after-
ward she ran into Graham at a party. He was married by then,
with two kids.
"I still thought he was obnoxious," she recalls. "I don't know
why I went out with him, but I did—I had to give a fake name to
my parents. I got used to him. He was always the hard-ass guy, but
in another way he wasn't, not really."
The relationship turned into an intense love affair. For the first
time Arline really enjoyed sex. She was also miserable, crazy, de-
pendent. They talked about running away and living together;
then Graham began avoiding her. When she confronted him, he
admitted that he couldn't leave his children. After that there were
many goodbyes that didn't stick. Once, soon after Arline had
186
moved to San Francisco, he came down for a disastrous visit. "I

had said I would see him, but no sex. He completely forced it; it
was scary. He was always too aggressive and demanding. My
roommates didn't approve of him coming. I kept telling them not
to worry, nothing was going to happen. So when he forced me I
couldn't scream. I didn't want anyone to know. I just cried." As
usual she forgave him and the affair dragged on.
It was around the same time that the trouble at work began. The
company provided a small lunchroom where most of the em-
ployees—the office staff and the men who worked in the shipping
department—ate at noon. One day Arline was sitting at a table
playing cards with a group of people when she saw one of the
shippers staring at her. "I was frozen, I couldn't look up. I had to
stop playing. My body was uncontrollable. After that I tried sit-
ting with my back to them. It just kept growing, a horrible feeling
of anxiety. I was afraid to light a cigarette 'cause my hands were
shaking. I started eating in the room I work in but it's glassed in
and the shippers work outside and they would just naturally look
in. Before, there were always times when I would be nervous but
it never affected me in such a physical way. Maybe part of it is
living in the city."
In August 1974, Arline began seeing a psychiatrist. Along with
once-a-week therapy he prescribed Valium. At the time of her
encounter with Fred Dumond she was taking five milligrams once
or twice a day.
111
On September 19, at nine in the morning, Arline went to court to

swear out her complaint. Bobbie went with her. They hadn't slept.
Arline was still in shock and spacey from pills, and she and Bobbie
had noticed for the first time a bruise on each of her wrists. Try-
ing to answer questions, she broke down. James Delaney, the as-
sistant district attorney who would be handling her case, told her,
187
to her relief—she was afraid of seeing Fred in court—that she

didn't need to hang around for the arraignment. At home she kept
trying to erase the night, to pretend it never happened. "It was too
weird, too sickening. I couldn't remember things . . . even now it's
almost like it happened to someone else. But it was there."
Arline's parents were on vacation; when they came back the
following week she called her mother. Arline says she never really
considered not telling her parents, though she was apprehensive
about their reaction. Her father, a biologist, and her mother, a
housewife constantly involved with community projects, were
high-energy achievers and Arline felt they disapproved of her for
not using her abilities. They were also conservative and religious
and emotionally reserved, all of which made communication diffi-
cult. Her mother would have none of Arline's attempt to explain
that in her world Fred's behavior was not so extraordinary as to
arouse suspicion. "How could you not know something was hap-
pening? Why didn't you tell the taxi driver this man had your
pocketbook?" It was Arline's first exposure to an attitude that
would soon become familiar.
On October 10 Arline had to appear for a probable cause hear-
ing, at which a judge would decide whether the prosecution had
enough of a case to present to a grand jury. The decision went in
Arline's favor, but the hearing was traumatic. Fred Dumond at-
tended but did not testify. He watched impassively as his lawyer,
Burton C. Scott of the prestigious local firm of Frazier, Frazier and
Santini, a man with a reputation for toughness and a glass eye that
made his stare frightening, introduced Arline to the art of cross-
examination.
"He was trying to catch me on every detail, twisting everything
I said. In a situation like that you're not thinking, Tm gonna get
raped, I'd better plan my strategy for the trial.' You're just think-
ing about wanting to get out of there. Times and sequences aren't
on your mind.
"I was freaking out, one of the policemen was telling me to calm
down. The lawyer brought up my psychiatrist and my pills. I may
188
have my problems, but I'm not crazy. Then he asked me how I

knew I was penetrated. I said, 'I could feel it.' He said, 'Oh, so
you've felt that sensation before.' The D.A. objected to that one."
Bobbie also testified briefly. "It was brutal. The defense lawyer
was trying to confuse Arline, make her feel stupid. He scared her
to death. And all these old men up for other cases were standing
around, watching and laughing, and Arline having to say, 'Well, if
you want to be explicit, he put his penis inside me.' "
Arline considered dropping the case, but decided she had to go
through with it: "I couldn't see letting him get away with it. I
couldn't see just letting a sick person like that out on the street."
She felt a rage at the thought that Dumond might get off. Her
friends, trying to prepare her for the worst, were warning her
how difficult it was to get rape convictions. Bobbie had seen the
TV documentary A Case of Rape: the rapist had been acquitted
and the victim and her husband had ended up getting divorced.
"At first I couldn't face that possibility. The unfairness of it. I
didn't know what I'd do. After a while I resigned myself. I knew
the way things were run, he'd probably be acquitted. I already felt
defeated." Gary told her she ought to look on the whole thing as a
learning experience about the real world.
The case went to the grand jury, and Arline had to tell her story
once more. Months passed; the trial was postponed twice, aggra-
vating her anxiety and depression. She got scared walking around
the neighborhood. She lost weight. Her psychiatrist doubled her
dose of Valium. The atmosphere in the apartment was funereal;
nothing much was funny these days. At this low point she decided
to call her brother in Los Angeles and tell him the whole story.
He hadn't heard it before. Arline's parents had, after the initial
shock, been sympathetic and concerned; they supported, even ad-
mired, her decision to prosecute. Yet they were obviously still
touchy about the subject, for they hadn't said a word to anyone,
including their three other children. Arline did not have much
contact with her only brother, who was older and married, but she
identified with him because he too had refused to do the expected:
189
after going to graduate school in physics, he had decided he didn't

like it and was driving a school bus. His wife was a student and a
feminist. At her suggestion Arline got in touch with the Women's
Law Commune in Berkeley; a lawyer there promised to check on
the DA's investigation to make sure all leads were being pursued.
In February, Arline met a computer programmer named David
at a bar called Storey's, and they started going out. "My feelings
about sex hadn't changed," she says. "I knew Dumond was really
sick, that all men weren't like that. One thing I was secure in was
his sickness." But she was upset when David made skeptical noises
about her story, when he too wanted to know, come on now,
really, why did you go up there in the first place....
Three days before the trial, Arline and Bobbie had dinner at
Hal's Pub. Bobbie, facing the door, saw two men walk in. "Ar-
line," she said, "put your head down on the table and don't look
up. Dumond and his friend are here." They both put their heads
down. When they looked up again a few minutes later, the men
were gone.
IV
Q: Would you describe your clothing, Miss Hunt? You de-

scribe having underpants on under your slacks. Did you
have anything on underneath your sweater?
A: No.
Q: You had no bra on, did you?
A: No.
Q: Have you ever been raped before?

A: No, I haven't.
Q: Did you ever scratch this man?

A: I tried to put my finger in his throat.
190
Q: Did you ever scratch this man?

A: No.
Q: How long were you fighting him?
A: I don't know.
0- According to your testimony there was a struggle the
whole time, was there not?
A: My fingernails are not long enough to be able to harm
anybody.
Q: Did you ever bite him?
A: No.
Q: Did you ever land a kick?
A: Did I what?
Q: Did you land a kick, did you ever really kick him?
A: I tried to.
Q: And during this whole time you were not able to inflict
an injury on him, is that so?
A: He was stronger than I was, and I couldn't.
Q: During this struggle, Miss Hunt, were you injured? Did
y ou get any cuts—
A: I got bruises on my wrists where he held them above my
head.
0-' Did you show them to the doctor at the hospital?
A: No, because I didn't notice them until the next day,
and other people did notice them.
Q: Did you see him put his penis inside?

A: No, I didn't see it.
Q: And didn't you tell the district attorney when he asked
you on direct examination that you don't think that he
had a climax?
(Delaney objects and is overruled.)
A: I didn't know. I didn't say I didn't think.
Q: All right. You didn't know. So would it be fair to say
you didn't feel what you might have felt was a climax,
would that be a fair statement?
191
AMERICAN GIRLS W A N T EVERYTHING
A: I don't know what he had. I don't know if he had a climax

or not.
Q: When were you finally able to get out of that apartment?

A: I don't know the time.
Q: What time did you call your girlfriend Bobbie from the
apartment?
A: I told you I thought it was probably around 3:00, 2:30 or
3: oo, something like that.
0-' Would it refresh your memory if I told you that you
said earlier that it 'was somewhere around 3:30?
A: I don't know the exact time. I told you that before.
Q: If it was somewhere around 3:00, is it your testimony
from the time you got there at about 1:00 until about
3:00, you were on the bed struggling, two hours?
A: I don't know how long it was.
Q: How long did it take him to urinate in the bathroom?
A: Do you think I had a watch on and I was looking at it?
(Delaney objects and is overruled.)
Q: Was it more than five minutes?
A: I don't know.
(Before the judge in a closed hearing):

Q: Have you ever tried to injure yourself?
A: No, I haven't.
0-'Have you ever tried to commit suicide?
A: No, I haven't.
Q: You hesitated. Is there any reason why you hesitated,
Miss Hunt?
A: Only because I think this is a little bit personal and doesn't
pertain to what's going on.
—EXCERPTS FROM THE CROSS-EXAMINATION OF ARLINE HUNT
Jim Delaney knew that People v. Dumond would be a stinker.

Arline Hunt had gone to a man's apartment from a dating bar, and
192
her pocketbook story (witnessed only by an anonymous cabbie

the police had been unable to find) was hard to believe if you
didn't know her. It also helped to know that rapes originating in
these dating bars were becoming more and more common, becom-
ing a pattern. Women were starting to be more aware of the risks,
but there would always be people who took chances; a recent rash
of hitchhiking murders in the Bay Area had not stopped thousands
of women from hitchhiking.
It was also damaging that Arline had taken off her shirt and
jewelry—though Delaney's wife had told him that having an ear-
ring torn out was one of her own big fears ever since it had
happened to a friend of hers taking off a sweater. Finally, the
doctor who examined Arline hadn't found any sperm, nor had he
noticed her bruises, which weren't, in any case, impressive injuries.
Still, Delaney wasn't entirely pessimistic. The Hollises had
agreed to testify. John was actually flying in from Chicago, where
he was working on a temporary assignment. Maureen was not
happy to be living alone at 2211 Geary, with Fred Dumond still
next door; she worried that if she testified he might try to get even
in some way. But she felt it was her duty to come forward. Besides
being ultrarespectable, they were simply nice, obviously morally
concerned people—ideal witnesses from a credibility standpoint.
Delaney hoped they could convince a jury that Arline had been
screaming for twenty minutes in the next apartment.
The trial of Fred Louis Dumond for rape, including a lesser
charge of assault with intent to rape, began on March 3, 1975.
The presiding judge was Andrew P. Blackburn, a highly respected
jurist with a reputation—even among liberals who disliked his hard-
nosed law-and-order stance—for meticulous fairness. Philip Pa-
cetta, another attorney from Frazier, Frazier, had taken over the
defense from Scott, who had a prior commitment. The three-
woman nine-man jury was predominantly white, middle-aged, and
working-class.
Arline and Bobbie arrived together. They were, according to
Gary, "a mess—emaciated, untogether, out of control of the situa-
tion." For the fourth time Arline faced having to re-create the
193
details of September 18. "Usually I could just not think about it.
Going through it all, again and again—that was the worst part." At
the grand jury hearing a jury member had said, "Just tell the
story—you don't have to relive it."
Delaney put Arline on the stand first. Her direct testimony went
quickly; most of the day and part of the next were devoted to
cross-examination. Pacetta was a younger, less formidable man
than Scott, not so inclined to verbal brutality, and Judge Black-
burn kept him more or less under control. The prosecution won a
crucial point when Blackburn refused to admit Arline's psychi-
atrist and tranquilizers as evidence of mental instability; after
allowing Pacetta to pursue the question voir dire (without the jury
present), he ruled that it was prejudicial and irrelevant: "I find
that no issue arises by reason of the young lady drinking beer and
taking Valium at the same time such as would affect her memory
or her ability to recall events or would cause her to imagine things
that never took place. . . . I find in the second place that the lady
has never had any history of imagining things." Still, the interroga-
tion was an ordeal.
"I felt the lawyer was trying to make a fool of me. He wanted
exact times, situations, positions, over and over again. I would
forget things and he would trip me up. He would bring up dis-
crepancies from the minutes of the probable cause hearing. Most
of these things were irrelevant little details, but to the jury it
would look like I was lying. There was a rip in my pants; I hadn't
noticed it till after probable cause. The lawyer tried to make me
say I'd testified that they weren't ripped. I just hadn't noticed it.
He kept trying to make me admit to lies: 'Isn't it a fact that you
were kissing?' He even brought up seeing Dumond in Hal's Pub.
As if we were there to meet him. As if we had a date."
Bobbie sat in the courtroom, living Arline's misery. Two old
men sitting next to her were snoring. She could hear others making
cracks about Arline, snickering when she had to talk about her
period, agreeing that, boy, she had sure screwed up her story now.
"She was on trial," Bobbie said flatly. "If you hated the guy and
194
wanted to murder him, you wouldn't want to go through it—

except for principle. She would get confused. What time? What
time? It was six months ago and there were obviously things she
wanted to block out. She was on the verge of breaking down half
the time."
Arline was finally dismissed and the remaining prosecution wit-
nesses took up the rest of the second day. Delaney had some small
successes: He got Officer Atkins to testify that he had noticed
Arline's bruises and mentioned them to Delaney at the September
19 complaint hearing; and he established that the hospital's nega-
tive sperm report was inconclusive. The examining physician
testified that menstrual blood could flush out sperm and that be-
cause of Arline's flow he had been unable to see whether seminal
fluid was present or not. He had simply taken his sample from the
area where it was most likely to accumulate. Delaney asked if his
findings meant that Arline's vagina contained no sperm. He an-
swered, "No. . . . I can only say that in the sample I took, there
was no sperm."
But the crucial witness was John Hollis. He recounted what he
had heard and done and made as good an appearance as Delaney
had hoped. On cross-examination, however, there was a brief
skirmish that would prove significant:
Q: And isn't it a fact, Mr. Hollis, that on this particular night you
told the security guard that you thought the noises were
coming from the eleventh floor?
A: No, I don't recall that I said they were coming from the
eleventh floor. I said since sound does travel, that was the rea-
son I went out to see if there was any question, but the light
was on in the room next to my bedroom.
The following morning, the defense began by calling the super-

visor of security for 2211 Geary Boulevard. Pacetta had him read
into the record an entry from the security office log for September
19: "2:35 . . . received call from tenant in apartment 1210 complain-
195
ing about a loud noise and screaming coming from the 11 th floor
(he thinks)." Next, Fred's friend took the stand and testified that
at Jewel's "Arline and Fred were talking, and all of a sudden she
put her arms around him and pulled him close to her and whis-
pered something." The third witness was Fred Dumond.
There was some disagreement among courtroom staffers, jour-
nalists, and other observers about Dumond's effectiveness as a wit-
ness. Some were impressed with his suntanned good looks, his
sophisticated, expensive suit, and his calm confidence. Others
thought he was a bit too smooth and sure of himself, that he was,
as one veteran trial watcher put it, "a real con man." There were
rumors about Dumond's behavior with women he had interviewed
at his agency. He had two felony convictions—one for receiving
stolen TV sets, the other for stealing from an employer—that
Delaney was permitted to introduce for the purpose of impeaching
his credibility. Even his lawyer didn't like him; Fred had been
upset about Pacetta's taking over his case and relations between
them had been strained. Months after the trial, Pacetta would
comment that Fred had presented himself as "shallow" and "a
swinger." In fact, Pacetta argued, it was just this image that made
him credible: Why would a ladies' man like him have to rape
anybody?
Fred's account contradicted Arline's in nearly every particular.
She said he hadn't bought any of her drinks; he claimed he had. He
swore that she never gave him her pocketbook. They were not
arguing in the cab but kissing. At his apartment they petted on the
couch in the living room, then moved to the bedroom, kissing,
fondling, undressing. At one point Arline went to the bathroom,
and he heard the toilet flush. After she came back, he put his
fingers in her vagina and noticed that she was menstruating. (Ob-
viously what she had flushed was her Tampax.) He was disgusted
and asked her to leave. She got angry and upset. They argued;
there was some "fairly loud" but not "excessively loud" yelling.
Arline called her roommate and accused him of rape. He got furi-
ous and hung up the phone. He said, "Get the hell out of my
house—you are a nut." She yelled at him some more, then left.
196
Delaney's cross-examination worried one point and another, but

he was unable to ruffle Dumond's cool. He began their last ex-
change by asking, "Did you hear her scream at all?"
A: Scream, no.
Q: Did you hear anybody scream?
A: I don't recall hearing—hearing screaming at that point.
Q: Arline never screamed?
A: She was talking in a rather hysterical voice, but she wasn't
screaming, no.
Q: Did you hear her scream "'Help me, help me, God help
me?"
A: No. I didn't. She never said that.
Dumond stepped down and, after a last minor witness, the de-
fense rested.
On the fourth and last day of the trial Delaney introduced a
rebuttal witness: Maureen Hollis. She testified that when she first
awakened, she had thought the sounds might be coming from the
eleventh floor. But after a few minutes, she had been quite certain
they came from next door. She described them as "bloodcurdling
screams and shrieks."
Then came closing arguments. In his summation Pacetta used
the phrase "dating bar" fourteen times. He reminded the jury that
Arline had been having a good time at Jewel's; that she had not
protested to the cabdriver or anyone else that Fred had her pock-
etbook; that he had not forced her to go home with him; that she
had taken off some of her clothing; that she had not seen the
defendant penetrate or felt him climax; that no sperm was found;
that the security report specified the eleventh floor. He suggested
that Arline's testimony was confused and inconsistent, that she had
spent more time at Fred's than her story accounted for. If Fred
was going to rape her, Pacetta wondered, would he take her to his
own home? Let her call her roommate? Bring her a glass of water?
Go to sleep afterward? In short, did this attractive, well-dressed
young man look like a rapist?
197
Delaney argued that Arline had no reason to be afraid of Fred

before he slammed the door; that she had taken off her things out
of fear; that she didn't have to see the penetration to know it
happened; that she wasn't concentrating on the defendant's climax
but on her own anguish; that the sperm report wasn't definitive;
that no one had kept track of time that night; that it could have
been almost 2:00 before they got to the apartment; that no one, let
alone a terrified woman who had just been raped, could remember
everything; did the jurors recall every detail of, say, their last
accident? On the contrary, it was the defendant's memory ("we
did this for fifteen minutes, this for twenty") that was too good to
be believed. Why, if Arline was lying, would she make up some-
thing as far out as the story about watching him urinate? Or admit
taking off clothes? In fact, why would she subject herself to all
this—a complaint session, a probable cause hearing, and now this
trial? Who was more believable: this woman who had nothing to
gain except the mortification of testifying about these indignities
committed upon her, or this man with a criminal record, on trial
for rape—this man who professed to be so repelled by Arline's
bleeding, yet went to sleep on the bloodstained sheets? But all this
aside, one thing could not be explained away: the screaming the
Hollises had heard. Not mere loud argument, but "terrifying,"
"bloodcurdling" screams.
One argument Delaney didn't make had the courtroom habitues
shaking their heads. Was it likely that this man-of-the-world, who
had so many women falling all over him that he didn't have to rape
anybody, would get so upset about a girl having her period?
Whatever had happened up there, that, they agreed, sounded far-
fetched. Later, Phil Pacetta would argue, with the characteristic
ironic undertone that made his out-of-court defenses of Dumond
sound more like insults, "He had wined her and dined her, invest-
ing all that time in a potential score—and at the last minute he
finds out she's bleeding. Why should he get involved with a
woman who's bleeding all over the place? He felt that she was out
to rape him\"
198
At Delaney's suggestion Arline stayed away from the courtroom

the day Fred testified. "I'm glad I wasn't there. I would have
freaked out when he told that story. When I heard what it was, I
thought, he's got to be kidding. I was really happy because I
figured he didn't have much of a chance. I called my mother and
asked her if she would believe what he said. She said, 'I'm preju-
diced but it sounds fishy to me.'
"I couldn't tell much about the jury. There was one older
woman who kept giving me scrutinizing looks; I didn't know if
she was just concentrating or what. But I honestly thought that
they couldn't believe his story."
The jury went out at 3:00 p.m. and deliberated for four hours.
Since the court session was over for the day, the judge ordered the
verdict sealed. In the morning the foreman announced it: "Not
guilty." Judge Blackburn told the jurors to be seated and asked the
clerk to poll them. This was a routine procedure on a guilty ver-
dict; it was rarely done for an acquittal. Something was up. One
by one, the jurors confirmed their verdict: not guilty. Judge
Blackburn directed the clerk to affirm the verdict. Then, with
barely controlled anger, he began:
"It is almost impossible in this county to get a conviction of
rape. . . . I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion, whether it is
the permissive society or what we are living in, at least as far as
jurors are concerned, rape is no longer a crime. And when we have
a trial, instead of trying the defendant, you make the poor girl the
defendant. . . . You have seen television programs, girls don't re-
port rape for the humiliation involved in it, the degradation they
go through in the trial. . . . They are made the defendant, and they
walk out of this courtroom with one thought in their mind: in our
courts there is no justice for the victims of rape. And I can't say
that I disagree with them.
"How many countless rapes are committed and never hit the
courtroom because of the way jurors treat rape victims. I don't
know, but it has gotten to be almost a national scandal. . . . And if
you jurors believe the girls who are victims of this kind of violent
199
sexual assault aren't entitled to the protection of our juries, just

like the defendants are, then it is a sick society.
"Now I am coming to this case. You had two responsible citi-
zens of this state, irreproachable of integrity and principles, who
testified before you that they heard screaming there for twenty
minutes. Can it be, ladies and gentlemen, that you believed the
screaming, terrified girl, with bloodcurdling calls, consented to the
advances of this defendant? Can you disbelieve those people? And
can you believe a defendant who stood with two convictions, one
that he was a thief and the other that he dealt in stolen property?
. . . Believe him and disbelieve them? Well, that's what you have
done.. ..
"I wish I could say to you that you performed your jury service
in the highest traditions of this state, and I can't."
He ended by summarily dismissing them from jury duty for the
rest of their terms.
The day the verdict came down, Arline was at work. When she
didn't hear from Jim Delaney, she called his office. She had to pry
the information out of him. Did they come to a decision? Yes.
What was it? Well, it's gonna be in the paper tomorrow. What
does that mean? What do you think? Not guilty. Arline began to
cry. Then Delaney told her about the judge's speech.
Blackburn's rebuke transformed People v. Dumond from a rou-
tine rape case-—a "swearing contest," in courthouse parlance—to a
controversial one. Local feminists were delighted; most defense
lawyers were outraged at what they regarded as an attempt to
intimidate juries. An exception was Philip Pacetta, who not only
defended Blackburn's right to speak but when asked if he agreed
with the judge's comments said: "The record speaks for itself."
The jurors themselves were, for the most part, disturbed and
angry. One woman juror called Blackburn's action "a rape of the
200
jury system" and wrote a letter of protest to the chief justice of

the California Supreme Court demanding that Blackburn apologize
to the jurors in open court. A male juror declared, "To be blunt, I
think the judge is nuts."
To Arline, Blackburn's statement was a boost. It showed that at
least she wasn't a joke, soothed her fears that people were laughing
at her and thinking she was a liar. It made her feel a little less
defeated. Then she read an article in an underground paper that
quoted one juror as saying, "I thought just the way the others did.
She was as guilty as he was. If she hangs around a place like that,
she deserves everything she gets." The casual cruelty of the
remark—"someone's torn ego using me as a punching bag"—was
only part of what outraged her. If she "deserved what she got,"
that implied that she "got" something, which meant that this juror
hadn't believed Fred Dumond when he denied having sex with
her: "Some fine upstanding citizen, to condone perjury and then
sit in judgment of me!" That perception, as the comments of other
jurors would confirm, was essentially accurate. Whatever one
thought of the propriety of Blackburn's outburst (or, for that
matter, of the verdict itself), his target was well chosen.
In some ways Arline Hunt had been more fortunate than most
rape complainants. The police had treated her considerately—
although, according to a source at the courthouse, they were pri-
vately incredulous at her story—and so had Pacific Hospital. The
Women's Law Commune agreed that the D.A. had conducted an
excellent investigation. Opinions on Delaney's role in court were
mixed. "Delaney is a type," said a local journalist. "A San Fran-
cisco old boy, hale and hearty. I wouldn't call him any kind of
hero. I doubt that he really cared about the case before Blackburn
made it into a big thing." Gary complained that Delaney smiled
too much. "He wasn't as distressed as he should have been. I didn't
feel that Arline had a good relationship with him. She was a docile
client and he was none too aggressive." Delaney himself worried
that he was not aggressive enough in cross-examining Fred. "He
was such a smooth bastard: I was in a dilemma as to whether there
201
was anything I could do to break his story or whether badgering

would just solidify it." But there were other people—Arline was
one—who felt he had tried very hard to win.
The trial itself, unpleasant as it was, could have been much
worse. Arline was not, for example, subjected to an inquisition on
her sexual experience. And another judge might have allowed the
defense to bring up her psychiatric treatment. Except for Pacetta's
emphasis on dating bars and bralessness, the trial had probably
been as fair as the adversary system—with its built-in potential for
harassing witnesses and confusing the jury with side issues—
allowed.
The basic problem was that the jury reflected the nature of the
jury pool, which in San Francisco as elsewhere is mainly drawn
from the most conservative segment of the population. Transients
are grossly underrepresented, young people and the conspicuously
educated almost always challenged. Moreover, most states make it
easier for women to be excused from serving, though the effect of
such policies on rape trials is not as obvious as it might appear: not
only are most female jurors conservative, elderly housewives who
tend to disapprove of sexually active single women, but many
women seem to feel a defensive need to blame the rape victim in
order to reassure themselves that "it could never happen to me." In
any case, the three women on Fred Dumond's jury—all of them
over fifty—were as actively in favor of acquittal as most of the
men. During a recess a court official overheard two of the women
jurors talking in the corridor; they agreed that by going to a bar
and not wearing a bra, Arline Hunt was "asking for it." And one
woman, acting as a technical adviser to the male jurors, assured
them that it was impossible to remove a Tampax by force—a
patent absurdity.
What was decisive, for the majority of jurors, was simply that
Arline had gone to a man's apartment—no one took the pocket-
book story seriously—and was therefore fair game. They had sur-
prisingly little trouble rationalizing the screams: "You hear
screaming—maybe it's serious, maybe not. She was half in the bag.
202
Sometimes you entice a person and then get scared." ''The scream-
ing didn't carry any weight—I think the words were put in [the
witness's] mouth. There weren't any marks on her." "Women
scream for many reasons." "It came from the eleventh floor." "It
was overdramatized, there wasn't enough evidence. No blood in
the hall or anything like that." Few of the jurors seemed to care
much whether Fred's story was true and some were explicitly
skeptical; the man who had called Blackburn "nuts" said flatly,
"He didn't impress me. I couldn't say I believed him any more
than I believed her."
Two of the men fought for conviction, but Donald Peterson, a
thirty-two-year-old laborer and bartender, was the only juror who
would admit to doubts about the verdict. "I was for conviction,"
Peterson said, "but it looked to me like we weren't going to con-
vict. And there was a little doubt—no physical evidence, gaps in
time, the stuff about the Tampax. Assault I could have gone with,
but to put a guy away for fifteen years for rape ... I felt sorry for
her. She ran into a dude who wouldn't take no for an answer. The
women were impressed with him but to me he looked like a real
rat bastard. I meet a lot of guys like him where I work, and if he
took out my sister, I'd be waiting up. Yeah, I believe she really
screamed. But that kid would have had to have her arms broken
before they would believe her. Except for one guy, who was try-
ing to tell them, 'You're trying the girl, not the guy.' I had second
thoughts then. I still do."
Shortly after the trial, Fred Dumond dissolved his business, was
evicted from his apartment—probably at the instigation of the
Hollises—and disappeared. At Arline Hunt's apartment something
like normality began to reassert itself. Then in early June, Arline
quit her job. She had been feeling much better—or so Bobbie had
thought—but now her depression deepened again. She felt that a
man she was seeing was putting her off, that a girlfriend was
rejecting her. One day she was talking on the phone to her married
sister in Michigan and began to feel that her sister wanted to hang
up. When she got off the phone she was crying. While Bobbie was
203
in the bathroom, she took every pill in the house, then told Bobbie
what she had done. She spent a month in the private psychiatric
hospital with which her doctor is affiliated. After her release, she
began looking for another job.
1915
204
Abortion: Is a \Vbman a Person?
I f propaganda is as central to politics as I think, the opponents

of legal abortion have been winning a psychological victory
as important as their tangible gains. Two years ago, abortion was
almost always discussed in feminist terms—as a political issue affect-
ing the condition of women. Since then, the grounds of the debate
have shifted drastically; more and more, the right-to-life movement
has succeeded in getting the public and the media to see abortion
as an abstract moral issue having solely to do with the rights of
fetuses. Though every poll shows that most Americans favor
legal abortion, it is evident that many are confused and disarmed,
if not convinced, by the antiabortionists' absolutist fervor. No one
likes to be accused of advocating murder. Yet the "pro-life"
position is based on a crucial fallacy—that the question of fetal
rights can be isolated from the question of women's rights.
Recently, Garry Wills wrote a piece suggesting that liberals
who defended the snail-darter's right to life and opposed the kill-
ing in Vietnam should condemn abortion as murder. I found this
This piece combines two columns written for The Village Voice.
205
notion breathtaking in its illogic. Environmentalists were protest-

ing not the "murder" of individual snail-darters but the practice of
wiping out entire species of organisms to gain a short-term eco-
nomic benefit; most people who opposed our involvement in Viet-
nam did so because they believed the United States was waging an
aggressive, unjust and/or futile war. There was no inconsistency in
holding such positions and defending abortion on the grounds that
women's welfare should take precedence over fetal life. To claim
that three very different issues, each with its own complicated
social and political context, all came down to a simple matter of
preserving life was to say that all killing was alike and equally
indefensible regardless of circumstance. (Why, I wondered, had
Wills left out the destruction of hapless bacteria by penicillin?)
But aside from the general mushiness of the argument, I was struck
by one peculiar fact: Wills had written an entire article about
abortion without mentioning women, feminism, sex, or pregnancy.
Since the feminist argument for abortion rights still carries a
good deal of moral and political weight, part of the antiabortion-
ists' strategy has been to make an end run around it. Although the
mainstream of the right-to-life movement is openly opposed to
women's liberation, it has chosen to make its stand on the abstract
"pro-life" argument. That emphasis has been reinforced by the
movement's tiny left wing, which opposes abortion on pacifist
grounds and includes women who call themselves "feminists for
life." A minority among pacifists as well as right-to-lifers, this
group nevertheless serves the crucial function of making opposi-
tion to abortion respectable among liberals, leftists, and moderates
disinclined to sympathize with a right-wing crusade. Unlike most
right-to-lifers, who are vulnerable to charges that their reverence
for life does not apply to convicted criminals or Vietnamese peas-
ants, antiabortion leftists are in a position to appeal to social
conscience—to make analogies, however facile, between abortion
and napalm. They disclaim any opposition to women's rights, in-
sisting rather that the end cannot justify the means—murder is
murder.
206
Abortion: Is a Woman a Person?
Well, isn't there a genuine moral issue here? If abortion is mur-

der, how can a woman have the right to it? Feminists are often
accused of evading this question, but in fact an evasion is built into
the question itself. Most people understand "Is abortion murder?"
to mean "Is the fetus a person?" But fetal personhood is ultimately
as inarguable as the existence of God; either you believe in it or
you don't. Putting the debate on this plane inevitably leads to the
nonconclusion that it is a matter of one person's conscience against
another's. From there, the discussion generally moves on to
broader issues: whether laws defining the fetus as a person violate
the separation of church and state; or conversely, whether people
who believe an act is murder have not only the right but the
obligation to prevent it. Unfortunately, amid all this lofty
philosophizing, the concrete, human reality of the pregnant
woman's dilemma gets lost, and with it an essential ingredient of
the moral question.
Murder, as commonly defined, is killing that is unjustified, will-
ful, and malicious. Most people would agree, for example, that
killing in defense of one's life or safety is not murder. And most
would accept a concept of self-defense that includes the right to
fight a defensive war or revolution in behalf of one's independence
or freedom from oppression. Even pacifists make moral distinc-
tions between defensive violence, however deplorable, and mur-
der; no thoughtful pacifist would equate Hitler's murder of the
Jews with the Warsaw Ghetto rebels' killing of Nazi troops. The
point is that it's impossible to judge whether an act is murder
simply by looking at the act, without considering its context.
Which is to say that it makes no sense to discuss whether abortion
is murder without considering why women have abortions and
what it means to force women to bear children they don't want.
We live in a society that defines child rearing as the mother's
job; a society in which most women are denied access to work that
pays enough to support a family, child-care facilities they can
afford, or any relief from the constant, daily burdens of mother-
hood; a society that forces mothers into dependence on marriage
207
or welfare and often into permanent poverty; a society that is

actively hostile to women's ambitions for a better life. Under these
conditions the unwillingly pregnant woman faces a terrifying loss
of control over her fate. Even if she chooses to give up the baby,
unwanted pregnancy is in itself a serious trauma. There is no way
a pregnant woman can passively let the fetus live; she must create
and nurture it with her own body, in a symbiosis that is often
difficult, sometimes dangerous, always uniquely intimate. However
gratifying pregnancy may be to a woman who desires it, for the
unwilling it is literally an invasion—the closest analogy is to the
difference between lovemaking and rape. Nor is there such a thing
as foolproof contraception. Clearly, abortion is by normal stan-
dards an act of self-defense.
Whenever I make this case to a right-to-lifer, the exchange that
follows is always substantially the same:
RTL: If a woman chooses to have sex, she should be willing to take

the consequences. We must all be responsible for our
actions.
EW: Men have sex, without having to "take the consequences."
RTL: You can't help that—it's biology.
EW: You don't think a woman has as much right as a man to
enjoy sex? Without living in fear that one slip will transform
her life?
RTL: She has no right to selfish pleasure at the expense of the
unborn.
It would seem, then, that the nitty-gritty issue in the abortion

debate is not life but sex. If the fetus is sacrosanct, it follows that
women must be continually vulnerable to the invasion of their
bodies and loss of their freedom and independence—unless they
are willing to resort to the only perfectly reliable contraceptive,
abstinence. This is precisely the "solution" right-to-lifers suggest,
usually with a touch of glee; as Representative Elwood Rudd once
put it, "If a woman has a right to control her own body, let her
208
exercise control before she gets pregnant." A common ploy is to

compare fucking to overeating or overdrinking, the idea being that
pregnancy is a just punishment, like obesity or cirrhosis.
In 1979 it is depressing to have to insist that sex is not an unnec-
essary, morally dubious self-indulgence but a basic human need, no
less for women than for men. Of course, for heterosexual women
giving up sex also means doing without the love and companion-
ship of a mate. (Presumably, married women who have had all the
children they want are supposed to divorce their husbands or con-
vince them that celibacy is the only moral alternative.) "Freedom"
bought at such a cost is hardly freedom at all and certainly not
equality—no one tells men that if they aspire to some measure of
control over their lives, they are welcome to neuter themselves and
become social isolates. The don't-have-sex argument is really an-
other version of the familiar antifeminist dictum that autonomy
and femaleness—that is, female sexuality—are incompatible; if you
choose the first, you lose the second. But to pose this choice is not
only inhumane; it is as deeply disingenuous as "Let them eat cake."
No one, least of all the antiabortion movement, expects or wants
significant numbers of women to give up sex and marriage. Nor
are most right-to-lifers willing to allow abortion for rape victims.
When all the cant about "responsibility" is stripped away, what
the right-to-life position comes down to is, if the effect of prohibit-
ing abortion is to keep women slaves to their biology, so be it.
In their zeal to preserve fetal life at all costs, antiabortionists are
ready to grant fetuses more legal protection than people. If a man
attacks me and I kill him, I can plead self-defense without having
to prove that I was in danger of being killed rather than injured,
raped, or kidnapped. But in the annual congressional battle over
what if any exceptions to make to the Medicaid abortion ban, the
House of Representatives has bitterly opposed the funding of abor-
tions for any reason but to save the pregnant woman's life. Some
right-to-lifers argue that even the danger of death does not justify
abortion; others have suggested "safeguards" like requiring two or
more doctors to certify that the woman's life is at least 50 percent
209
threatened. Antiabortionists are forever worrying that any excep-

tion to a total ban on abortion will be used as a "loophole": better
that any number of women should ruin their health or even die
than that one woman should get away with not having a child
"merely" because she doesn't want one. Clearly this mentality does
not reflect equal concern for all life. Rather, antiabortionists value
the lives of fetuses above the lives and welfare of women, because
at bottom they do not concede women the right to an active human
existence that transcends their reproductive function. Years ago, in
an interview with Paul Krassner in The Realist, Ken Kesey de-
clared himself against abortion. When Krassner asked if his objec-
tion applied to victims of rape, Kesey replied—I may not be
remembering the exact words, but I will never forget the substance
—"Just because another man planted the seed, that's no reason to
destroy the crop."* To this day I have not heard a more eloquent
or chilling metaphor for the essential premise of the right-to-life
movement: that a woman's excuse for being is her womb. It is an
outrageous irony that antiabortionists are managing to pass off this
profoundly immoral idea as a noble moral cause.
The conservatives who dominate the right-to-life movement
have no real problem with the antifeminism inherent in their stand;
their evasion of the issue is a matter of public relations. But the
politics of antiabortion leftists are a study in self-contradiction: in
attacking what they see as the violence of abortion, they condone
and encourage violence against women. Forced childbearing does
violence to a woman's body and spirit, and it contributes to other
kinds of violence: deaths from illegal abortion; the systematic op-
pression of mothers and women in general; the poverty, neglect,
and battering of unwanted children; sterilization abuse.
Radicals supposedly believe in attacking a problem at its roots.
Yet surely it is obvious that restrictive laws do not keep women
* A reader later sent me a copy of the Kesey interview. The correct quota-
tion is "You don't plow under the corn because the seed was planted with a
neighbor's shovel."
2IO
from seeking abortions; they just create an illicit, dangerous indus-

try. The only way to drastically reduce the number of abortions is
to invent safer, more reliable contraceptives, ensure universal access
to all birth control methods, eliminate sexual ignorance and guilt,
and change the social and economic conditions that make mother-
hood a trap. Anyone who is truly committed to fostering life should
be fighting for women's liberation instead of harassing and disrupt-
ing abortion clinics (hardly a nonviolent tactic, since it threatens the
safety of patients). The "feminists for life" do talk a lot about
ending the oppression that drives so many women to abortion; in
practice, however, they are devoting all their energy to increasing
it.
Despite its numerical insignificance, the antiabortion left epit-
omizes the hypocrisy of the right-to-life crusade. Its need to wrap
misogyny in the rhetoric of social conscience and even feminism is
actually a perverse tribute to the women's movement; it is no
longer acceptable to declare openly that women deserve to suffer
for the sin of Eve. I suppose that's progress—not that it does the
victims of the Hyde Amendment much good.
March and April 1979
211
Abortion: Overruling
the Neo-Fascists
J adge John F. Cooling's 328-page decision striking down the

Hyde Amendment is heartening in a way that transcends its
strictly legal impact*: for the first time a federal judge has taken
* Judge Dooling held that for Congress to exclude payment for "health-
related" abortions from an otherwise comprehensive program of medical aid
to the poor violated indigent women's Fifth Amendment rights to privacy,
due process, and equal protection and the First Amendment's guarantee of
religious freedom. The decision has one major limitation: given the Supreme
Court's 1977 ruling that states may withhold Medicaid payments for "elective"
abortions, Dooling had no choice but to restrict the application of his opinion
to abortions that are, in the judgment of a pregnant woman's doctor, neces-
sary in the light of all factors affecting the woman's health—her physical and
emotional state, her age, her economic, familial, and social situation. Though
this definition of a "medically necessary" abortion is as liberal as possible,
short of discarding the concept altogether, the distinction between necessary
and elective abortions is inherently sexist. Since forced childbearing violates
women's fundamental right to self-determination, the only person qualified
to judge whether an abortion is necessary is the pregnant woman herself.
When the radical feminist campaign to repeal the abortion laws began in
1969, our first target was the "reformers" who sat around splitting hairs over
how sick or poor or multiparous a woman had to be to deserve exemption
212
Abortion: Overruling the Neo-Fascists
the offensive against the arguments and tactics of the right-to-life

movement. The ruling does not contain a word of denunciatory
rhetoric, yet simply by accumulating facts it damns the movement
as cruel, dishonest, and fanatical, devoid of decent regard either
for the health and welfare of women or for anyone's freedom
of conscience.
Much of the opinion is devoted to an exhaustive, scarifying
compendium of the destructive effects of unwanted pregnancy.
This is in itself a compelling comment on the sadism of the "pro-
life" crowd. But Dooling goes on to do a thorough demolition job
on the Hyde Amendment's rigid requirements for Medicaid-
funded abortions, focusing on the inherently ghoulish nature of
the "life endangerment" and "severe and long-lasting physical
damage" standards (the latter a concession in last year's version of
the amendment—a rider to the annual HEW appropriations bill—
that was deleted from this year's). Since it is rarely possible to tell,
particularly in the first few months of a woman's pregnancy,
whether a potentially life-threatening condition will actually kill
her, or exactly how bad the damage to her health will be, the effect
of such requirements is to force the woman to go on with her
pregnancy until a full-blown emergency develops—a procedure
totally repugnant to accepted medical practice and ethics. Dooling
agrees that this is an intolerable bind and concludes that both
criteria are so vague as to violate the Fifth Amendment's due-
process clause. He further observes that the sixty-day reporting
requirement in rape and incest cases functions to deny abortions to
a large percentage of rape victims and to make the incest exception
virtually meaningless (incest, the judge notes drily, tends to be
secretive).
Throughout his opinion Dooling displays a refreshing impa-
from reproductive duty. In the past few years the idea that abortions without
some special justification are merely "convenient"—as if unwanted pregnancy
were an annoyance comparable to, say, standing in a long line at the super-
market—has been revived with a vengeance.
2I3
tience with right-to-life cant and double-talk. He demonstrates

that the purpose of the Hyde Amendment was never to save the
taxpayers money, keep the government neutral on a delicate moral
issue, or distinguish between "necessary" and so-called "con-
venience" abortions. The amendment, says Dooling bluntly, was a
ploy by antiabortion congressmen frustrated in their attempt to
pass a constitutional amendment that would override the Supreme
Court's 1973 proabortion decision; its purpose was quite simply to
circumvent the Court's ruling and prevent as many abortions as
possible. Doo!ing, a practicing Catholic, makes short work of the
antiabortionsts' pretensions to being a spontaneous grass-roots
movement that owes its political victories to sheer moral appeal.
He confirms that right-to-life's main source of energy, organiza-
tion, and direction has been the Catholic Church and describes in
detail how the movement uses one-issue voting to put pressure on
legislators, candidates, and the party organizations that nominate
them—a tactic that gains it influence far out of proportion to its
numbers. After quoting various Christian and Jewish theologians'
differing opinions on abortion and the question of fetal person-
hood, Dooling argues that the antiabortionists' absolutist view is
not based on any moral or religious consensus but reflects a sec-
tarian position that "is not genuinely argued; it is adamantly as-
serted." He also documents the movement's utter contempt for its
opponents (we are all, by definition, mass murderers) and the
refusal of right-to-life organizations and activists to take a stand
against violent attacks on abortion clinics. The Hyde Amendment,
he concludes, is religiously motivated legislation that imposes a
particular theological viewpoint, violating dissenters' First Amend-
ment rights. (In response to this aspect of the decision Carolyn
Gerster, the president of the National Right to Life Committee,
declared that she couldn't imagine a religion that would condone
abortion, "unless it were one that included child sacrifice."
Gerster's imagination is limited. Major denominations that regard
abortion as an individual moral decision include the Baptists,
Methodists, Episcopalians, and Conservative and Reform Jews.
214
Abortion: Overruling the Neo-Fascists
Jews will find Gerster's choice of words especially chilling; the

charge that Jews kill children for ritual purposes is an old anti-
Semitic canard, a traditional excuse for pogroms.)
In every respect the Dooling decision confirms my own convic-
tion that the antiabortion movement is the most dangerous political
force in the country. I believe—and in saying this I intend no hy-
perbole whatsoever—that it is the cutting edge of neo-fascism, a
threat not only to women's rights and to everyone's sexual free-
dom and privacy but to freedom of religion and civil liberties in
general. Right-to-life propaganda leaves no doubt that abortion is
only the immediate focus of a larger crusade to crush women's
liberation, sexual "immorality," birth control, sex education, and
all other manifestations of "Godless humanism"—that is, the sepa-
ration of church and state—in favor of patriarchal authority, the
traditional family, and "Christian values"—that is, Christianity at
its most authoritarian, parochial, and bigoted. The movement's
most vicious bit of rhetoric—its continual assertion that legal abor-
tion has murdered more people than Hitler—cannot be dismissed
as meaningless bombast. However absurd (antiabortionists' ideas
about sex, women, and authority are actually quite similar to Hit-
ler's; under the Nazis, abortion was a serious crime, in some
circumstances punishable by death), this invocation of the Holo-
caust is clearly designed to justify whatever methods the move-
ment chooses to adopt—after all, one doesn't quibble about
democratic means when fighting genocidal maniacs. The compari-
son is also anti-Semitic; not only does it trivialize and co-opt the
slaughter of the Jews, it does so in the name of the very "Christian
values" chiefly responsible for anti-Jewish persecution. Anyway,
it's only a matter of time till the right-to-lifers notice, if they
haven't already, that Jews (except for the Orthodox) are more
liberal on abortion and "Godless humanism" generally than any
other religious or ethnic group.
If you think I'm exaggerating, look up the January z i New
York Times and read about the recent conference of antiabortion
leaders. On contraception: "a form of moral insanity." On di-
2I
5
vorce: ". . . just as we are able to dispose of our spouses if we feel

like it, so are we able to do away with our children if we feel like
it." On politics: "One place the ordinary Christian can be effective
to turn the tide is to begin by supporting and electing only pro-life
candidates." On the firebombing of abortion clinics: "I don't cry
real hard when I hear about one of their firetraps burning down."
There was the obligatory reference to "the smell of the camps"
and general agreement that the related evils of abortion, divorce,
contraception, euthanasia, and genetic engineering are the logical
product of secularism. You don't have to be Jewish, or female, or
homosexual, or an atheist to get the message, but it helps.
Given the antiabortionists' single-mindedness and resultant polit-
ical clout, it is all too possible that they will either push their
constitutional amendment through Congress or get the required
number of state legislatures to call a constitutional convention that
might or might not have the power to tear apart the Bill of Rights.
Since most Americans do not share either their attitude toward
abortion or their general world view, a certain amount of alarm
would seem to be in order. Yet so far the public has reacted to the
right-to-life juggernaut, and to proabortion activists' organizing
efforts, with an almost willful apathy. Nearly everyone I know
supports legal abortion in principle, but except for hard-core fem-
inists hardly anyone takes the issue seriously. Press coverage and
analysis of the abortion debate range from nonexistent to con-
descending. (The Times ran its piece about the antiabortion
conference on the style page.) When I buttonhole people and
harangue them about abortion doing for the right what Vietnam
did for the left, I don't even get arguments—just blank looks. On
occasion even feminists have been obtuse about what we're facing
—the most egregious example being NOW's attempt last year to
meet with antiabortionists to discuss "common interests" and
"depolarize" the issue. (The right-to-lifers responded by display-
ing two mysteriously obtained dead fetuses and denouncing "baby
killers.")
Part of the problem is that at the moment abortion is still legal
216
Abortion: Overruling the Neo-fascists
and still available to most women; it's always harder to get people
to defend something they have than to demand something they
lack. Another important factor is sexism; the antiabortion move-
ment doesn't threaten men in an immediate, direct way, and
abortion is regarded as a women's issue, which is to say trivial,
sectarian, and "middle-class."
But something else is going on that's even more disturbing: a lot
of people who intellectually abhor everything the antiabortionists
stand for are emotionally intimidated by their argument. The right-
to-lifers' most dangerous weapon is not their efficiency in the legis-
lative arena but their ability to confuse and immobilize potential
opponents by tapping the vast store of sexual guilt and anxiety that
lies just below this society's veneer of sexual liberalism. Patriarchal
culture, with its deeply antisexual ideology, has existed for some
five thousand years; the radical idea that people have a right to
sexual freedom and happiness has been a significant social force for
little more than a century; in this country the changes we think
of as the "sexual revolution" have all taken place within the past
two decades. Most of us grew up with the old values. It is hardly
surprising that even among sophisticated liberals people's emotions
do not necessarily coincide with their enlightened ideas. And
sophisticated liberals who nonetheless believe on some level that
the desire for sex without "consequences" (i.e., children) is self-
indulgent, and that the ability to control one's passion is a test of
character, are likely to be apologetic about their support for abor-
tion rights. There is now a sizable body of literature on the theme
of "I'm for legal abortion, but. . . ." Many proabortion liberals and
feminists indulge a poisonously sentimental and self-flagellating
view of the right-to-lifers as upholders of principle and altruism
and sacrifice—the idea being that the rest of us are merely pursu-
ing our selfish interests. Even more people, I'm convinced, are
handling their ambivalence by simply blocking out the whole sub-
ject.
The sort of Orwellian reversal whereby apostles of brutality and
repression become morally admirable even in the eyes of their
217
opponents drives me crazy. That a seventy-one-year-old male,

Catholic judge, who probably disagrees with all my ideas about
sexual freedom, should see this nonsense for what it is and come up
with an effective refutation is the sort of irony that keeps me
sane.
January 1980
218
Feminism, Moralism,
and Pornography
F or women, life is an ongoing good cop-bad cop routine. The

good cops are marriage, motherhood, and that courtly old
gentleman, chivalry. Just cooperate, they say (crossing their
fingers), and we'll go easy on you. You'll never have to earn a
living or open a door. We'll even get you some romantic love. But
you'd better not get stubborn, or you'll have to deal with our
friend rape, and he's a real terror; we just can't control him.
Pornography often functions as a bad cop. If rape warns that
without the protection of one man we are fair game for all, the
hard-core pornographic image suggests that the alternative to
being a wife is being a whore. As women become more "criminal,"
the cops call for nastier reinforcements; the proliferation of lurid,
violent porn (symbolic rape) is a form of backlash. But one can be
a solid citizen and still be shocked (naively or hypocritically) by
police brutality. However widely condoned, rape is illegal. How-
ever loudly people proclaim that porn is as wholesome as granola,
the essence of its appeal is that emotionally it remains taboo. It is
This is an expanded version of two columns written for The Village Voice.
219
from their very contempt for the rules that bad cops derive their
power to terrorize (and the covert approbation of solid citizens
who would love to break the rules themselves). The line between
bad cop and outlaw is tenuous. Both rape and pornography reflect
a male outlaw mentality that rejects the conventions of romance
and insists, bluntly, that women are cunts. The crucial difference
between the conservative's moral indignation at rape, or at Hust-
ler, and the feminist's political outrage is the latter's understanding
that the problem is not bad cops or outlaws but cops and the
law.
Unfortunately, the current women's campaign against pornog-
raphy seems determined to blur this difference. Feminist criticism
of sexist and misogynist pornography is nothing new; porn is an
obvious target insofar as it contributes to larger patterns of op-
pression—the reduction of the female body to a commodity (the
paradigm being prostitution), the sexual intimidation that makes
women regard the public streets as enemy territory (the paradigm
being rape), sexist images and propaganda in general. But what is
happening now is different. By playing games with the English
language, antiporn activists are managing to rationalize as feminism
a single-issue movement divorced from any larger political context
and rooted in conservative moral assumptions that are all the more
dangerous for being unacknowledged.
When I first heard there was a group called Women Against
Pornography, I twitched. Could I define myself as Against Por-
nography? Not really. In itself, pornography—which, my diction-
ary and I agree, means any image or description intended or used
to arouse sexual desire—does not strike me as the proper object of
a political crusade. As the most cursory observation suggests, there
are many varieties of porn, some pernicious, some more or less
benign. About the only generalization one can make is that por-
nography is the return of the repressed, of feelings and fantasies
driven underground by a culture that atomizes sexuality, defining
love as a noble affair of the heart and mind, lust as a base animal
urge centered in unmentionable organs. Prurience—the state of
220
Feminism, Moralism, and Pornography
mind I associate with pornography—implies a sense of sex as for-

bidden, secretive pleasure, isolated from any emotional or social
context. I imagine that in Utopia, porn would wither away along
with the state, heroin, and Coca-Cola. At present, however, the
sexual impulses that pornography appeals to are part of virtually
everyone's psychology. For obvious political and cultural reasons
nearly all porn is sexist in that it is the product of a male imagination
and aimed at a male market; women are less likely to be con-
sciously interested in pornography, or to indulge that interest, or
to find porn that turns them on. But anyone who thinks women
are simply indifferent to pornography has never watched a bunch
of adolescent girls pass around a trashy novel. Over the years I've
enjoyed various pieces of pornography—some of them of the
sleazy Forty-second Street paperback sort—and so have most
women I know. Fantasy, after all, is more flexible than reality, and
women have learned, as a matter of survival, to be adept at shaping
male fantasies to their own purposes. If feminists define pornogra-
phy, per se, as the enemy, the result will be to make a lot of
women ashamed of their sexual feelings and afraid to be honest
about them. And the last thing women need is more sexual shame,
guilt, and hypocrisy—this time served up as feminism.
So why ignore qualitative distinctions and in effect condemn all
pornography as equally bad? WAP organizers answer—or finesse
—this question by redefining pornography. They maintain that
pornography is not really about sex but about violence against
women. Or, in a more colorful formulation, "Pornography is the
theory, rape is the practice." Part of the argument is that pornog-
raphy causes violence; much is made of the fact that Charles Man-
son and David Berkowitz had porn collections. This is the sort of
inverted logic that presumes marijuana to be dangerous because
most heroin addicts started with it. It is men's hostility toward
women—combined with their power to express that hostility and
for the most part get away with it—that causes sexual violence.
Pornography that gives sadistic fantasies concrete shape—and, in
today's atmosphere, social legitimacy—may well encourage sug-
221
gestible men to act them out. But if Hustler were to vanish from
the shelves tomorrow, I doubt that rape or wife-beating statistics
would decline.
Even more problematic is the idea that pornography depicts
violence rather than sex. Since porn is by definition overtly sexual,
while most of it is not overtly violent, this equation requires some
fancy explaining. The conference WAP held in September was in
part devoted to this task. Robin Morgan and Gloria Steinem ad-
dressed it by attempting to distinguish pornography from erotica.
According to this argument, erotica (whose etymological root is
"eros," or sexual love) expresses an integrated sexuality based on
mutual affection and desire between equals; pornography (which
comes from another Greek root—"porne," meaning prostitute)
reflects a dehumanized sexuality based on male domination and
exploitation of women. The distinction sounds promising, but it
doesn't hold up. The accepted meaning of erotica is literature or
pictures with sexual themes; it may or may not serve the essen-
tially utilitarian function of pornography. Because it is less specific,
less suggestive of actual sexual activity, "erotica" is regularly used
as a euphemism for "classy porn." Pornography expressed in liter-
ary language or expensive photography and consumed by the
upper middle class is "erotica"; the cheap stuff, which can't pre-
tend to any purpose but getting people off, is smut. The erotica-
versus-porn approach evades the (embarrassing?) question of how
porn is used. It endorses the portrayal of sex as we might like it to
be and condemns the portrayal of sex as it too often is, whether
in action or only in fantasy. But if pornography is to arouse, it
must appeal to the feelings we have, not those that by some
Utopian standard we ought to have. Sex in this culture has been so
deeply politicized that it is impossible to make clear-cut distinc-
tions between "authentic" sexual impulses and those conditioned
by patriarchy. Between, say, Ulysses at one end and Snuff at the
other, erotica/pornography conveys all sorts of mixed messages
that elicit complicated and private responses. In practice, attempts
to sort out good erotica from bad porn inevitably come down to
222
"What turns me on is erotic; what turns you on is pornographic."

It would be clearer and more logical simply to acknowledge that
some sexual images are offensive and some are not. But logic and
clarity are irrelevant—or rather, inimical—to the underlying aim
of the antiporners, which is to vent the emotions traditionally
associated with the word "pornography." As I've suggested, there
is a social and psychic link between pornography and rape. In
terms of patriarchal morality both are expressions of male lust,
which is presumed to be innately vicious, and offenses to the puta-
tive sexual innocence of "good" women. But feminists supposedly
begin with different assumptions—that men's confusion of sexual
desire with predatory aggression reflects a sexist system, not male
biology; that there are no good (chaste) or bad (lustful) women,
just women who are, like men, sexual beings. From this standpoint,
to lump pornography with rape is dangerously simplistic. Rape is a
violent physical assault. Pornography can be a psychic assault, both
in its content and in its public intrusions on our attention, but for
women as for men it can also be a source of erotic pleasure. A
woman who is raped is a victim; a woman who enjoys pornogra-
phy (even if that means enjoying a rape fantasy) is in a sense a
rebel, insisting on an aspect of her sexuality that has been defined
as a male preserve. Insofar as pornography glorifies male su-
premacy and sexual alienation, it is deeply reactionary. But in re-
jecting sexual repression and hypocrisy—which have inflicted even
more damage on women than on men—it expresses a radical im-
pulse.
That this impulse still needs defending, even among feminists, is
evident from the sexual attitudes that have surfaced in the antiporn
movement. In the movement's rhetoric pornography is a code
word for vicious male lust. To the objection that some women get
off on porn, the standard reply is that this only shows how thor-
oughly women have been brainwashed by male values—though a
WAP leaflet goes so far as to suggest that women who claim to
like pornography are lying to avoid male opprobrium. (Note the
good-girl-versus-bad-girl theme, reappearing as healthy-versus-
22
3
sick, or honest-versus-devious; for "brainwashed" read "se-

duced.") And the view of sex that most often emerges from talk
about "erotica" is as sentimental and euphemistic as the word it-
self: lovemaking should be beautiful, romantic, soft, nice, and
devoid of messiness, vulgarity, impulses to power, or indeed ag-
gression of any sort. Above all, the emphasis should be on relation-
ships, not (yuck) organs. This goody-goody concept of eroticism
is not feminist but feminine. It is precisely sex as an aggressive,
unladylike activity, an expression of violent and unpretty emotion,
an exercise of erotic power, and a specifically genital experience
that has been taboo for women. Nor are we supposed to admit that
we, too, have sadistic impulses, that our sexual fantasies may reflect
forbidden urges to turn the tables and get revenge on men. (When
a woman is aroused by a rape fantasy, is she perhaps identifying
with the rapist as well as the victim?)
At the WAP conference lesbian separatists argued that pornog-
raphy reflects patriarchal sexual relations; patriarchal sexual rela-
tions are based on male power backed by force; ergo, pornography
is violent. This dubious syllogism, which could as easily be applied
to romantic novels, reduces the whole issue to hopeless mush. If all
manifestations of patriarchal sexuality are violent, then opposition
to violence cannot explain why pornography (rather than roman-
tic novels) should be singled out as a target. Besides, such reduc-
tionism allows women no basis for distinguishing between
consensual heterosexuality and rape. But this is precisely its point;
as a number of women at the conference put it, "In a patriarchy,
all sex with men is pornographic." Of course, to attack pornogra-
phy, and at the same time equate it with heterosexual sex, is im-
plicitly to condemn not only women who like pornography, but
women who sleep with men. This is familiar ground. The argu-
ment that straight women collaborate with the enemy has often
been, among other things, a relatively polite way of saying that
they consort with the beast. At the conference I couldn't help
feeling that proponents of the separatist line were talking like the
modern equivalents of women who, in an era when straight-
forward prudery was socially acceptable, joined convents to
224
escape men's rude sexual demands. It seemed to me that their re-

vulsion against heterosexuality was serving as the thinnest of
covers for disgust with sex itself. In any case, sanitized feminine
sexuality, whether straight or gay, is as limited as the predatory
masculine kind and as central to women's oppression; a major
function of misogynist pornography is to scare us into embracing
it. As a further incentive, the good cops stand ready to assure us
that we are indeed morally superior to men, that in our sweetness
and nonviolence (read passivity and powerlessness) is our strength.
Women are understandably tempted to believe this comforting
myth. Self-righteousness has always been a feminine weapon, a
permissible way to make men feel bad. Ironically, it is socially
acceptable for women to display fierce aggression in their crusades
against male vice, which serve as an outlet for female anger with-
out threatening male power. The temperance movement, which
made alcohol the symbol of male violence, did not improve the
position of women; substituting porn for demon rum won't work
either. One reason it won't is that it bolsters the good girl-bad girl
split. Overtly or by implication it isolates women who like porn or
"pornographic" sex or who work in the sex industry. WAP has
refused to take a position on prostitution, yet its activities—partic-
ularly its support for cleaning up Times Square—will affect prosti-
tutes' lives. Prostitution raises its own set of complicated questions.
But it is clearly not in women's interest to pit "good" feminists
against "bad" whores (or topless dancers, or models for skin
magazines).
So far, the issue that has dominated public debate on the anti-
porn campaign is its potential threat to free speech. Here too the
movement's arguments have been full of contradictions. Susan
Brownmiller and other WAP organizers claim not to advocate
censorship and dismiss the civil liberties issue as a red herring
dragged in by men who don't want to face the fact that pornogra-
phy oppresses women. Yet at the same time, WAP endorses the
Supreme Court's contention that obscenity is not protected speech,
22
5
a doctrine I—and most civil libertarians—regard as a clear infringe-

ment of First Amendment rights. Brownmiller insists that the First
Amendment was designed to protect political dissent, not expres-
sions of woman-hating violence. But to make such a distinction is
to defeat the amendment's purpose, since it implicitly cedes to the
government the right to define "political." (Has there ever been a
government willing to admit that its opponents are anything more
than antisocial troublemakers?) Anyway, it makes no sense to
oppose pornography on the grounds that it's sexist propaganda,
then turn around and argue that it's not political. Nor will liber-
tarians be reassured by WAP's statement that "We want to change
the definition of obscenity so that it focuses on violence, not sex."
Whatever their focus, obscenity laws deny the right of free ex-
pression to those who transgress official standards of propriety—
and personally, I don't find WAP's standards significantly less op-
pressive than Warren Burger's. Not that it matters, since WAP's
fantasies about influencing the definition of obscenity are ap-
pallingly naive. The basic purpose of obscenity laws is and always
has been to reinforce cultural taboos on sexuality and suppress
feminism, homosexuality, and other forms of sexual dissidence. No
pornographer has ever been punished for being a woman hater, but
not too long ago information about female sexuality, contracep-
tion, and abortion was assumed to be obscene. In a male supre-
macist society the only obscenity law that will not be used against
women is no law at all.
As an alternative to an outright ban on pornography, Brown-
miller and others have advocated restricting its display. There is a
plausible case to be made for the idea that antiwoman images dis-
played so prominently that they are impossible to avoid are coer-
cive, a form of active harassment that oversteps the bounds of free
speech. But aside from the evasion involved in simply equating
pornography with misogyny or sexual sadism, there are no legal or
logical grounds for treating sexist material any differently from
(for example) racist or anti-Semitic propaganda; an equitable law
would have to prohibit any kind of public defamation. And the
very thought of such a sweeping law has to make anyone with an
226
imagination nervous. Could Catholics claim they were being

harassed by nasty depictions of the pope? Could Russian refugees
argue that the display of Communist literature was a form of
psychological torture? Would proabortion material be taken off
the shelves on the grounds that it defamed the unborn? I'd rather
not find out.
At the moment the First Amendment issue remains hypotheti-
cal; the movement has concentrated on raising the issue of pornog-
raphy through demonstrations and other public actions. This is
certainly a legitimate strategy. Still, I find myself more and more
disturbed by the tenor of antipornography actions and the sort of
consciousness they promote; increasingly their focus has shifted
from rational feminist criticism of specific targets to generalized,
demagogic moral outrage. Picketing an antiwoman movie, defac-
ing an exploitative billboard, or boycotting a record company to
protest its misogynist album covers conveys one kind of message,
mass marches Against Pornography quite another. Similarly, there
is a difference between telling the neighborhood news dealer why
it pisses us off to have Penthouse shoved in our faces and choosing
as a prime target every right-thinking politician's symbol of big-
city sin, Times Square.
In contrast to the abortion rights movement, which is struggling
against a tidal wave of energy from the other direction, the anti-
porn campaign is respectable. It gets approving press and coopera-
tion from the city, which has its own stake (promoting tourism,
making the Clinton area safe for gentrification) in cleaning up
Times Square. It has begun to attract women whose perspective on
other matters is in no way feminist ("I'm anti-abortion," a partici-
pant in WAP's march on Times Square told a reporter, "but this is
something I can get into"). Despite the insistence of WAP or-
ganizers that they support sexual freedom, their line appeals to the
antisexual emotions that feed the backlash. Whether they know it
or not, they are doing the good cops' dirty work.
October and November 1919
227
The Myth of the Powerful Jew
The Village Voice devoted considerable space to the

crisis in black-Jewish relations touched off by the resig-
nation of U.N. Ambassador Andrew Young in August
1979. In its August 26 issue the Voice published "Such
Good Friends," by Joel Dreyfuss, who reiterated and
elaborated on black leaders' criticism of the Jewish
community. The following article, my response to Drey-
fuss and other black critics, ran a week later. Since I
wrote the piece on a four-day deadline, I've added a few
points I would have included if I'd had an extra week
or two to think.
"Anti-Semitism is the socialism of fools."

—AUGUST BEBEL, GERMAN SOCIALIST
AND LEADER OF THE SOCIAL DEMOCRATS IN
THE LATE NINETEENTH CENTURY
O bviously, the fury of black people at Andy Young's depar-

ture reflects a decade or more of increasing tensions between
blacks and Jews. What is perhaps less obvious is how much the
entire incident reflects deteriorating relations between Jews and
non-Jews generally. Any useful discussion of black-Jewish conflict
must begin by acknowledging two basic realities. One is that
American Jews are white* and predominantly middle-class and
so tend to have a white middle-class perspective on racial issues.
228
The other is that blacks are part of the gentile majority and so
tend to share the misconceptions about Jews and the overt or
unconscious anti-Jewish attitudes that permeate our culture. Un-
fortunately, neither group has been eager to accept its share of
responsibility for the conflict. If Jews have often minimized their
privileges and denied or rationalized their racism, blacks have
regularly dismissed Jewish protest against anti-Semitism in the
black community as at best oversensitivity, at worst racist paranoia.
And in the end, guess who benefits from all the bitterness? Hint:
the answer isn't blacks or Jews.
Blacks have repeatedly argued that black hostility toward Jews
is simply the logical result of Jews' behavior, either as landlords,
teachers, and other representatives of white authority in black
neighborhoods or as political opponents of black goals. As a Jew
who stands considerably left of the mainstream Jewish organiza-
tions, let alone neo-conservative intellectuals—and as a feminist
who supports affirmative action for women as well as minorities—I
don't think it's that simple. To attack a rip-off landlord with stan-
dard anti-Semitic rhetoric about greedy, exploitative Jews is to
* To be more precise, white Americans have generally classified Ashkenazim

—Jews of European origin—as white, Jews have benefited from white
privilege (though we have suffered from ethnic discrimination as non-Anglo
Saxons), and it is probably accurate to say that most American Jews think
of themselves as white. But as a number of readers—both Jewish and black—
pointed out, the definition is questionable. Jews are a multiracial people and,
as one correspondent put it, even among Ashkenazim "there are those of us
who cannot fit the racial designation as white." (He described himself as
dark-skinned and stereotypically Jewish-looking.) Several people suggested
that while many Jews can pass as white, identifying with white people has
been a way of internalizing our oppression, and that to be authentically Jewish
we must embrace a nonwhite identity. I would say rather that since Jewish-
ness is not a racial category—since, on the contrary, the definition of the
Jews as one people is an offense to the very idea of pure races—to identify
fully as Jews is to refuse to define ourselves in racial terms, to repudiate race
as a way of categorizing people, and to oppose all institutions and practices
that perpetuate racial hierarchies.
229
imply that the problem is the iniquity of Jews rather than the race
and class of white landlords. (When blacks protest the behavior of
white cops, who are rarely Jewish, they don't feel compelled to
mention the officers' ethnic backgrounds.) Black criticism of Jew-
ish politics invites the same objection. At worst Jews have been no
more hostile to black power than the rest of the white population,
though most people couldn't withdraw from the civil rights move-
ment since they hadn't been involved in it in the first place. While
the resistance of Jewish organizations to affirmative action has been
to some extent based on fear of maximum quotas for Jews—and on
the (illusory) hope that achievement and material security will
protect us from anti-Semitism—it has more to do with the fact
that most Jewish men share with most other white men the belief
that affirmative action is illegitimate "reverse discrimination." In
fighting community control, the Ocean Hill-Brownsville teachers
were acting not as Jews but as white people whose livelihood was
threatened. Besides, on all these issues a significant number of Jew-
ish liberals and radicals has supported blacks and opposed the Jew-
ish establishment. In general, though segments of the Jewish
community have drifted to the right along with the rest of the
country, Jews remain the most liberal group in the white popula-
tion, far to the left of non-Jews in comparable economic and social
circumstances. So why have blacks made such a point of singling
out Jews for criticism?
As Joel Dreyfuss noted in last week's Voice, disillusionment is a
factor; Jews have talked a better line and had a better record on
race than other whites, and groups with a history of oppression are
always supposed to be more sensitive to each other's aspirations,
although, as James Baldwin put it, "if people did learn from his-
tory, history would be very different." The disillusionment is
compounded when Jews invoke their status as an oppressed people
to avoid confronting their racism (though blacks have committed
the same evasion in reverse). It is also convenient and tempting to
vent one's anger at a visible and relatively vulnerable minority. But
the main impetus to black resentment of Jews as Jews seems to be
230
that black people do not perceive Jews as vulnerable. Dreyfuss

argues that the issue for blacks is Jewish power; he claims that
"American Jews exert an economic, political, and intellectual in-
fluence on this country far out of proportion to their numbers"
and repeats the familiar allegation that Jews dominate the media.
I would guess that this view is shared by a great many, if not
most, non-Jewish whites as well as blacks. I think it is profoundly
wrong. Jewish privilege is real; Jews certainly exert intellectual
influence; but actual power is another matter. As business people,
professionals, journalists, academics, Jews are in a position to fur-
ther whatever interests they share (or think they share) with the
rest of the white middle class or with the ruling elite. But the real
test of power is whether Jews can protect specifically Jewish in-
terests when they diverge from—or conflict with—the interests of
non-Jews. If the United States government decides it is in Amer-
ica's economic and military interest to abandon Israel, do Jews
have the power to prevent a change in policy? If there is a resur-
gence of anti-Semitism in this country, do Jews have the power to
quell it and insure their survival? These questions are not hypo-
thetical; America's Middle East policy is certainly changing, to the
dismay of most Jews, and I experience more anti-Semitism (mostly
from white people) than I did ten years ago.
If Jews have power, its sources are mysterious. Jews may own
newspapers and movie studios, but the truly powerful own banks,
factories, and oil. Jews have been virtually excluded from Amer-
ica's corporate and financial elite. There are few Jews at the high-
est levels of government or the military. As a tiny minority—3
percent of the population—Jews do not have the political clout of
sheer numbers, except in a few heavily Jewish areas like New
York. With the decline of the cities, Jewish influence has de-
creased; power to set national policy is now centered in the South-
west, hardly a Jewish stronghold, and the widespread anti-New
York, antiurban sentiment that has fed the conservative backlash is
aimed at Jews as well as blacks.
If Jews are "overrepresented" in certain privileged occupations,
231
it is equally true that Jews' awareness of their vulnerable position

and their identification with other oppressed groups have led them
to get involved in liberal and radical movements "far out of pro-
portion to their numbers." Yet Dreyfuss, so sensitive to Jewish
influence in other areas, not only neglects to mention Jewish left-
ism but tries to write it out of history. In a bizarre attempt to
blame the Jews for Roy Wilkins's and Whitney Young's break
with Martin Luther King over the latter's opposition to the Viet-
nam War, Dreyfuss alleges that the rift "reflected [Wilkins's and
Young's] dependence on Jewish support, since Jews strongly sup-
ported the U.S. presence in Vietnam." This charge is too absurd to
deserve a response, but for the all too easily "forgotten" record,
from the start Jews and Jewish organizations were virtually unan-
imous in their opposition to the war. Jews played a major role in
the antiwar movement and the new left generally, and while
George McGovern suffered the worst defeat in American electoral
history, Jews voted for him 2 to i. Such politics hardly reflect an
uncritical identification with power. Nor do our increasingly con-
servative rulers share Dreyfuss's incognizance of Jews' leftist ten-
dencies, though they are inclined to encode their distaste in
euphemistic references to New Yorkers or intellectuals. Attacked
from the left for being too well-off and from the right for being
too left-wing, Jews lack even the contingent power of dependable
political allies.
Jews are relatively well organized and vocal politically, but as
with other well-organized minorities, their effectiveness has de-
pended on the absence of any strong counterforce. It is ridiculous
to imagine, as Dreyfuss apparently does, that the United States'
Middle East policy is or ever has been dictated by Jews. Here he
displays some confusion, since he also points out that Israel is
"viewed in the Third World as a surrogate for Western interests"
and faults Jews for once again choosing the wrong side. So which
is it? Does America support Israel because of the Jews, or are Jews
merely bolstering American imperialism? The reality is that until
recently, Jewish pressure on behalf of Israel dovetailed neatly with
232
the American government's political objectives. But Jews' stake in

Israel and United States interests in the Middle East are by no
means the same. Whatever our differences about the Israeli gov-
ernment, Palestinian rights, or American foreign policy, most Jews
agree on the need for a Jewish state. The American government
encouraged the establishment of Israel for power-political reasons
(and perhaps as a way of dealing with the embarrassing problem of
Jewish refugees no country was willing to absorb); it has contin-
ued to support Israel as a pro-Western, anti-Soviet ally in a stra-
tegically vital region. But in the past few years the U.S. has been
reevaluating its stance, in line with changing political realities; as a
result, Jewish lobbying has met increasing resistance. Despite sup-
posed Jewish control of the media, coverage of the Middle East
and the climate of public opinion have evolved more or less in
accordance with government policy, growing steadily less sympa-
thetic to Israel.
In general, the major media—including Jewish-owned institu-
tions like the New York Times—reflect establishment politics,
whether or not they coincide with Jewish interests or opinion.
Evidently, either Jews are less dominant in the media than popular
wisdom insists, or Jewish publishers and Hollywood producers put
their class loyalties before their Jewishness. Dreyfuss complains
that "Jewish dissidents in the Soviet Union enjoy a flood of public-
ity, but black dissidents in South Africa are ignored until they are
killed." Can he seriously believe this bias reflects Jewish influence
rather than government and corporate hostility to the U.S.S.R. and
sympathy with the staunchly capitalist South African regime? He
contrasts indifference to racism in television with the "uproar"
that followed the casting of Vanessa Redgrave as a concentration
camp victim. Yet the Jewish protest elicited no serious, thoughtful
response, only condescending lectures about the evils of blacklist-
ing and the right to criticize Israel. (I keep waiting for someone to
notice that these days dumping on Israel is about as daring as
defending the family, but no such luck.)
The danger of getting carried away wkh fantasies about Jewish
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33
power is manifest in Dreyfuss's assertion that "Jews have taken

control of [New York City's] political apparatus. In the process of
exercising their new powers they have neglected to appease the
powerless. . . ." Just a minute. Who is this "they"? It certainly
isn't me, or even the American Jewish Committee; it would seem,
actually, to be one lone Jew, Ed Koch. (What about poor Abe
Beame? He may not have been memorable, but he did exist.) In his
zeal to pin blacks' troubles on the Jews, Drey fuss not only makes a
dubious leap from the particular to the general, he totally ignores
the context of Koch's administration—draconian fiscal retrench-
ment imposed on the city from outside. Koch's brushing aside of
minority concerns is indefensible (again, his whiteness, not his
Jewishness, is the relevant category), but the people who really
call the shots on New York are the president, Congress, and a
bunch of bankers and realtors. I fail to see what Jews as a group
are getting out of this depressing situation.
It is disingenuous of Dreyfuss to argue that "Jewish power in
America has always been a difficult subject to address. . . . Their
most effective tactic has been to attack any references to the
power of Jews as 'anti-Semitic,' immediately blocking further dis-
cussion." Talk about blocking discussion! I can only pursue this
one honestly if I'm permitted to say what I think, which is that the
notion of Jewish power is a classic anti-Semitic myth. There are
historical parallels to Jews' present position in America. In pre-
Inquisition Spain, in Weimar Germany, Jews were a privileged
and seemingly powerful group, a conspicuous cultural force. But
their status did not protect them; on the contrary, charges of
excessive Jewish power and influence in behalf of their own
nefarious ends served as a rationale for persecution. Hence Amer-
ican Jews' feelings of insecurity, which—according to Dreyfuss—
blacks find so mystifying.
Discrimination against Jews in America has not been comparable
to the systematic, relentless bigotry inflicted on blacks. But in
concluding that Jewish oppression can be defined as "exclusion
similar in conception but vastly different in degree from the black
234
experience," Dreyfuss makes a common mistake. Though there are

obvious parallels between white racism and anti-Semitism—partic-
ularly racial anti-Semitism of the Nazi variety—the psychology of
anti-Semitism, the way it functions in society, and the nature of
the threat to the Jews are in certain respects unique. Unlike rac-
ism, anti-Semitism does not necessarily involve straightforward
economic subjugation. Historically, Jews' distinctive class and
cultural patterns, their visibility as representatives or symbols of
authority (from the Harlem storekeeper on up the class ladder,
but rarely at the very top), and their reputation as hustlers,
achievers, intellectuals, and social activists have been the basis of
anti-Semitic stereotypes used to justify attacks on Jews. Jews are
simultaneously perceived as insiders and outsiders, capitalists and
communists, upholders of high ethical and intellectual standards
and shrewd purveyors of poisonous subversive ideas. The common
theme of these disparate perceptions is that Jews have enormous
power, whether to defend established authority or to undermine it.
It is this double-edged myth of Jewish power that has made Jews
such a useful all-purpose scapegoat for social discontent. The
classic constituency for fascism is the conservative lower middle
class, oppressed by the rich, threatened by the rebellious poor
(particularly if the poor are foreign or another race); for this
group Jews are a perfect target, since they represent the top and
the bottom at once. Oppressed classes like the peasants in czarist
Russia have traditionally directed their anger at the Jews just above
them in the social hierarchy. Politically, the specter of the power-
ful Jew functions in much the same way as a foreign enemy: it
invites warring classes, races, and political groups to submerge
their conflicts and enjoy a heady sense of spurious unity.
The advantage to ruling classes of keeping Jews around as sur-
rogate authority figures, outside agitators, and enemies of the peo-
ple is obvious. But anti-Semitism can't be explained simply as a
political tool; it is deeply irrational. The insane obsessiveness of
Hitler's determination to wipe out the Jews even at the expense of
his war effort was, in my view, not an aberrational form of anti-
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35
Semitism but its logical extreme. I think anti-Semitism is bound up

with people's anger not only at class oppression but at the whole
structure of patriarchal civilization—at the authoritarian family
and state, at a morality that exalts the mind, denigrates the body,
and represses sexuality. It's no coincidence that a Jew, Sigmund
Freud, was first to observe that "civilized" self-denial generates an
enormous reservoir of unconscious rage. I believe it is this rage,
along with misdirected anger at economic and political oppression,
that erupts in the murder of Jews. In one sense, Jews have been
immensely powerful: they created a potent myth—influential in
both Christian and Islamic cultures—that explains patriarchal civi-
lization and includes an elaborate set of rules for right living in it.
And Jews themselves play a special role in this myth, as God the
Father's chosen people, commanded to carry out an ethical and
spiritual mission in behalf of the world—to obey God's laws and
by doing so bring the Messiah, who will redeem and liberate us all.
As the protagonists of this paradoxical vision, Jews are at once
superego figures and symbols of revolution, who evoke all the
ambivalent feelings that stem from the contradictions of patri-
archy.
Just as the idealization of femininity is inseparable from male re-
sentment of women, anti-Semitism is two-faced. It includes ad-
miration of Jewish achievements, the idea that Jews are morally
superior, guilt, and identification with the Jew-as-victim. The
complementary attitudes inevitably follow: envy; the conviction
that Jews are too powerful; a combination of special outrage and
covert gloating whenever Jews are revealed to be, alas, morally
imperfect (check out the reaction to any Jew judged guilty of
unsaintly behavior, from Bernard Bergman to Menachem Begin);
resentment at having to feel guilty about the Jews, it was thirty-
five years ago, after all; a mixture of self-congratulation and defen-
siveness at daring to criticize Jews; anger at Jews who refuse to act
like victims. (An article on the Vanessa Redgrave flap pointed to
her acceptance of the inmate's role as evidence that anti-Zionism
and anti-Semitism are not synonymous. On the contrary, Redgrave
236
exemplifies a mentality that has flourished ever since 1967, when

Israel became the prime metaphor for the powerful Jew: she hates
Bad Jews—Zionists—and loves Good Jews—victims, preferably
dead.) But the power of Jews as emotional symbols would mean
little if they were not hugely outnumbered and so, in reality,
powerless. It is the combination that makes anti-Semitism so ap-
pealing: to kill a gnat, imagining it's an elephant, is to feel power-
ful indeed.
I think people's feelings about Jews are largely unconscious, that
discrimination and outbreaks of anti-Jewish persecution are only
the most obvious symptoms of a chronic social disease that exists
mainly under the surface. This is why anti-Semitism flares up so
readily in times of social crisis; it is why Jews feel permanently
insecure; it accounts for the gap in communication between Jews
who feel that gentiles are oblivious to the threat of anti-Semitism
and gentiles who think that Jews are always looking for anti-
Semites under the bed. Anti-Semitism involves dark impulses that
most people would rather not recognize in themselves, impulses
connected with our deepest guilts and anxieties. Even people who
are sophisticated about the politics of race and sex tend to cling to
a simplistic view of anti-Semitism as plain old discrimination,
punctuated from time to time with persecution by evil lunatics—in
either case, nothing to do with them. There is enormous resistance,
even among Jews, to analyzing anti-Semitism as a serious, ongoing
social force or to recognizing the anti-Jewish subtext in superfi-
cially reasonable political arguments. A lot of Jewish alienation has
to do with the subterranean character of anti-Semitism. Suppose
your friends and colleagues were always having fits of selective
amnesia, during which they insisted that what you clearly remem-
bered was your imagination. Eventually you would begin to ques-
tion your reality: What's going on? Am I crazy? Is she doing this
to me on purpose? By means of a similar process, Jewish "par-
anoia" about anti-Semitism often becomes paranoia in fact.
Black people who scapegoat Jews for white racism and exag-
gerate Jewish power are collaborating in a familiar and scary game.
237
That black leaders should blame Jews for Andy Young's resigna-
tion is not surprising, but the evidence doesn't bear them out.
Jews, who can add two and two like anyone else, could not fail to
note that Young's meeting with Zehdi Terzi was consistent with
the noises the administration has been making for some months. It
is Carter's policy Jews care about, not Young—a point Jewish
spokespeople have taken care to emphasize. If Carter starts talking
to the PLO, Young's dismissal won't gain him any Jewish support;
if he doesn't, Young's retention wouldn't have lost him any. (And
what about black support? Carter's decision to get rid of Young
may well have cost him reelection.) Besides, Jewish organizations
are hardly unaware of black-Jewish tensions. As subsequent events
have shown, it was not in their interest for Young to resign, and
most of them pointedly refrained from suggesting it. Did Carter
act to appease the Israeli government? I doubt it—I think the
Israelis understand that Carter is their problem, not Young—but if
he did, it was in behalf of American diplomacy, not the Jews.
I don't know why Carter let Young resign instead of slapping
him on the wrist. Maybe it was just what it looked like—that in
arranging to talk with Terzi and then lying about it, Young took
his individualism a step too far and convinced the president he
couldn't be trusted. Maybe not. The affair still has its loose ends,
particularly the question of whether, as Murray Kempton plaus-
ibly suggested, Young is taking the rap for a meeting that was
actually the State Department's idea. But there is disturbing irony
in the fact that (Jewish-dominated media notwithstanding) blacks
have succeeded in defining the issue as Jewish power. Given the
energy crisis and the general economic malaise, Americans may be
more than normally receptive to the idea that Jews have been
controlling our foreign policy. If Carter plans to move signifi-
cantly closer to the PLO (and anyone who thinks such a move
would reflect solicitude for the Palestinians, as opposed to solici-
tude for oil, is less cynical than I), it can't hurt him to have anti-
Jewish sentiment floating around.
Behind the furor over Young lurks the larger issue of how rela-
238
tions between Jews and blacks, Jews and gentiles, blacks and
whites affect and are affected by the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
Dreyfuss draws clear battle lines: Jews, white racists, and imperi-
alists for Israel; blacks for the Palestinians, as victims of racist
colonialism. But he leaves something important out of this picture
—or cartoon—and that something is anti-Semitism (a semantically
unfortunate term since Arabs are also Semites). Middle East poli-
tics would be a lot less confusing and agonizing if anti-Zionism and
anti-Semitism were, as so many people want to believe, entirely
separate issues. Which is to say that things would be a lot simpler
if the Israelis weren't Jews. But if anti-Semitism is, as I have ar-
gued, a systemic and pervasive pathology endemic to Christian and
Islamic cultures (and, I would imagine, easily communicable to
any patriarchy), then anti-Semitism is as much a factor in the
Middle East as oil, the military importance of the region, the Pal-
estinians' demand for a homeland, and anti-Arab racism. Anti-
Semitism is an actual or potential influence on the conduct of the
United States, the Soviet Union, Europe, the United Nations, the
Arab countries, and the Palestinians themselves. (Overt anti-
Semitism has never been as widespread or severe in the Islamic
world as in the Christian West. But since World War II, the Arabs
have been using explicitly anti-Jewish propaganda, borrowed from
Europe, as a weapon against Israel, and anti-Semitic policies have
resulted in a massive exodus of Jewish refugees from Arab coun-
tries; "oriental" Jews, largely from the Middle East and North
Africa, are now a majority of the Israeli population.) Fear of
genocidal anti-Semitism is a determining influence on Israeli pol-
icy, far more decisive, I believe, than expansionism, racism, or the
fanaticism of religious nationalists. Without anti-Semitism there
would still be a power struggle between the West and the Third
World, but the Israeli-Palestinian conflict would not exist, since
there would be no political Zionism and no Jewish state.
Anti-Zionism, in the modern political sense, is the argument that
a Jewish state in Palestine inherently violates the rights of the
Palestinian people. It regards Zionism as a racist, imperialist move-
2
39
ment in which the European Jewish bourgeoisie (Jewish power,

again) acted in concert with the colonial powers to displace the
indigenous Arabs, furthering white Western domination of the
Middle East. It assumes that religious belief is the movement's
ideological rationale, and so the PLO calls for the abolition of the
Israeli state in favor of a "democratic, secular" Palestine. The es-
sential problem with this argument is that it ignores or denies the
reality of the Jewish condition. First of all, to get around the fact
that the Jews also have historic ties to Palestine, that they are not
simply aliens and interlopers, anti-Zionists tend to define Jewish-
ness purely in terms of religion and dismiss as mythology the idea
that Jews around the world are one people. Thus Yasir Arafat's
insistence that there is no contradiction between defining Palestine
as an Arab state and guaranteeing equal rights for "Arabs of the
Jewish faith." But Jews have always regarded themselves, and been
regarded by others, as an organic entity, in some sense a nation; a
traditional excuse for anti-Semitism has been that Jews have di-
vided loyalties. Jews from Arab countries consider themselves
Jews, not Arabs of the Jewish faith. Nor is political Zionism basi-
cally a religious movement. Orthodox Jews who believe in the
biblical prophecies are Zionists by definition, but they did not
conceive of Zion in political terms—indeed, many opposed the
establishment of a Jewish state as sacrilegious. The movement for
statehood came from "emancipated" Jews who believed that Jews
would always be oppressed so long as they were homeless and
forced into marginality in gentile societies. Zionism is a national
liberation movement,* and despite the rise of religious nationalism
and a powerful religious establishment that (like the Catholic
* This term does not quite fit, though it comes closer than any other; as
usual, the Jewish experience confounds standard categories. "National libera-
tion" is generally understood to involve an indigenous people's struggle to
free themselves from foreign domination. Zionism, as a movement to gather
a dispersed, oppressed people and recreate an independent territorial national
entity, had no real historical or conceptual precedent, though it was heavily
influenced by European nationalism.
240
Church elsewhere) has imposed some religious laws on an unwill-

ing majority, Israel is essentially a secular state.
As for the charge that Zionism is an imperialist plot, it does not
simply misdefine the Jews but makes them disappear. Imperialism
involves migrating or extending one's influence from one's own
country to another. But Jews in the nineteenth century had no
country; they were aliens everywhere. Though anti-Zionists are
fond of referring to Western Jews as "Europeans," the Europeans
themselves took a rather different view of the matter. In any case,
the relationship between Zionists and the Western nations has al-
ways been tense and ambiguous; they have served each other's
needs, but their needs are very different. The Zionists ended up
having to fight Britain as well as the Arabs. And the Jews who
settled in Palestine after World War II were neither ambitious
capitalists nor Zionist ideologues; they were traumatized refugees
who were unwelcome anywhere else. Some years ago, I asked a
woman who supported the PLO if she thought Jews had no right
to national aspirations. Not at all, she assured me, so long as their
nation wasn't on someone else's land. Which set me to musing
about possibilities. The Sahara Desert? The Amazon Jungle? Imag-
ine what would have happened if the Zionists had accepted Brit-
ain's offer of a homeland in Uganda. There is enormous and
painful irony in the fact that the only conceivable way for Jews to
lay claim to a piece of land was for one group of nations to force
us on another. But the aspect of this irony that anti-Zionists consis-
tently refuse to face is what it says about the world's attitude
toward Jews. In a way, what the PLO and the Arab nations are
demanding is their equal right to treat Jews the way nations have
always treated us—that is, to deny us the right to exist on our own
terms, rather than on sufferance.
As far as I'm concerned, the only solution to the Israeli-Pales-
tinian impasse that makes moral sense is two independent states.
Whatever one's intellectual position on Zionism—that is, the idea
that all Jews should settle in Israel—Israel's existence as an alterna-
tive has clearly reduced Jewish vulnerability and, I believe, is a
241
psychological deterrent to anti-Semites. The abolition of Israel and

the incorporation of a Jewish minority in an Arab-dominated
Palestine would at best put all Jews back in a pre-Holocaust situa-
tion, and for the Israelis the reality could be far worse. It is ques-
tionable whether all Israelis would be allowed to remain as equal
citizens; the PLO's charter, which defines as Palestinians only Jews
who lived in Palestine before "the Zionist invasion," is not reassur-
ing on this point. And is the mutual hatred of all these years
expected to just evaporate? But practically speaking, these ques-
tions are irrelevant, because the Israelis will defend their state until
they are massacred or driven out. In which case the world will no
doubt blame them for being stubborn.
Another difficulty with the idea that anti-Zionism has nothing to
do with anti-Semitism is that the great majority of Jews perceive
the two issues as inseparable. One might argue, with equal logic,
"I'm not a racist, I'm just against forced integration," or "I love
women, it's feminists I can't stand." Vanessa Redgrave may think
that Zionism is "a brutal racist ideology" and "the opposite of
Judaism," but she will find precious few Jews who agree with her.
This puts her in the peculiar position of implying that except for
an enlightened minority, Jews are brutal racists, and that she
knows what Judaism is better than we do. Which is why her ritual
tributes to Jews' heroic record of struggle, and so on, are not only
empty but obnoxious. As most Jews see it, the Israelis' right to
national self-determination would be taken for granted if they
weren't Jewish. The Palestinians have the same right, of course.
What makes the Middle East situation so excruciating is the spec-
tacle of two displaced, oppressed peoples, each of them victimized
by more powerful nations, trying to kill each other. But at this
point in history, absolute justice for the Palestinians would mean
absolute injustice for the Jews.
My guess is that most Voice readers have no quarrel with this
last point. Anti-Zionist thinking predominates in most of the
world, but here it has been mostly confined to the sectarian left.
Nearly everyone agrees, in principle, on Israel's right to exist. Yet
242
I feel that non-Jews in America—particularly my peers, middle-

class liberals and radicals, the vanguard of "enlightened" opinion—
do their own milder version of making the Jews disappear. In
theory, they acknowledge that Jews are oppressed. In practice,
they see Israel much as Dreyfuss sees the Jews—as a powerful
nation beating up on the have-nots. They assume that Israeli
chauvinism, expansionism, and refusal to admit the justice of the
Palestinian cause are primarily or entirely to blame for preventing a
settlement. But a two-state compromise can work only if the inter-
national community supports and enforces it, and the international
atmosphere is overwhelmingly hostile to Israel. Most countries en-
dorse the PLO's claim to all of Palestine; if it weren't for the
United States, Israel would be long gone. And now American
support is eroding.
In this situation the Israelis are damned if they do and damned if
they don't. If they resist a Palestinian state, they stand condemned
as oppressors and obstructionists and give their only major ally an
excuse for withdrawing support. If they agree, the Palestinians
with their own state as a base will be in an infinitely better position
to pursue their claim to what they deeply believe is theirs, and the
Israelis have no good reason to believe that anyone will lift a finger
to defend them. Is it any wonder that they resist what has got to
look like suicide by installments? Why should they trust the PLO
to accept a state as more than a temporary expedient? Why should
they trust the United States, when no country has ever proved
trustworthy in its dealings with Jews? The American ruling class
is profoundly anti-Semitic; it is not going to protect Israel for
humanitarian reasons, any more than it was willing to provide a
haven for Jewish refugees during World War II or "waste" a few
planes to bomb Auschwitz. Under the circumstances the self-
righteous, simplistic condemnation of Israel that currently passes as
a "balanced view" is, in my opinion, anti-Jewish. Many aspects of
Israeli government policy, including its alliances with reactionary
regimes, disturb me enough to make me wonder if in its determi-
nation to survive Israel will lose its reason for being. But at least I
2
43
can recognize desperation when I see it; at least I can understand—

no, share—the bitterness that says, "To hell with morality and
world opinion! World opinion never did a thing for the Jews!"
The Israelis are in the classic Jewish bind. To the Palestinians
and the Third World they are white oppressors, but to their fel-
low white oppressors they are Jews. If they are surrogates for the
West, it is largely in having to pay for Western sins. For once, the
West may end up paying as well; Dreyfuss is probably right,
"History is on the side of the 'have-nots,' here and abroad." But no
matter whose side history is on, Jews have always been expendable.
And so long as we are expendable, to talk of "Jewish power" is
obscene.
August 1979
244
My Podhoretz Problem—
and His
M ention Norman Podhoretz to a radical, or even a liberal, and

chances are the response will be something like "That
asshole! I can't take him seriously!" Chances are also that the
vehemence of the dismissal will belie its content. The left's reac-
tion to Breaking Ranks: A Political Memoir has been no exception;
the general tone was captured best by Nicholas von Hoffman in
New York, going on at vituperative length about how boring and
inconsequential Podhoretz is. Anyone so hated by people who
insist he doesn't matter must be hitting a nerve. And in fact,
Podhoretz hits nerves all the time, with what he says and what
he blurts, who he is and who he purports to be. He gets under
radicals' skin in the way a William Buckley never can because he
could so easily be one of us; he comes from the same impolite,
urban middle-class milieu, long on brains and (relatively) short
on wealth, inclined to bloody fights rather than elegant debates,
imbued with left-wing assumptions. Like many leftists, Podhoretz
is Jewish; also like many leftists, Jewish or not, he has relied on
verbal braininess as his chief means of getting on in the world. He
purports to be, among other things, an intellectual. Yet despite
2
45
his occupation and his manifest engagement with ideas, he has

always impressed me as far more visceral than cerebral. The power
of his writing to anger or, conversely, to evoke the superior eye-
roll depends largely on its subtext. On some level Podhoretz is
usually raising a basic question: is real freedom desirable, or even
possible? For the past decade his answer has been an aggressive
and passionate no. Since his message often comes packaged in
frenetic exaggeration and dubious logic, he is an easy target. But
because radicals are not nearly so sure of their own answer as they
pretend, he makes them nervous.
Though radicals would prefer to dismiss it as the reflex piggery
of a self-satisfied elite, neo-conservatism is a politics of reaction in
the literal as well as the political sense—a response to the failures
and weaknesses of the left. The major figures in the neo-conserva-
tive camp, most of them self-proclaimed liberals, many of them ex-
socialists, developed their formative ideas in the wake of the old
left's worst trauma—its confrontation with socialism according to
Stalin. As a distinctive politics, neo-conservatism crystallized at the
end of the sixties, about the time the new left collapsed into sec-
tarian dogmatism and nihilistic violence. Like the rest of the crew,
Podhoretz keeps bringing up the embarrassing fact that Marxist
revolutions have produced not free societies where workers
control their lives but dictatorships that deny both political and
personal liberty. He insists that capitalism, with all its imperfec-
tions, is the only alternative to tyranny. Yet for all his democratic
rhetoric, he is hardly a libertarian. What appalls him about the
sixties and post-sixties left is not just its Marxism but its cultural
and above all its sexual radicalism. It is in fact this animus, or
anyway its intensity, that most clearly marks him as conservative
rather than liberal. As Peter Steinfels points out in his book, The
Neoconservatives (a fine piece of analysis, of the non-eye-rolling,
know-your-enemy genre), there is a muddle in the neo-conserva-
tives' logic—the free market they defend erodes the authority of
the family, religion, and government, creating the "adversary
culture" they deplore. But this contradiction masks a deeper one.
246
My Podhoretz Problem—and His
Why is it that as soon as people have any real choice in the matter,
they start rejecting authority? Could it be that they are asserting a
fundamental and legitimate need for freedom? That's what I think;
Podhoretz takes for granted that authority is necessary to civilized
life. Stripped to basics, our argument is not unlike the one I've
always had with my father, now retired from his anomalous (for a
Jewish liberal) career as a New York City cop. His experience
convinced him that people are basically antisocial and will do any-
thing they can get away with. That, finally, is the quarrel
conservatives (whatever they call themselves) have with radicals,
who supposedly believe that we are, or can be, capable of building
a society that functions without police.
The irony is that by this standard, most radicals aren't. Though
I don't know any radicals who admit to liking police, the left has
been at best ambivalent about freedom. Most leftists cling to the
assumption that economic inequality is the root cause of oppres-
sion, though a class analysis alone clearly cannot account for the
perversion of socialism, or the persecution of Jews, or the oppres-
sion of women. During the seventies the left has moved steadily to
the right on cultural issues. Leftists regularly disparage concern
for feminism, gay rights, sexual liberation, and personal freedom as
frivolous or even reactionary. They may blame rampant "narcis-
sism" on capitalism, while Podhoretz blames it on radicalism, but
the effect is the same. Part of this unholy alliance between the neo-
conservatives and their enemies comes down to plain sexism—men
defending their right to police women. But there's something else.
Authoritarian culture is all we know. Somewhere in most of us—if
not in all of us—is the fear that freedom can only mean trouble.
Radicals tend to hide that fear; Podhoretz acts it out in public,
more loudly and nakedly than anyone else. Foolish as he often is,
he hits my nerves. When I fight with neo-conservatives in my
head, it's Podhoretz I have in mind, not Irving Kristol. And in one
way or another I've been fighting with him ever since the late
sixties, when Commentary published a piece of mine after much
editorial wrangling over whether its subject, Bob Dylan, could
2
47
possibly be as important as I thought. In certain ways I empathize

with Podhoretz; I'm Jewish and ambitious, and just as he used his
intellectual skills to get out of Brownsville, I've used mine to stay
out of the kitchen. The differences—that I am a woman, have
never been poor, belong to another generation (younger both
chronologically and culturally)—are more crucial, and so we've
ended up on opposite sides. Still, when I argue with him, I'm also
arguing with myself; over the years my father told a lot of grue-
some stories.
Similarly, Podhoretz's revulsion against radicalism is the measure
of his attraction to it. In the early seventies, when I retreated from
the wars to a small town, I spent a lot of time in the library,
reading Commentary's attacks on the movement. This was not just
an exercise in masochism. Commentary seemed to be the only
place I could find something I badly needed—a sustained, impas-
sioned discussion of What Went Wrong. The magazine was as
obsessed with the subject as I was, no easy feat. Nearly a decade
later, Podhoretz is still obsessed. Breaking Ranks is not a neo-
conservative manifesto, except by the way. The prologue describes
it as "my odyssey to radicalism . . . the whole story of how and
why I went from being a liberal to being a radical and then finally
to being an enemy of radicalism in all its forms and varieties." Just
as Satan takes over Paradise Lost, this more modest epic is domi-
nated by its villains—the hydra of Stalinism, the sirens of the "new
sensibility," the "voices like snakes and beetles and rats" (in
Norman Mailer's words) that shredded Podhoretz's confessional
book, Making It.
That Podhoretz is fascinated by radicals I knew, but it startled
me to read that he sees himself as an ex-radical who "played a not
inconsiderable part" in launching the movement. During the sixties
I thought of him as a liberal with a certain sympathy but a greater
skepticism toward the left, and it never occurred to me that he
might think otherwise. "When I wrote Making It" he claims, "I
still considered myself a member, and even in some sense a leader,
of the radical movement." That sentence drove me back to Mak-
248
ing It to see if I'd missed something. I hadn't. The book is full of

insights about the American class system, but it never suggests that
the iron law of capitalism, screw or be screwed, might be other
than eternal truth. In Breaking Ranks, Podhoretz most often uses
the word "radical" to mean "extreme" or "bold" or to describe
any position outside the liberal and/or Cold War consensus. He
comes closest to a coherent viewpoint in discussing his enthusiasm
for Paul Goodman's ideas, and I find it particularly interesting that
it was cultural radicalism—Goodman, Norman Mailer, Norman O.
Brown—he responded to. But though I'm willing to take his word
that Goodman in some sense converted him, the conversion never
sounds quite real. At the start of his odyssey he is defending mar-
riage and middle-class life against the beats' "refusing to grow up
and settle down"; suddenly he is fed up with the fifties gospel of
maturity and resignation, eager for change, talking about the
"pathologies of American life." The best he can do for an explana-
tion (characteristically, he offers it in behalf of the entire culture
as well as himself) is to cite Robert Nisbet's crack that boredom is
the most neglected force in history. But the answer begs the
question—boredom is already a form of rebellion. What was
Podhoretz rebelling against? Had our national pathologies infected
his life? Did his endorsement of Goodman's sexual radicalism re-
flect any change in his sanguine view of marriage? He doesn't say;
perhaps he doesn't know.
Nevertheless, Podhoretz claims to speak with the authority of
the disaffected insider. Commentary's antimovement broadside was
effective, he argues, because "We knew the radical world of the
'6os at first hand and in all its aspects." In other words, since
Podhoretz was born too late to slay Stalinist dragons in the thirties,
he is determined to cast himself in an updated version of that role.
But what he actually knows at first hand is the much narrower
world of liberal and radical intellectuals. His solipsistic notion that
Commentary and the New York Review were at the center of
the sixties universe leads him to rewrite history. Unfortunately for
his pretensions to leadership, he was born too early. He has never
249
understood the most distinctive aspect of sixties radicalism—the

generational culture that created it.
Podhoretz scoffs at the idea that what happened in the sixties
was a rebellion of youth; the conflict, he argues, was "a political
one cutting across all age groups on an axis of social class and
ethnicity." Well, yes—the white left and counterculture consisted
mostly of upper-middle-class WASPs and Jews, some of whom
were rumored to be over thirty. But the energy for the revolt, and
much of its content, came from the specific, collective experience
of the generation born between (approximately) 1940 and 1950.
We were, as the Port Huron Statement put it, "bred in at least
modest comfort"; since we never had to worry about survival, we
were naive enough to be daring (and smug). We absorbed mass
culture—advertising, neon, comic books, TV, the endless array of
consumer goods—before we were old enough to think about it.
The expanding economy transformed us from adolescents—an age
group—into teen-agers—a market, which then became a culture
based on self-conscious protest against adult authority, especially
in regard to sex. And rock-and-roll expressed it all. Name any
target of the radical movement—corporate liberalism, the old left,
the bureaucratic university, the family, conventional sexual moral-
ity, rationalism (not the same as rationality, though the distinction
was often fudged)—and behind it was the specter of "mature"
respectability. It wasn't a matter of refusing to grow up and settle
down but of refusing to equate one with the other. Among older
people, feelings about the movement split sharply along class and
ethnic lines, but countercultural attitudes and styles gradually
spread to young people throughout the class structure. (Oddly,
Podhoretz refers to the fact that McGovern "barely carried a
majority of young voters" as if it supported his argument; given
how McGovern did with the rest of the electorate, it seems a clear
refutation.) Nor was sixties youth culture synonymous with radi-
calism; in many ways it was just a newer and more sophisticated
adaptation to the system. Which is why, despite the conservatism
of recent years, American culture has changed irrevocably.
250
Podhoretz recognizes this; he observes (as usual overstating the

case) that if the movement is dead, "it died as much because it 'won
as because it lost. Its attitudes and ideas are now everywhere."
But he doesn't hear what he's saying. He argues that the "new
culture" was nothing new, but merely the latest version of what
Lionel Trilling had called the "adversary culture"—the anti-
bourgeois, antiliberal, anti-American attitudes, of both the left and
the right, that intellectuals had absorbed from modern literature.
The only thing that made the counterculture different was "its
unprecedented size and influence." This is like saying that the
Atlantic Ocean is no different from Walden Pond, except that it
has more water. That the counterculture was a mass phenomenon,
rather than a tiny band of dissidents, changed the whole meaning
of bohemia. Most counterculturists identified to some degree with
the attitudes and ideas of the "adversary" tradition, yet the fact
that bohemianism had become such an attractive choice (with all
the money floating around in the sixties, it involved little if any
real sacrifice) tended to undermine those attitudes, and the sheer
numbers of people involved inevitably diluted the ideas. An impor-
tant reason for the counterculture's relative indifference to intel-
lectual and literary values—one of Podhoretz's big complaints—
was that so many of its members were not intellectual or literary.
The cultural lingua franca for sixties dissidents was not literature
but a mass art—pop music. And it was precisely this aspect of the
counterculture, its expansion way beyond a small intellectual elite,
that made radicals hope they could actually change the society, as
opposed to tossing spitballs at it from the sidelines.
With this hope in mind a substantial faction of the countercul-
ture dissented from the literary antibourgeois perspective. As
many of us saw it, literary culture reflected certain class values—
basically, those of the European aristocracy—and disdain for mass
culture was rooted in class snobbery. We rejected the idea that
mass art was either inherently corrupt or inherently inferior to
"high" art. Rather, it had its own set of aesthetic principles that
derived from its American bourgeois origins. At its best, we felt, it
25 1
had radical implications; it expressed the libertarian, democratic

impulses that capitalism encouraged but could not satisfy. What
we loved most about rock was the way it made disparate groups
connect—hippies, bikers, artists, high school kids, college kids, sol-
diers, even (sometimes) whites and blacks.
As this view implies, we argued that capitalism had its positive
side, that American society was not just a vast sinkhole of oppres-
sion, and that radicals who despised America were indulging the
most reactionary sort of class bias—an argument that, ironically,
had much in common with the thesis of Making It. Certainly the
new culturists I hung around with were more sympathetic to the
book than Podhoretz's peers, including his friends. (According to
Breaking Ranks, the private reaction to Making It was even worse
than the public one; Trilling actually urged him not to publish it.)
Like Podhoretz, we admired Mailer's Advertisements for Myself
and were impatient with prissy moralizing about the bitch goddess.
Besides, Podhoretz's governing idea, that Making It should em-
body its subject—should be, in his words, "a Mailer-like bid for
literary distinction, fame, and money, all in one package"—
appealed to our sense of how mass culture worked. But because of
our interest in the aesthetics of celebrity, we could have told him
something about why his bid did not come off: Mailer was a genius
at the art of image making, while Podhoretz had much less feel for
it than the average two-year-old.
When Making It came out, Richard Goldstein, who was then
editing a counterculture magazine called US, conceived the idea of
running a Classic Comic version of the book and asked me to write
the scenario. The project never got done, but I still have my
scenario—a mix of satire and affection, aimed less at Podhoretz's
ideas than at his exasperating yet endearingly vulnerable egotism
and (re his quarrel with James Baldwin, "My Negro Problem,"
and so on) rilled with crass jokes about Jews and blacks that don't
sound so funny anymore. I guess you could call it a bid for truth,
catharsis, and laughs, all in one package. It was this sort of spirit
that informed radicals' fascination with pop culture, which
2 2
5
Podhoretz can only see as a plot against literature and intellectual

standards and as further evidence of the low level of radical
thought. While he accuses the movement of contempt for nuance,
he doesn't hesitate to mangle distinctions himself. He ignores or
plays down the differences between the counterculture, the or-
ganized radical left, and the reformist new politics movement, as-
sumes that New York Review writers represent all three
tendencies, then ignores the differences among the writers them-
selves. In the apparent belief that radical intellectuals (and by ex-
tension all radicals) have one head, which can be cut off with a
single but thorough stroke, he castigates us for two directly oppos-
ing sins. First, he charges that while we pretended to be disinter-
ested idealists, and therefore uniquely qualified to run the country,
what we really wanted was power. At the same time, those of us
who did criticize radicals for confusing their class biases with high-
minded literary values are accused of subordinating art to ideology.
This is not to deny that the movement had an antiintellectual
current, whose central theme was that intellectuals are an elite,
hence inherently or at least presumptively reactionary. A lot of
radical writers, including me, were bothered by the contradictions
in our role. Here we were, trying to create a movement that
would abolish class hierarchy, yet we were middle-class, had elite
literary educations and the privilege of access to the media, and
often used that privilege to criticize the movement. If part of our
uneasiness was honorable—a rejection of the lie that we were dis-
interested idealists—part of it was nothing more than the unad-
mitted desire to escape our marginality. Like left-wing Jews who
take refuge in universalism, we wanted to blend in with "the peo-
ple." (A breast-beating antiwriting remark of mine, which Pod-
horetz quotes—without attribution, much to my relief—was
provoked by an editor's attempt to compliment my writing by
distinguishing it from what he saw as mindless activism.)
That desire was futile and wrong-headed; every movement
needs critics, class-biased or no. But Podhoretz ought to be less self-
righteous on this point, since he so obviously wants to escape his
2
53
own marginality by blending in with the establishment. He argues

that intellectuals should support American capitalism because
communism proscribes intellectual freedom and the left is hostile
to it; that Jews should support the system because Israel's security
depends on American protection and because the left has pro-
moted anti-Zionism, anti-Semitism, and egalitarian notions that
threaten Jews' relatively privileged status. But capitalism needs
critics too, and Podhoretz's view of Jewish interests ignores a basic
dynamic of anti-Semitism: in "protecting" Jews, ruling classes set
us up as substitute targets for the anger of the oppressed. I don't
think Podhoretz admits to himself that neither Jews nor intellec-
tuals can ever really make it, no matter how privileged they may
be. On the contrary, from his rhetoric one would think that radical
intellectuals are (or for a time were) immensely powerful and that
his own decision to embrace the system was a brave rebellion. This
view depends heavily on the premise that the Upper West Side is
the world. But it allows Podhoretz to reconcile his personal con-
tradictions, to retain a sense of himself as an iconoclast while suc-
cumbing to his need to identify with authority.
For me the most interesting questions posed by Breaking Ranks
have to do with the psychology of backlash. Why did Podhoretz
feel called upon not merely to reject the left, but to make a career
of repudiating radicalism itself, "in all its forms and varieties"? He
is not much more forthcoming on this subject than on why he
became a radicaloid in the first place; he refers to some sort of
religious illumination that clarified his thinking, but with frustrat-
ing and unaccustomed reticence omits the details. Otherwise he
offers platitudes: sixties radicals confused politics with religion;
they blamed all problems on the state instead of the human condi-
tion or their own failings; their pursuit of unattainable messianic
aims inevitably led to nihilism. Radicalism, he concludes, is a "spir-
itual plague" motivated by self-hatred posing as selfless idealism.
As a healthy alternative, he proposes the frank pursuit of one's
material interests; like Adam Smith and Charles Wilson, he is con-
fident that this approach best serves the common good.
If Podhoretz were simply arguing that the sixties left tended to
254
substitute millennial fantasies for concrete political goals, or that it

craved instant solutions to enormously difficult problems, we
would have no argument. But -what he really wants is to remove
large areas of human behavior from political scrutiny and conten-
tion. Any interest that is not narrowly economic is to be regarded
as "spiritual," therefore to be pursued privately if at all. This
distinction allows Podhoretz to dismiss the issues cultural radicals
raise by defining them as nonissues and calling the people who raise
them nasty names. His urge to abandon rational argument for
invective, which prowls through the pages of Breaking Ranks like
a restless guard dog, finally breaks loose in the epilogue. The chief
targets here are women's liberation and the gay rights movement,
which Podhoretz sees as the inheritors of sixties radicalism and
proof that the plague has not yet run its course. Advocates of these
causes are "women who do not wish to be women" and "men who
do not wish to be men." Like the beats before us, we want to avoid
growing up and taking on the responsibilities of parenthood. Our
self-hating rejection of our biological natures has destroyed our
will to reproduce; the birth rate falls while the abortion rate rises.
Our "identification of sterility with vitality" links us to—what
else?—"the new narcissism of the Me Decade."
Other objections aside, this tirade is a tangle of inconsistencies.
It would appear, after all, that feminists and militant gays have
been doing what Podhoretz, in another context, endorses—pursu-
ing their interests. True, these interests are not just economic, but
they are not nebulously spiritual, either. Faced with such indubita-
bly secular demands as women's insistence that men share child
care, or homosexuals' desire to be openly gay without fear of
punishment, Podhoretz suddenly discovers the need to transcend
individual selfishness—an imperative he seems to equate with hav-
ing children, as if there were no other way to connect with the
race. At the same time he argues that our demands really reflect
the most profound sort of self-rejection. (Not for us the crude
strategy of disguising self-hatred as idealism; we have hit on the far
more diabolical scheme of disguising it as self-interest.) He does
not try to show that we are wrong, that the present system of
2
55
relations between the sexes is indeed the inevitable and desirable

expression of sexual differences. Nor does it occur to him that this
very system—which sets up an excruciating conflict between the
demands of motherhood and the rewards of a full life outside the
home—might have something to do with the falling birth rate. He
simply condemns our benightedness as if it were obvious to all
right-thinking people. (This attitude is characteristic of neo-
conservative writing on sexual politics. Even when Midge Decter
devoted an entire book to the subject, she constructed her argu-
ment by asserting certain traditional ideas about men and women
as self-evident fact, then analyzing feminists' motives for denying
reality.) Refusal to grapple with basic questions about sex seems an
odd stance for an intellectual—unless, of course, he's afraid of the
answers.
In a way Podhoretz is right—there is a spiritual issue at stake in
cultural politics, and it does have to do with self-hatred versus self-
acceptance. But it's a bit more complicated than he thinks. Self-
hatred can masquerade as radicalism; I know, for instance, that
somewhere in my rebellion against the prescribed feminine role
lurked a secret hope of escaping femaleness altogether. That sort
of self-hating hope comes from accepting the oppressor's world
view; it is really the very opposite of radicalism. Yet in the rebel-
lion was a deeper self-love, a refusal to submit to a false and limit-
ing definition of who and what I was. Antifeminist women play
out their own version of this conflict. What could be more self-
hating, for a woman, than to oppose legal abortion or a constitu-
tional ban on sex discrimination? And yet there is a self-affirming
impulse in such protest; it says, in effect, "If this is what being a
woman means, I'm going to be the best woman you ever saw!"
The trouble with the conservative brand of self-acceptance is
that it is alienated: it requires identifying with an externally im-
posed definition of oneself, which means not only lying on Pro-
crustes' bed but kissing his ass. I think Podhoretz is trapped by an
external definition, by the role of the poor Jewish kid whose ad-
vancement and, in a sense, survival depends on getting straight A's
and impressing everyone in sight. In Making It he wrote elo-
256
quently about the acculturation process, but he has never really

faced how deep it goes or how unjust it is. Reading Breaking
Ranks, I was struck by how relentlessly he sees himself through
other people's eyes, through their praises and betrayals. As a result,
the tone of the book is somewhat sour, for there have been fewer
praises and more betrayals than Podhoretz feels he deserves. The
dirty little secret Making It didn't tell (because the author didn't
know it?) was that Podhoretz's hunger for approval is more cen-
tral to his character than his hunger for money, power, or fame.
Podhoretz doesn't understand why his New York intellectual
"family," whose approval he probably wants most, punished him
for celebrating success, while they let Norman Mailer get away
with it. His theory is that he is more honest, that unlike Mailer he
refuses to undercut his unpalatable truths with "the reassuring
gesture, the wink of complicity." With some justice he accuses
Mailer of playing the fool, "free to speak the truth to the king, but
only because, being a fool, he need not be taken seriously." Yet the
key to Podhoretz's problem is not in Mailer's foolery but in his
own earnestness. Advertisements for Myself said that by God, we
want it all and ought to grab it. Making It said that if we learn the
rules of the game and play it very well, they'll let us have a taste.
Mailer is id, Podhoretz superego; Mailer plays the macho outlaw,
Podhoretz the respectable husband; Mailer lusts for gold, Pod-
horetz for gold stars. If Mailer is, as Podhoretz calls him, "the bad
boy of American letters," Podhoretz is the good boy forever lec-
turing the bad boys that if they continue playing hooky they will
come to grief. Naturally, the bad boys kick the shit out of him
(with an extra kick or two because they're afraid he's right); they
don't realize that when he lectures he is trying to convince himself.
There is more than a little Mailer in Podhoretz (as there is more
than a little Podhoretz in Mailer). But he won't face down the
gorgon of authoritarian culture and ask what manner of beast it is,
why we should do its will. Instead, he announces his return from
an odyssey that barely had a chance to begin.
December 197 9
M7
Part Three
Next Year in
Jerusalem
Next Year in Jerusalem
GENESIS
I n the spring of 1975 my brother Michael, then twenty-four, was

on his way home from his third trip through Asia when he
arrived in Israel, planning to stay a few weeks before heading
back to New York. On April 28 he wrote to our parents: "I've
been staying at, of all things, an Orthodox Jewish yeshiva—when
I got to Jerusalem I went to visit the Wailing Wall and got in-
vited—they hang around there looking for unsuspecting tourists
to proselytize. It's sort of a Jewish Jesus-freak type outfit—dedi-
cated to bringing real Judaism to backsliding Jews. I haven't been
especially impressed by the message, but it's been a really inter-
esting week." On June 4 he wrote me, "I've had my lack of faith
shaken."
I appreciated the ironic turn of phrase. Then its meaning hit. I
read on: "I've read and talked about it enough to realize that the
arguments for the existence of G-d (a spelling which shows how
superstitious I'm becoming)—and the Jewish version of it at that
—are very plausible and intellectually if not emotionally convinc-
ing. . . . It's frightening, because while I can convince myself of
the possibility and even probability of the religion, I don't like
261
NEXT YEAR IN JERUSALEM
it—its 613 commandments, its puritanism, its political conserva-

tism, its Jews-first philosophy. On the other hand, if it is the truth,
not to follow it means turning your back on the truth." He was
postponing his return till the end of July.
I called my parents. My mother thought I was being an alarmist
—Mike couldn't be serious about religion; it was too removed
from the way he'd been brought up. "He's spelling God 'G-d,' " I
said. There is a religious law that you cannot destroy paper on
which you have spelled out "God."
Two weeks later they got another letter: "I haven't written
because I'm having trouble describing what's happening. I feel
more and more that I'm trapped into a religion whose truth I can't
deny. . . . I've never given much thought to the existence of
G-d—my LSD experiences had (same as with Ellen) left me with
the idea that there was 'something' there, but I never thought it was
knowable or explainable (& if it was explainable certainly more in
terms of mystical experience & Buddhism than the 'G-d of our
Fathers' of Judaism). But my time here has really forced me to
come to terms with what that 'something' might be. . . . I'm not
Jesus-freaking out—I haven't come to this through any blinding
moment of illumination or desire to be part of a group—it's been
an intellectual process (which I've been fighting emotionally all
the way), and I'd like nothing better than to reject it—I just don't
think I'll be able to.
"The final shock in this letter is that I may not leave here at
the end of July. If I accept this as the truth, I have to take time to
learn about it."
The "truth" Mike proposed to accept was Judaism in its most
extreme, absolutist form: the God of the Old Testament exists;
He has chosen the Jewish people to carry out His will; the Torah
(the Five Books of Moses and the Oral Law elaborating on them)
is literally the word of God, revealed to the Jews at Mount Sinai;
the creation, the miracles in Egypt, and other biblical events actu-
ally happened; the Torah's laws, which are based on 613 mitzvos
(commandments) and govern every aspect of one's existence,
262
must be obeyed in every detail; they are eternal, unchangeable;

Conservative, Reform, and other revisionist versions of Judaism
simply reflect the regrettable human tendency to shirk difficult
obligations.
My parents had the same first impulse: "Let's go to Israel and
bring him home." My father was already out of his chair and
about to leave the house to go buy plane tickets when they looked
at each other and decided they were overreacting. My own reac-
tion was a kind of primal dread. In my universe, intelligent, sensi-
ble people who had grown up in secular homes in the second half
of the twentieth century did not embrace biblical fundamentalism
—let alone arrive at it through an "intellectual process." My
brother was highly intelligent, had always seemed sensible. What
was going on?
My father is a retired police lieutenant; my mother is a house-

wife. They married during the Depression and now live in a house
with a paid-up mortgage in a modestly middle-class section of
Queens, New York. They are college-educated, literary-minded,
and politically liberal. I am the oldest of their three children; my
sister, a graduate student in linguistics, is in the middle; Mike is the
youngest. Mike and I were born in December, nine years apart
almost to the day. The coincidence of birthdays is one of many
similarities. If the prospect of Mike's becoming an Orthodox Jew
was frightening, it was not simply because he was my brother,
someone I loved. I felt an almost mystical identification with Mike.
Our baby pictures were identical, and though Mike was now taller
and thinner than I, we had the same fair skin, curly brown hair,
and astigmatic, sleepy green eyes. We were (not that I really
believed in that stuff—still—) cliche Sagittarians: analytical, pre-
occupied with words and ideas. We were inclined to repress feel-
ings; our intellectual confidence coexisted with emotional
insecurity and a tendency to depression.
I was fascinated with the notion that Mike was what I might
263
have become had I been a man, the last born instead of the first, a
child of the seventies rather than the sixties. I wondered how much
the differences between us had to do with our circumstances
rather than our basic natures. For there were differences, of course.
Mike was much more reserved than I; he rarely talked about his
feelings, his problems, or his relationships. I was more worldly,
more willing to compete in and compromise with a hostile system.
My friendships were central to my life; he was, or seemed to be, a
loner.
The qualities we shared were more pronounced in Mike, the
opposing tendencies more hidden. Next to him I always felt a bit
irrational and uncool. Picture a recurrent family scene: my father
and I are sitting in the kitchen, having a passionate political argu-
ment. My brother is listening, not saying a word. Suddenly I put
myself in his place, become self-conscious. I hear all the half-truths
and rhetorical exaggerations that in the emotion of the moment I
have allowed to pass my lips. I realize, with chagrin, that my father
and I have had, and my brother has listened to, the same argument
at least half a dozen times before. I am sure Mike thinks we are
ridiculous.
I was disturbed and mystified by what I saw as my brother's
swing from a skepticism more rigorous than my own to an equally
extreme credulity. How could anyone familiar with the work of a
certain Viennese Jew possibly believe in God the Father? What
puzzled me even more was Mike's insistence that he was being
reluctantly convinced by irresistible arguments. It seemed to me
that his critical intelligence could only be in the way.
On acid I had, as Mike observed, experienced the something that

Westerners have most commonly called "God"—the source of all
truth, beauty, goodness. Unlike Mike, I had felt that I knew what
it was. "So this is what it's all about," I had marveled. "It's so
simple, so obvious. And I've known it all the time. I just didn't
know I knew." But when I came down it was less obvious. The
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ecstasy—a word that didn't quite convey a feeling as natural as a

spring thaw, as comfortable as coming home—gradually slipped
away. "All God is," I would try to explain, "is reality—the simple,
wonderful reality behind the abstract concepts and ingrained
habits of perception that keep us from ever really experiencing it."
And I would sound hopelessly abstract even to myself. Soon,
whatever clouded the doors of perception in ordinary life began to
invade my acid trips as well. I tried to fight that process—
doggedly pursuing the right mood, the right situation—and only
made things worse; finally, frustrated and demoralized, I stopped
tripping. The entire experience had a permanent, profound effect
on the way I saw myself and the world. I knew that connecting
with Reality—I couldn't call it God; to me that word meant an old
man with a white beard—was the crucial business of life, the key
to freedom, sanity, happiness. I knew that if I could make the
connection I would think: "How silly of me to have forgotten!"
But I didn't know how to proceed.
This problem was not, of course, peculiar to me. It had been
plaguing spiritual seekers for thousands of years. Many had tried,
far more eloquently than I, to express what they agreed was inex-
pressible. Recognizing the inadequacy of intellectual analysis, reli-
gions tried to evoke the crucial connection through myths, rituals,
rules of conduct. But in the end religion, like language, tried to
express the truth in concrete form and so inevitably distorted it. If
all religions were inspired by a common Reality, each reflected the
particular cultural, political, and psychological limitations of the
people who invented and practiced it. Which posed another prob-
lem. If you understood that your religion was only an imperfect
approach to the truth, you remained outside it, an observer, a
critic. If, on the other hand, you truly believed—worshiped an
omnipotent God, accepted Jesus as your savior, surrendered to a
guru—you were confusing a set of metaphors for reality with
Reality itself. And that put you back on square one. Or did it?
On my second acid trip I had had a joyous vision of the birth of
Christ. In one part of my mind I had become an early Christian,
265
experiencing the ecstasy of grace, redemption, the washing away

of sin. But on a deeper level I had remained aloof, thinking, "Re-
member, you are a Jew." For the first time I had had a wistful
inkling of what it must be like to be committed to a powerful
myth. Maybe if you had faith that Jesus would save you, He
would. Maybe the point was simply to stop listening to that
observer-critic inside my head, to surrender my will, to have faith,
and what I had faith in didn't matter any more than whether I
took a train or a bus to my destination.
"Suppose you had faith in Hitler?" my observer-critic, that ir-
repressible crank, could not help objecting. Still, part of what had
messed up my acid trips was doubt, whispering like the serpent:
What if the straight world is right, and what you think is Reality
is a seductive hallucination? I couldn't assent to the experience
without reservation, following wherever it led; it might lead to
insanity. So I tried to compromise. I wanted to tap the ecstasy
whenever I wanted and be "normal" the rest of the time. It was, I
suppose, the same impulse that makes sinners go to church on
Sunday, with much the same result.
I was aware of the link between my skepticism and my Jewish-
ness. It was, after all, the Jew who was the perennial doubter, the
archetypal outsider, longing for redemption while dismissing the
claims of would-be redeemers as so much snake oil. But what did
any of this have to do with the kind of Jewishness my brother
was talking about?
Mike had grown up into the economic and cultural slough of the
seventies. Though he had always been an excellent student, he had
never liked school; he had found college as boring and meaningless
as high school and elementary school before that. Since graduating
from the University of Michigan in 1970, with a B.A. in Chinese,
he had spent nearly half his time traveling. Recurrent asthma had
kept him from being drafted. Between trips he would come back
to New York and drive a cab to make money for the next trip. He
266
had never had a job he liked. During his last stay in New York he
had begun writing articles about Asia, and he had gone back with
the idea of doing more. He had had a few pieces in newspapers,
but no major breakthrough, and one major disappointment: an
article he'd worked hard on was first accepted by a magazine, then
sent back.
Mike was also depressed about Cambodia and Vietnam. In 1973
he had spent almost two months in Cambodia and had come away
convinced that as much as the people hated the corrupt Lon Nol
government, they did not want the Americans to leave and permit
a Communist takeover. As Mike saw it, they wanted to be left
alone to farm, while the Khmer Rouge made them take sides and
shot those who chose incorrectly; they were religious Buddhists,
while the Communists were antireligious and would make young
men work instead of becoming monks; in short, they wanted to
return to their traditional, prewar way of life, which the Com-
munists would permanently destroy. Those premises had led Mike
to what seemed an unavoidable conclusion: the Americans should
not withdraw. For someone who had shared the American left's
assumptions about the war, it was a disturbing reversal. If he had
been wrong about Cambodia, he thought, perhaps he had been
wrong about Vietnam. This past fall, a return trip to Cambodia
and two weeks in Vietnam had reinforced his doubts.
When Mike arrived in Jerusalem, he had been traveling for
seven months. He was going home to uncertain writing prospects,
another cab job or something similar, no close friends, isolation in
a political atmosphere that took for granted the assumptions he had
discarded, and a general ambience of postcounterculture aimless-
ness. It took no great insight to suspect that what traditional
Judaism offered—absolute values to which Mike could dedicate his
life; a new and exciting subject to study; a close-knit religious
community; a stable, secure social structure—was considerably
more attractive. Anyway, I didn't believe that people ever made
profound spiritual changes for purely intellectual reasons; there
had to be feelings Mike wasn't acknowledging. Not that this
267
proved anything about the validity of Judaism. A believer could

argue that Mike had been drifting because he hadn't found God,
that his unhappiness was, in fact, God's way of leading him to the
truth. Still, I worried that he was succumbing to an authoritarian
illusion in an attempt to solve (or escape from) his problems.
In answer to my request for more details Mike sent a seven-page,

single-spaced typed letter. I chewed it over, making notes in the
margin. Much of it was devoted to debunking evolution. The mar-
velous complexity and interdependence of everything in the
universe—so the argument ran—show planning and purpose and
could not have come about through the random process of natural
selection. Plants and animals are perfectly constructed machines;
the brain has been compared to a computer. When you see a
computer, your obvious conclusion is that someone built it accord-
ing to a plan. ("Rampant anthropomorphism!" I scribbled.) Every
detail of creation is purposeful. For example, ready-to-eat fruits
(like apples) have tempting, bright colors; vegetables that require
cooking (like potatoes) are drab. ("What about toadstools?") No
one has ever seen a mutation that changed one species into another.
How does evolution explain something like a poisonous snake,
whose survival advantage depends on a combination of traits, each
useless alone? Did its poison come first, and did it then wait around
millions of years for the ability to inject—or vice versa? And why
did creation stop; why aren't new things constantly coming into
being? ("Human chauvinism!" I wrote. "Who says creation
stopped—new life forms take eons—we can't even see plants
grow.")
As for the God-given nature of the Torah, when you study it in
Hebrew, along with the commentaries that have been written on
virtually every word, it is hard to believe that such depth and
complexity could have been achieved by human beings; Judaism is
such a restrictive religion that the Jews would never have accepted
it if the entire people hadn't witnessed the revelation; biblical
268
prophecies predict the Jewish exile, the return to Israel, and other
historical events. The prophecies were impressive, I had to admit:
"Ye will be torn away from the land whither thou goest . . . and
G-d will scatter you among the nations. . . . thou wilt find no ease
and there will be no resting place for the sole of thy foot. . . . And
then G-d thy G-d will return . . . and gather thee together. . . ."
And so on. I began to get a headache.
Finally, my brother came to the subject I had been anticipating
and dreading: women. Orthodox Judaism enshrined as divine law a
male supremacist ideology I had been struggling against, in one
way or another, all my life. It was a patriarchal religion that de-
creed separate functions for the sexes—man to learn, administer
religious law, and exercise public authority; woman to sanctify the
home. For Mike to accept it would be (face it!) a betrayal. Al-
ready I had had the bitter thought: "You want to go back in time,
find a community where mama will still take care of you. You're
just like the rest." Under the anger was fear that my sense of
special connection with my brother was an illusion. If I were a
man . . . if he were a woman . . . there was an unbridgeable gap in
that if.
From a secular viewpoint, Mike conceded, Judaism gave men
the better deal, but from a religious viewpoint it wasn't so clear.
For one thing, God-fearing men, though they had the power to
oppress women, would not do so. And if our purpose on earth was
not to do interesting work or have a good time but to come close
to God, then women had certain advantages: they had fewer
commandments to perform, fewer opportunities to sin, and by
having children could approach God more easily.
"Power to oppress is oppressive," I wrote in the margin. "Power
corrupts the saintliest man. Exemption from responsibilities is im-
plicit insult." Yet I realized that, after all, my objections were
beside the point. This God, if He really existed, had chosen to
create a hierarchy of sexes. Doubtless He had some purpose in
mind, some spiritual test, perhaps a lesson in conquering pride. It
might seem unfair, but it had to be for the best in the end . . . and I
269
could never believe in such a God, never, it violated my surest

sense of what Reality was about. When you connected there were
no hierarchies, divisions, roles; all that was part of the husk that
fell away. "I am the vanguard of the revolution!" I had shouted,
high on acid, climbing up a mountain trail followed by two men
who were truly my equals, our battle-of-the-sexes fright masks
discarded somewhere down the road. There would be misunder-
standings later, but that was another story.
No, I couldn't believe in the Jewish God. He had been invented
by men seeking a rationale for their privileges. He had been in-
vented by people seeking to reduce an ineffable Reality to terms
they could understand—to a quasi-human "creator" with a "plan"
and a "purpose," standing outside the universe and making it the
way a carpenter made a table.
In August my parents visited Mike in Jerusalem. He was still

living and studying at Yeshivat Aish HaTorah. A yeshiva is a
school where Jews study Torah; this one also functioned as a small
religious community. It occupied modest quarters—a communal
study room, a few classrooms, a library, an office for the rabbi— in
the Jewish section of the Old City; several nearby apartments
served as dormitories. Aish HaTorah (the name means "Fire of the
Torah") is an English-speaking yeshiva headed by Noach Wein-
berg, a rabbi from New York. Most of its students—there were
around twenty-five at the time—were young Americans; most had
been tourists passing through. Mike was taking courses in Chomesh
(the Five Books of Moses), the Mishna (the written codification
of the Oral Law), halacha (Jewish law), biblical Hebrew, and "48
Ways to Gain Knowledge" (talks by the rabbi on Jewish ideas
about learning). His weekday schedule began at 7 in the morning,
with an hour of prayer before breakfast. Ordinarily, he had classes
and study hours from 9 to i, then lunch and twenty minutes of
afternoon prayer, classes and study from 3 to 7:30, dinner, evening
prayer from 8:30 to 9, and more classes till 10. He usually studied
270
till around 11:30. During mother and dad's visit he was taking some
time off in the afternoon and evening.
My parents had both, in their individual ways, been struggling
to come to terms with Mike's "conversion." My mother consid-
ered herself in some sense religious; she believed in God, even
believed that the Torah might be God-given. But she couldn't see
that God required us to observe all those regulations. Wasn't it
enough to be a good person? Characteristically, she focused on
practical concerns. Was Mike happy? Would religion give him
what he badly needed—something satisfying to do with his life?
My father was the son of an Orthodox rabbi, but for all his adult
life he had equated rationalism and religious tolerance with en-
lightenment. Clarence Darrow, defending Scopes and evolution
against Bryan and the fundamentalist know-nothings, had been his
intellectual hero. To have a child of his reject those values was a
painful shock. But he had been forced by his respect for Mike's
mind—and no doubt by the logic of his own belief in tolerance—
to reexamine his attitudes. He went to Jerusalem prepared to
listen.
The trip was reassuring. Mike seemed happier, more relaxed,
more sure of himself. He was enjoying his studies. "He was differ-
ent," my father told me. "There was a step up in emotional
vibration. I'd never seen him so enthusiastic before." I remained
skeptical; Mike's enthusiasm might be some sort of manic facade. I
was still working on my reply to his long letter, debating whether
to mention my qualms about his motives. From one point of view
Mike was doing something incredibly brave, even heroic: in quest
of truth as he saw it he was breaking with the values and assump-
tions of his family, his peers, American society, and the entire post-
Enlightenment West. For me to bring up psychology would be to
add whatever clout I had to the enormous pressure of conventional
wisdom that Mike was probably having trouble enough resisting.
And then there was my old religious question: even if Judaism
confused its central metaphor with absolute truth, would it work
for Mike if he believed? Judaism, I reminded myself, was a spir-
271
itual discipline that had been practiced for over three thousand
years; psychotherapy had existed for less than a hundred, with
inconclusive results.
For three years I had been seeing a Reichian therapist. I was
seeking relief from specific emotional problems, but my larger
spiritual problem lurked in the back of my mind. What, after all,
were emotional problems but forms of—or metaphors for—
disconnection? The Reichian method is based on the premise that
muscular tensions hold back repressed emotions which the thera-
pist can elicit by attacking the bodily "armor" directly, bypassing
the treacherous intellect. I believed this approach worked; it had
helped me a lot. Yet I could claim no miracles, only that I had
come—slowly, undramatically—to feel better, see more clearly.
For all I knew, my brother would get further with Judaism.
Still—suppose Mike was really being trapped, not by arguments
but by his emotions? Suppose by bringing up my worries I could
help him—by which I meant save him. For despite my theoretical
conviction that we all had to seek the truth in our own way, I
hoped, with guilty passion, that Mike would get off this particular
path, would wake up one morning, ask, "What am I doing here?"
and come home. I decided to say what I had to say. For me, Freud
was far closer than Darwin to the heart of the matter.
THE MIRROR
In America most of the time I was unhappy and bored. I couldn't

find what I wanted to do or people I wanted to be with. You
were supposed to be very hip and inside I wasn't. I didn't identify
with hip people or enjoy being around them. I couldn't figure
out where I fit in. Traveling was my escape. I would go through
a lot of rottenness and boredom for the sake of some periods of
happiness—experiences that really took me out of myself, like
trekking in the Himalayas.
When 1 came to Israel from Jordan I was very tired out and I
272
Next Year in Jerusalem.
wanted to go home. I didn't have much money left. There was a

girl I really wanted to go back and see though I had no reason
to believe she would want to see me. 1 was really homesick. But I
felt a responsibility to see something new. 1 went with the guy
from the yeshiva looking for an interesting experience. Reb Noach
gave me the usual pitch: "Stay here a week, if you haven't seen
a yeshiva you haven't seen Israel." We had a big political argument
—/ said things looked bad for Israel and the only reasonable thing
to do was give back the occupied land and make peace. We had
a talk about the moral imperative proof of God. Reb Noach asked
where I got my concept of good. I said, "From my parents."
That week I realized Judaism was much more interesting than
I'd thought. When 1 read Jewish philosophy I realized my mind
was Jewish. 1 felt that for the first time I had found people who
thought the way I did, who were really logical and consistent.
But the idea of God was very alien to me. Then I read a pamphlet
about Torah and science. I started reading the arguments about
evolution. Suddenly I had a flash: "This whole theory is ridic-
ulous!" It had a tremendous effect. I felt that my mind had been
playing tricks on me. I'd been accepting this theory without really
looking into it—just like Cambodia. Logically, you knock down
the theory of evolution and you're stuck with—God created the
world.
I left to do some traveling and went to Safed. I was sitting down
looking at a map and two English guys, students of this Hasid who
was up from Tel Aviv for the weekend, invited me to meet him.
I went and we started talking. He had pure charisma. I related
to Reb Noach as a good person, but this Hasid was someone with
power. He said that people go all around the world looking into
this and this and they know it's not true—then they're hit with
Judaism and they leave because they're afraid it's true. It had a
big effect on me because of my realization about evolution and
because I'd been asking myself why I was leaving. 1 knew I was
scared to stay and check it out.
The English guys kept telling me there were no coincidences, it
2
73
wasn't an accident that I was there at the same time the Hasid
happened to be visiting. I started getting scared—was all this
really true? I felt lousy about myself. I had always prided myself
on being open-minded. Now I had no logical reason for leaving,
just an emotional desire to go home. I felt totally wiped out.
When I got back to the yeshvva I started reading Torah with the
Hersch commentaries. There was a daily Chomesh [Five Books]
class. I was learning some Hebrew and could feel the power of
the Torah much more than in translation. And the prophecies—
/ kept trying to find arguments against the prophecies and couldn't
come up with any.
After two or three weeks I was in doubt—what was I going to
do? One day I was reading the prophecies at the end of Dvarim
[Deuteronomy] and I had this cold shiver—7 realized that I really
believed all this. My first reaction was to compromise—/ would
go home, read, then decide. Or 1 would take a few years and travel
and then come back. Finally I realized my whole life would have
to change.
The first time I went to Southeast Asia I had a lot of asthma
trouble. I'd almost feel like I was having a heart attack. Sometimes
my pills wouldn't work and I was afraid they would just stop
working. When I got into religion I realized—how can I expect
a pill to work? God controls what goes on. Your life can be
snuffed out at any moment. That had a strong pan in keeping
me here. It wasn't that I started believing in God to conquer a
fear of death. Intellectually believing doesn't do that anyway. But
I realized I couldn't compromise and say two years from now
I'll come back, because there's no assurance of anything.
I went and canceled my plane ticket. It was painful. I was afraid
my family would reject me, think I was crazy. My mind was telling
me one thing. My emotions still wanted to go home.
Around Thanksgiving, Mike came to New York for a month.

Seeing him was a relief. His skullcap and newly grown beard made
him look less boyish, but he was still wearing jeans. I felt no
2
74
distance between us, no sense that he was in any way not himself. I
hugged him, wondering if the Orthodox prohibition against men
touching women they weren't married to applied to sisters.
Mike stayed with our parents. So that he could observe the
dietary laws, mother bought him his own dishes and silverware
and pots, boiled her cooking utensils and took them to a mikva
(ritual bath), cleaned the oven and left it on at the hottest setting
for two hours, served him kosher food, cooked him meat and dairy
dishes separately in the new pots. Mike prayed three times a day,
said blessings over his food and grace after meals, washed his hands
on rising in the morning and before eating bread. Since the com-
plicated Sabbath laws could be fully observed only in an Orthodox
environment, he spent weekends with religious families.
He had been home several weeks when we had The Talk. We
had already had a number of talks, but it was this one that sank in.
We were having lunch at a kosher cafeteria on Forty-seventh
Street, patronized largely by Hasidim and other ultra-Orthodox
Jews in the diamond business. It was crowded with men in tradi-
tional black suits. I was insisting that it was impossible to prove the
existence or the nature of God. The ultimate Reality was by defi-
nition ungraspable by reason; Mike's belief had to be based on
intuition, not logic.
"It's both," Mike said. "First, you have to have an intuition that
logic is real—that logic tells you something about the way the
world is. Then if an idea is illogical—if it's inconsistent with what
you know—you intuitively know it's wrong. Like the complexity
of the world is inconsistent with the idea that it all happened at
random, by natural selection."
"Not necessarily. In an infinite universe, even the most unlikely
combination of events can happen—"
"It's possible. But it's not probable. And when you take all the
proofs together—the depth of Torah, the prophecies—maybe you
can explain any one of them away, but you can't explain them all
as coincidence. It just gets too improbable. Reasoning can tell you
what's most probable, and when you have an overwhelming prob-
ability, your intuition tells you it has to be true."
2
75
"Well, my intuition tells me the world wasn't created in six

days."
Mike explained that the length of the six days of creation was
open to question, since the sun wasn't created till the fourth day;
that there was no problem with the idea of a biological evolution
guided by God rather than natural selection, or of humanlike
beings existing before Adam, so long as you accepted Adam as the
first true man in the spiritual sense—made "in the image of God." I
was struck by the way he argued. He sounded like me in the early
days of feminism, talking to women who were unconvinced. It had
been one of those rare times when I felt both sure of my ground
and sure it was in the other person's interest to see things my way.
That confidence had made me a good organizer; now, on the re-
ceiving end, I felt defensive.
I wasn't sure why. I did not find Mike's antievolution argument
persuasive, but I was not, in any case, a dogmatic evolutionist. On
acid I had had the strong impression that it was somehow in the
nature of Reality to ceaselessly order itself into complex patterns;
even before that, I had been inclined to believe there was some
unknown organizing principle in the universe. Once I had con-
fessed to a friend, "I don't think the universe is absurd." "You
don't?" she said. "No. I think it's basically logical." There was a
pause. "Maybe," my friend said, "you need to see logic in it."
Maybe, maybe not. Either way, there was no need to assume a God
with a personality, a will, or a purpose.
"But it's possible," Mike said. "You have to admit it's logically
possible."
"It's based on a naive analogy. A chair is made by a person, so
the world has to be made by a superperson."
"You're assuming the secular view of reality—that we created
God, not the other way around. The Jewish perspective is like a
mirror image. It's not God who's like a human being; it's human
beings who are made in God's image. Our way of making things is
something like God's way. We don't get the idea of God from
having parents—our relationship with our parents is meant to give
us an idea of how to relate to God."
276
"Reality isn't a being with a personality," I said. "It's just—Real-

ity."
"You had a mystical experience that showed you there's a spir-
itual reality. Judaism says that on top of this experience, which all
religions share, we have a revelation that tells us what that reality is,
what it wants from us."
"The idea that it wants something contradicts my experience," I
insisted.
"Not your experience. Just your interpretation of it."
"But I didn't interpret it. I just had it. That's what made it
unique."
"Of course you interpreted it. You've grown up with a whole
view of reality that says we're free, we can do what we want. So
naturally you see God as something impersonal, instead of a God
who says, 'You have to do what I want, not what you want.' "
I shook my head, but I felt the presence of the serpent. Had I
experienced Reality or just another deceptive metaphor?
"I don't do whatever I want," I said. "I try to do what's right."
"But you decide what's right."
"Not me, not my ego. The part of me that's attuned to Reality
decides. Reality defines what good is." Pretty mushy, my observer-
critic remarked.
"All right. But in practice you don't really believe that you're
required to live a certain way. Except for obvious things, like not
killing. Judaism says God gave us a law, this is what it is, we have
to obey it."
"I believe," I began, aware that I was entering a mine field of
rhetoric, "I feel I know, from my—experience"—or was it just an
interpretation—"that when we're in touch with Reality, what's
right and what we really want are the same. To love and be loved,
to have a just, decent society. To figure out how to make that
truth work in practice—to struggle toward it—that's what life is
about. Freedom isn't doing whatever we please; it's a basic ethical
value. It means taking responsibility for the struggle. Not looking
to some authority to get us off the hook."
"But it doesn't work. Look at what's happening in the world-
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77
look at what Western 'enlightenment' has accomplished. Total

chaos, and it's getting worse."
It was the classic conservative line. Your Utopian dreams are
unrealistic, against human nature. Look at the evidence. Bloody
wars; repressive governments; nuclear threat; ecological destruc-
tion. And what revolution—be honest, now—what revolution has
really succeeded by your standards? I was on familiar terms with
this litany. Though I considered myself a radical, had been a leftist
and feminist activist, I struggled perpetually (again) with doubts.
And if I believed, finally, in my obligation to defy a pessimism that
amounted to self-fulfilling prophecy—what was that but a leap of
faith?
"In a Torah community," Mike was saying, "there's no crime,
the family isn't falling apart. People are serious about being good
people because they're living for God, not just themselves."
"Intuitively, I can't see it," I said. "This cosmic dictator idea of
God. I just don't see it."
"But you have to ask why. There are powerful emotional rea-
sons for not seeing it. You'd have to admit that God controls your
life, that you're not free. You'd have to submit to a lot of restric-
tions you don't like. You'd have to change. No one wants to
change."
True.
"You have an incredibly complex and organized universe.
Everything in it works together perfectly. The most obvious ex-
planation is that a creator planned it that way. Everyone intui-
tively saw that—everyone believed in God—until evolution gave
them an excuse not to. Or take the prophecies. You can explain
them as a bunch of improbable coincidences, but why resist the
obvious answer—that they come from God, who knows the fu-
ture?"
"It was the Bible predicting the return that gave the Zionists the
idea in the first place," I objected.
"But it would never have happened if it weren't for the Nazis,"
Mike said. "Another coincidence?"
278
I had no answer. The prophecies had bothered me from the

start. And Mike had a point: why was it so important to me to
explain them away? During my first session with my Reichian
shrink he had poked my jaw muscles and asked drily, "Do you
ever lose an argument?" With a shock I saw that I wasn't winning
this one. Mike's premises were not only far more sophisticated
than I had thought; they were the basis of a formidably compre-
hensive, coherent world view. All along Mike had been asking me
questions I couldn't answer. How did I explain the creation of the
world? How did I explain the strange history of the Jews—their
unremitting persecution and unlikely survival; their conspicuous
role in world affairs? How did I explain the Torah itself, with its
extraordinary verbal intricacy, the meanings upon meanings the
rabbis had found in phrases, words, even letters; the consistency
with which their analyses hung together after the fifteen hundred
years or more that they had spent hunting down contradictions? I
knew that "comprehensive and coherent" did not necessarily mean
"true." "I don't know" was an honorable answer. But it did not
win arguments.
I was suffering from acute mental vertigo. What a phony I
was—glibly assuring Mike that his transformation had to be based
on intuition rather than mere argument, while all along my confi-
dence in my own intuition had rested on the assumption that I had
the better arguments. The last thing I wanted was to be left with
only fragile, fallible intuition as a shield against a system of ideas
that neatly reversed everything I believed. Like a mirror image.
I understood now what Mike had meant when he said he felt
trapped, understood how his skepticism could turn against itself.
My own skepticism told me that however sure I was of my per-
ceptions, I could be wrong. Therefore, since I could not prove
Judaism was false, I had to admit that it could be true. And the
thought of admitting any such thing threw me into a panic. Which
of course was the best possible evidence for Mike's suggestion that
I rejected Judaism simply because I did not care to accept it. I
wanted nothing so much as to forget the whole question, and for
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that very reason I was bound by all my standards of intellectual

honesty and courage to pursue it.
I was overwhelmed with superstitious paranoia. This was exactly
how Mike had been drawn in, Mike who was so much like me.
Mike was the one person in the world who could have gotten me
to listen seriously to this argument. And he had stopped off in
Israel mainly because of me: I had been there earlier that year,
with a group of journalists, and had written him that it was inter-
esting. From his point of view none of this was coincidental.
During the next few days my panic intensified. The one aspect
of my life that I had never seriously doubted was my obligation to
make my own choices and my own mistakes and, if need be, suffer
the consequences. Since the only certainty was that the way to
Reality was uncertain, I had no alternative. Now I saw that this
certainty was as uncertain as any other. And so for the first time I
faced a choice that was truly absolute, that included no tacit right
to be wrong—the spiritual equivalent of a life-or-death decision in
war. If the Jewish God existed and I willfully rejected Him, I
would be making the ultimate, irretrievable mistake. Contrary to
the common impression, Jewish theology included a system of
reward and punishment that operated in both this life and the next.
The eternal punishment for rejecting To rah was called karait—
"cutting off"—which meant, I assumed, what I would call total
alienation from Reality. Only it was much more vivid and terrify-
ing when you envisioned it as a punishment rather than an imper-
sonal consequence, as losing the love, incurring the wrath of the
ultimate parent.
And if I gave up my precious freedom, a renunciation that felt
like death, for what I saw as an alien, joyless, shackled existence—
and it turned out that the serpent had betrayed me again, that
there was no God of Wrath or God of Love after all? And how
could I ever know for sure? It seemed to me that whatever I did I
was in trouble.
I had shed another layer of innocence. I would never again feel
smug about Patty Hearst, Rennie Davis, the legions of postacid
280
freaks who had joined mystical cults. I understood. It could hap-

pen to me. For the first time I wished I had never taken drugs,
never seen beyond the scientific rationalism that might be narrow
but was surely safe. I envied my father's faith in evolution. I envied
everyone around me, going peacefully about their lives, taking for
granted—if they thought about it at all—that Mike's brand of
religion was eccentric fanaticism, nothing to do with them. I es-
pecially envied non-Jews. The 613 mitzvos were reserved for the
Chosen People. Others had only to obey certain basic moral laws—
mostly obvious things, like not killing.
I had frustrating conversations with friends who found it hard
to believe that someone so sensible and intelligent could be won-
dering if she ought to become an Orthodox Jew.
"Maybe it's right for him; that doesn't mean it's right for you."
"If it's true, then it has to be right for me."
"You couldn't live that way."
"That's not the point. The point is, is it true?"
"Maybe it's true for him."
"You don't understand. Judaism claims to be absolute truth.
Either it's true for everybody, or it's not true at all."
"Nobody has a monopoly on the truth."
"That's the secular point of view. From the Jewish point of
view there is an absolute truth, I can know it, I just don't want to
accept it."
"Well, why should you accept it if you don't want to?"
"Because if it's true, then all my ideas are wrong, I'm living the
wrong way, I'm totally blowing it."
"Who's to say there's only one way to live?"
"But don't you see? You say, 'We're free to decide how to live.'
Religious Jews say, 'No, you're not free.' So you say, 'We're free
to reject that argument.' It's circular reasoning!"
"Why are you getting so upset?"
Then I talked to a woman who understood. She had grown up
Catholic and lost her faith. It seemed that losing your faith and
losing your lack of faith had much in common. At some point you
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were suspended between two competing, self-consistent realities,

knowing you had to go back or forward, with no one to help you
and no net. And once you were out there, you realized that skeptic
and believer were mirror images, reflecting a vision of logic in the
universe.
Judaism teaches that God's rewards and punishments operate on

the principle of mida k'neged mida—"measure for measure." For
example, a friend of Mike's had asked to borrow 100 Israeli
pounds; Mike had lent the money, but grudgingly; shortly after-
ward he had 100 pounds stolen from his wallet, though there was
more money in it. He had no doubt that the two events were
related.
During my panic I had become obsessed with the thought that
this principle might explain a central irony in my own life. I had
come of age at a time when sexual liberation did not yet mean
groupies and massage parlors, when it was still a potent metaphor
for liberation in general. At the core of my feminism was rage at
the suppression of female sexuality and a romantic vision of sexual
freedom as joyous, unreserved acceptance of my body, my fe-
maleness, my partner in love. Though I hated the way this vision
had been perverted, co-opted, and turned against women, I be-
lieved no less in the vision itself.
The irony, of course, was the contrast between ideal and reality.
Part of that reality was historical: feminism had transformed
women's consciousness without, as yet, transforming society, leav-
ing a gap between what many of us demanded of a relationship and
what most men were willing to give. Yet there were ways of
making the best of this situation, while I tended to make the worst
of it. At thirty-four, with a marriage and two quasi-marriages be-
hind me, I felt, all too often, like an awkward teen-ager. My dis-
trust of men fed a prickliness that provoked rejection that
confirmed my distrust; worse, I was still afflicted, on some level,
with the adolescent notion—no doubt the result of all those real
282
and symbolic fights in the back seat—that to give in to sexual

pleasure was to lose a power struggle. In general I thought of
myself as fairly sane, but my conflicts about sex and men felt out
of control—and thinking in those terms was undoubtedly part of
the problem. For the sexual dilemma was the same as the spiritual
one: to try harder was not only useless but self-defeating.
I had come to see my predicament as a sort of cosmic mockery,
deflating my Utopian pretensions. But from the Jewish standpoint,
what could be a neater measure-for-measure punishment for refus-
ing my ordained role as wife and mother? The symmetry was
perfect: feminist consciousness had inspired both my sexual aspira-
tions and the defensiveness that undermined them. It was the
message one might expect from a cranky, conservative-Freudian
God, out to show me that feminism was the problem rather than
the solution, that all this emancipation claptrap violated my true
nature and would deny me the feminine fulfillment I really craved.
Another mirror image, more powerful than the rest, it exposed
my most private pain and doubt. I knew then that I had to go to
Israel and confront my terror at its source—to put myself in my
brother's place and see if I reached the same conclusions. I also
knew that I had to write about the process. I was not sure these
imperatives were compatible. When I decided not only to write
about my trip but to write about it on assignment—which meant
committing myself to come home and deliver a manuscript—I felt
a bit like Ulysses tying himself to the mast. The difference, of
course, was that I could cut myself loose if I chose. And in its
perverse way, my very need to hedge was evidence of my good
faith. At least it would have to do.
FIRST ENCOUNTERS
I left New York on March 22, 1976, on an overnight flight packed

with Jewish tour groups. Here and there I saw religious men in
beards and yarmulkes (skullcaps). At dawn they began getting up
283
to form a minyan (ten-man quorum) for morning prayer. The

Israeli flight attendants gave them dirty looks for blocking the aisles.
We arrived around noon. I wandered outside, past clumps of
armed teen-age soldiers, looking for Mike. I was beginning to
wonder if we had missed each other when a tall, thin boy wearing
a yarmulke approached me.
"Are you Ellen?"
Chaim was a student at my brother's yeshiva; he had come to
meet me because Mike had a bad cold. He explained that we would
stop first at Rabbi and Rebbetsen Weinberg's, where I would leave
my bags, then go find Mike. We took a cab into Jerusalem, talking
sketchily about the experiences that had brought each of us here,
and caught the bus for Kiryat Zanz, a religious neighborhood
nestled in a rocky hillside. In contrast to the gorgeous landscape,
the rows of identical low apartment buildings were dreary,
housing-project modern. Block 5 Building 2 housed the Weinbergs
and their nine children.
The rebbetsen invited us into an apartment that conveyed a
sense of busy warmth. It was crammed with books and artifacts—
menorahs, vases of flowers, bright fabrics, pictures of wise men, a
colored-glass chandelier.
Denah Weinberg is a striking woman. Slim, fair, blue-eyed, in
her late thirties, she looks like a picture-postcard of the ideal Jew-
ish matriarch—one part strength and competence, one part moth-
erliness, one part a modest, almost austere beauty accentuated by
the kerchief that covers her head. (When an Orthodox woman
marries, her hair becomes private, seen only by her husband.) I
immediately craved her approval without quite knowing why. We
sat in the kitchen chatting about my brother while children wan-
dered in and out. I mentioned that I wanted to find out more about
women's role in Judaism.
"Good!" the rebbetsen said. "People misunderstand it."
"Suppose I don't want children," I began, "or anyway no more
than one or two. ..."
284
Mrs. Weinberg's reply threw me. "If someone gave you money,
would you turn it down?"
"I don't get the comparison." Money buys freedom; children
take it away: the instant I had the thought it seemed unbearably
crass.
"Children are a blessing," said the rebbetsen firmly. The conver-
sation had taken a depressing turn. I could no more imagine having
nine children than contemplate climbing Mount Everest.
"I don't want to devote all my time to children," I said. "I want
to write."
"You can do both. A Jewish woman shouldn't spend all her time
with her children. We can do much more."
"If I had a bunch of kids I wouldn't have any time and energy to
spare."
"The Almighty wants us to use our talents. He wouldn't punish
you by not letting you write. You'd find the time."
Well, maybe so. I wasted so much time, after all. No doubt a
disciplined person could raise half a dozen kids in the time I spent
daydreaming, reading junk, sleeping late. But I would never be
that person; I knew my limitations. Or was that just an excuse for
laziness?
The rebbetsen kissed me good-bye, and Chaim and I took a bus
to the walled Old City. The Jewish Quarter, which had been
largely destroyed by the Jordanians in 1948, was still being rebuilt;
the smell of dust and the sound of drilling were pervasive. Mike
emerged from his dorm looking pale and tired from his cold. We
walked over to Yeshivat Aish HaTorah, which was on a side street
called Misgav Ledach, tucked beside a huge construction site. To
the northeast the yeshiva overlooked some of the most spectacular
sights in Jerusalem—the Mount of Olives, the Valley of Kidron,
and the golden Dome of the Rock. It was a short walk from the
Western Wall ("Wailing Wall"), the sacred remnant of King
Solomon's Temple.
We found the rabbi in his office. Like his wife, Noach Wein-
berg has a compelling presence. He is in his mid-forties, but with
285
his white beard, black suit, and air of authority, he seems older. He
regarded me with a friendly smile and eyes that suggested he had
my number but liked me anyway. I thought he looked like God
the Father in His more jovial aspect. After we had been intro-
duced, he told Mike that a kid who had been staying at the yeshiva
was about to leave.
"You know why they leave?" he said to me. "They leave be-
cause they're scared they'll like it." He shook his head. "Insanity!
Do you know how Jews define sin? Sin is temporary insanity."
For instance, he explained, he had a bad habit of wasting time;
who in his right mind would want to waste time?
"What about more serious sins?" I said.
Reb Noach raised his eyebrows. "Wasting time," he said, "is
very serious. It's a kind of suicide."
For the first few days I stayed with one of Mike's teachers,
Shimon Haskel, and his wife Chaya. I began to unwind from my
trip and settle in. I was feeling close to Mike, and we talked more
openly than ever before about our family, our childhoods, our
fears and hang-ups. Mike told me that I seemed so confident he had
always been afraid of me; I told him that I'd felt he was Mr. Cool,
secretly putting me down. "But now," said Mike, "I'm not afraid
of you anymore." I was pleased with the change in him. He was
not only more confident but more willing to face his emotional
problems—the split between intellect and feeling, the distance from
other people, the lack of joy. He was obliged to face them, for they
were also religious problems. It was a commandment to be happy;
unhappiness in effect denied God's love, dismissed His gifts.
Mike was also absorbed in his work. He found the yeshiva com-
pletely different from all the schools he had hated. Both teachers
and students were deeply involved in learning; they had no doubt
that what they were doing was important. Universities, Mike felt,
were dead; Aish HaTorah was alive. For several hours every morn-
ing he studied Gemara (the voluminous rabbinical commentaries
286
on the Mishna; Mishna and Gemara together constitute the Tal-

mud). In the afternoon and evening he studied Rambam (Maimon-
ides). Somehow he found the time to talk with new people, listen-
ing to their problems, answering questions, and out of this had
come another project: he was writing a group of papers arguing
various proofs of God's existence and the Torah's divinity. His
persuasiveness and intellectual skills had made him something of a
star at the yeshiva.
Aish HaTorah is a yeshiva for bcfal tshuvas—delinquent Jews
who have "returned." It is the fourth such yeshiva that Noach
Weinberg has started in the past decade. Recently, others have
picked up on Reb Noach's vision and started their own yeshivas in
Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.
In America the most conspicuous Jewish evangelizers of Jews
have been Hasidim. Hasidism, a tendency within Judaism that
stresses joy, prayer, and mystical experience, began in the eigh-
teenth century as a revolt by poor and uneducated Jews against
the elitist intellectualism of the yeshivas of Eastern Europe, partic-
ularly Lithuania. The bdal tshuva yeshiva movement in Israel
comes from the latter tradition, that of the misnagdim—rationalist
opponents of Hasidism—who emphasize learning Torah as the
highest value and chief means of approaching God. A yeshiva like
Aish HaTorah operates on the premise that the best weapon
against unbelief is rational argument. It follows that the crucial
first step is to get people to listen. Boys are urged to come for a
day, an hour, a meal, a bed. (No one has to pay unless he can
afford to; the school is supported mostly by contributions.) A
beginner's program runs for three months and then repeats; a stu-
dent can start at any point. Those who stay can advance as fast as
their ability allows to study of the Talmud and biblical commen-
taries.
There was a major hitch in my plan to replicate Mike's experi-
ence: I could not go to Aish HaTorah. Orthodox education is
sexually segregated, and opportunities for women are limited.
Learning is a religious obligation only for men; among tradition-
287
minded Jews the issue of whether women should study Torah and
Talmud, and if so how much, is controversial. None of the wom-
en's schools in Jerusalem offers a comprehensive intellectual and
religious experience like Aish HaTorah's. Nor do they cater to
transients. Still, I decided to check out a couple of schools and visit
a student Mike knew.
Lorie Bernstein was nineteen and the product of a rich Long
Island suburb; her divorced parents owned clothing stores. Mike
had first met her at the airport on his way back from New York.
During the cab ride into Jerusalem she had told him that she had
been a Hasid for a while but had reverted to existentialism; Mike
had urged her to give Judaism another try. Since then she had
become a fervent ba'al tshuva. When I introduced myself she
hugged me excitedly. She was small and bouncy, with dark hair
tucked in a bun; she wore a long-sleeved blouse, a long skirt, and
gold-rimmed, blue-tinted glasses.
I had found Lorie just as she was about to do some errands in
Mea Shearim, an old, poor, fanatically pious community noted for
its anti-Zionists (they believe there cannot be a legitimate Jewish
state until the coming of the Messiah), its Hasidim in medieval
caftans, and its signs demanding that female tourists conform to
Torah standards of modest dress. We walked there together. Lorie
stopped several times to give coins to beggars, all the while keeping
up a passionate monologue.
"God gives us so much, you just have to do something back. I
love doing mitzvos and helping people. A few agorot mean noth-
ing to you, but you're giving someone food, making him happy.
This religion is so beautifull" She was bubbly, breathless; energy
rolled off her in waves. "Whether there's a God or not, the Torah
helps you live up to your potential. It's like tripping—you get an
awareness of everything you do. I really have to think about food
now—what's milk, what's meat, my mother-love side and beast
side? Every day I have to thank God for all kinds of things. Thank
God I'm awake. (Think of all the people who aren't awake.)
Thank God for commanding me to wash. Whenever I wash, I'm
288
aware of my hands and how wonderful they are. Thank God for
clothing the naked. How many people think every day about how
they have clothes and other people don't? There's even a prayer
for the bathroom-—thank God for my ducts and orifices, that
they're working properly."
I asked her how she felt about Judaism's view of women.
"I'm dying to get married and have children. Right now I'm
doing tshuva, repentance, for having an abortion. I killed a baby!
I'm so upset! What could possibly be more important than having
children?"
I mumbled something about wanting to write.
"Writing!" Lorie said scornfully. "I used to write, I used it to
get rid of energy. What's writing compared to creating a human
being, a soul?"
"It happens to be what I want to do."
"What you ivant\ I used to be that way. The most important
thing was to be authentic—to do what I really wanted to do, even
if it hurt someone. My ideal was Meursault in The Stranger. Life
was meaningless so why pretend it wasn't? Anyway," she said,
"most things you think you want to do you don't really want to
do. Other people want you to do them. The only thing I really
miss is getting high. I love getting high—I love it! If there was one
thing that could get me off religion, it would be that."
On the other side of the street—we were now in Mea Shearim—
two touristy-looking girls passed by, transgressing the modesty
laws by wearing jeans. "If I weren't with you," Lorie said, "I'd go
over and yell at them."
"I don't think it does much good to yell at people," I said,
feeling resentful about the antiwriting remarks.
"You can't tell," said Lorie. "Sometimes one little thing can
change you around. What got me to join the Hasidim was that
someone told me how low their divorce rate was. If I just ex-
plained about modesty—why it's not good to wear pants—" She
stopped. "I'm being too heavy, aren't I? I'm sorry. I get carried
away when I meet a new person."
289
We walked past stalls selling fruits and vegetables, down a nar-

row, cobbled back street, to visit a friend of Lorie's who might
help place some students with families for Shabbos. Leah, a viva-
cious, middle-aged Hasidic housewife, insisted on serving us
vegetable soup, bread, and cream cheese. She supervised the wash-
ing ritual, showing me how to pour from the two-handled cup,
how to cup my hands, making me do it over until I got it exactly
right while Lorie bounced up and down, protesting, "Leah! You'll
discourage her! You've got to start out easy!"
I began hanging around Lorie's school, sitting in on classes—
which mostly centered on Hebrew texts and made me feel as if I'd
stumbled into the middle of a foreign-language movie with inade-
quate subtitles—and talking with Lorie and her friends. There was
Frieda from Brooklyn, strong, blunt, a scrapper, a woman with a
vision: she intended to start a ha'al tshuva organization in the
States. There was Cindy, a blind girl from New Jersey, who had
identified with black people so intensely that she still spoke with
a trace of a pseudosouthern accent, who had decided to convert to
Christianity and had joined a black church, but then—boruch
Hashem!—praise God!—had realized where she belonged. There
was Sarah, who had been born Protestant in Chicago and had
converted after investigating every philosophy she'd heard of and
deciding that only Judaism made sense.
But at the psychological center of my life in Jerusalem were the
rabbi and the rebbetsen. Noach Weinberg, the youngest son of a
Hasid, grew up on New York's Lower East Side; Denah came
from Long Island. They met and married in the late fifties and
emigrated to Israel in 1961. Reb Noach was determined to do
something to reverse the Jewish drift away from Torah. For six
years he studied with his goal in mind and in 1967 he started his
first yeshiva. Aish HaTorah has been going since 1973. Reb Noach
runs the school, teaches, and makes periodic fund-raising trips to
the States. The rebbetsen mothers their children, runs their house-
hold, studies, teaches, does charity work, and acts as counselor and
friend to the yeshiva students and other young people who seek
290
her out. During Aish HaTorah's first year she was also its chief
administrator.
On Monday nights a group of women met at Rebbetsen Wein-
berg's for her class on the 613 mitzvos. The rebbetsen was cur-
rently discussing the mitzva to do good. Doing good, in Jewish
terms, involves a constant struggle between the two sides of our
nature: the yeitzer tov (good inclination), which arises from the
soul and desires to serve God, and the yeitzer hara (evil inclina-
tion), which stems from the body and craves unlimited material,
sexual, and egotistical satisfactions.
"What's the difference between a war against people and the
war against the yeitzer hara?" the rebbetsen asked. "A people war
has an end; there's no end to the yeitzer hara war. A people war
doesn't go on twenty-four hours a day. In a people war you win
something limited. If you win the yeitzer hara war, you have
everything. And if you lose—"
It was an incongruous image for a Jewish mother of nine, but I
couldn't help thinking of Joan of Arc.
"You have to develop a strategy. For instance, suppose you
know that when you meet a certain person you're going to talk
loshon hora."
Loshon hora, slander, is an important sin, the subject of a for-
midable body of law. It is forbidden to say anything disparaging
about someone—whether or not it is true—or to say anything that
could be construed as disparaging, or to listen to such talk. It is
even forbidden to praise someone in front of an enemy who might
be tempted to argue. The Haskels had a sign in their kitchen that
said, "Is that loshon hora?"
"You should try to avoid the person," said the rebbetsen. "But if
you can't, then you should think, how can I avoid the bad conver-
sation? Is there some other way I can make her feel good?"
"Why not take the direct approach," one of the women asked,
"and just say, 'Let's not talk loshon hora?' "
"Not everyone can take that," said the rebbetsen. "You might
just put her on the defensive."
291
To be good, Mrs. Weinberg summed up, was to emulate the

Almighty, to become as perfect an image of Him as possible. To
be infinitely patient, to return insult with kindness—and without
self-congratulation. How to do this? "Know the 613 mitzvos.
There is no other way."
It occurred to me that if Talmudic logic had made Mike realize
how Jewish his thinking was, Jewish ethics made me realize how
Jewish my feelings were. I was beginning to understand Jewish
guilt. Unlike Christian guilt, which assumed one's inherent deprav-
ity, it came from the idea that one could and should attain perfec-
tion. Jews who took their religion seriously had no need to feel
guilty. They knew the 613 mitzvos were the way, and if they
backslid they could catch themselves and carry on. For Jews like
me it was different; secular enlightenment was the brew that pro-
voketh the desire but taketh away the performance. We still
craved perfection, and so we pursued Utopian politics, Utopian sex,
Utopian innocence. But we had no law to guide or reassure us.
With the law, one could have patience with one's shortcomings.
Without it, if we were not there we were nowhere at all. To live
outside the law you must be honest—Bob Dylan, a Jew, said that.
Since the Haskels had three little children and another guest in
their crowded apartment, I moved in with Chaya's stepsister,
Abby Ginsberg, and her roommate, Sharon Weitz. They shared a
large apartment—inherited from Abby's parents, who had gone
back to the States—on Shimoni Street in Rasco, an attractive resi-
dential neighborhood that was not predominantly religious. Like
the Haskels they were from the Midwest. Abby was studying at
Hebrew University, Sharon at a seminary. Both women were more
religious than their families.
I felt immediately comfortable with Sharon and Abby, in part
because their sense of female identity did not seem radically differ-
ent from my own. They had not grown up isolated from secular
life. They had gone to public high school, dated, worn pants; they
292
had not married at eighteen; they were serious about learning; the
man Abby was seeing pitched in with the cooking and played
blues on his guitar. Unlike Lorie, they were not reacting against
their past; because their religious commitment had deepened grad-
ually rather than come through sudden conversion, they had none
of the ba'al tshuvcfs dogmatic intensity.
"Of course I feel a conflict between Judaism and feminism,"
Sharon said. "It's harder to accept if you've been exposed to West-
ern ideas than if you grew up in Mea Shearim. But if you're
committed to Judaism, other principles have to adjust. To me a
Jewish life offers so many satisfactions—" She smiled and
shrugged. Intellectually she knew where she stood, but emotion-
ally she was still struggling. "The thing I really care about," said
Abby, "is being able to learn. If I thought the halacha wouldn't
allow me to learn—then I might have a problem."
Abby was ebullient; Sharon had a quieter warmth. They were
ten years younger than I, but I often felt as if our ages were
reversed. They projected a balance, an unselfconscious maturity
symbolized for me by the way they cooperated in maintaining
their cheerful apartment. The Shimoni Street place was just an
ordinary middle-class apartment, conventionally furnished by the
absent parents, serving as a way station for two young, transient
students. But Abby and Sharon made it feel like home. They were,
for one thing, enthusiastic cooks. Almost every afternoon I would
come back to find them in the kitchen discussing recipes; since
Abby was experimenting with vegetarianism, they were always
trying new concoctions—cheese-and-spinach souffles, vegetable
pies, fruit salads.
Often Abby's friend Joshua would be there too. He was leaving
for the States in a few weeks, right after Passover; in the meantime
he and Abby were trying to figure out how they felt about each
other. Orthodox Jews do not play sexual games: a man and a
woman are either compatible or they aren't, and if they decide
they are, they get married. So Josh was at Shimoni Street several
nights a week. He and Abby would study and argue points of
293
halacha, and then we would all help with the dinner and eat to-
gether, talking and joking about the events of the day, what this or
that teacher said, my latest argument with Lorie. I would go to
bed and read, or write in my notebook, and when I padded to the
kitchen or the bathroom at 2 or 3 a.m. I would, as often as not,
hear the pacific murmur of one of Josh and Abby's marathon
conversations.
TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES
"The First Commandment," said Reb Noach, "is to know there

is a God." We "were resuming a conversation we had started a few
days earlier. "The disease of Western thought," he had said then,
"is: 'There is no absolute truth.' But it's intuitively obvious that
either something is true or it isn't. Listen—'There is no absolute
truth.' 'Are you sure?' 'Yes.' 'Are you absolutely sure?'" I could
afford to laugh. I believed something was true or it wasn't; I just
didn't think we could know for sure which was which. "They call
us fanatics. But a fanatic is someone who won't listen to reason. I
say, let's reason together. Let's find a premise on which we can
both agree, and reason from there. The purpose of reason," he had
concluded, "is to get someone to the point where his intuition will
say, 'Yes, you're right.' "
"Know there is a God," Reb Noach repeated. "Not 'have faith.'
Understand! Reason! But reason can only tell you what you al-
ready know. It's a servant, like your hand." He held his hand out.
"Hand! Come to my nose!" The hand did not move. "What's this?
Revolution? Don't be silly! No, your hand acts on what you really
want, not on what you say you want. Reason will tell you what
you really know—what are your perceptions, not other people's,
not society's."
For the next hour or so, Reb Noach tried to persuade my intui-
tion. If my father on his deathbed asked me to say a mourner's
prayer for him, would I? Of course. If he asked me to say a bunch
294
of nonsense syllables, would I? Probably not. Why not? What's

the difference? Well, I think religious ritual is meaningful, worthy
of respect; that doesn't mean it represents absolute truth. If some-
one ran in front of my car and I hit him, wouldn't I feel guilty,
even if I couldn't possibly have stopped in time? Yes, I would.
What did that tell me? "Even if it's not technically my fault,
someone has suffered because of me. It's irrational, but I'd think,
'If I'd just done something different—taken the bus, stayed
home.
"The reason you would feel guilty," Reb Noach said, "is that it
really would be your fault. If you hadn't done something wrong,
God wouldn't have chosen you as the instrument of someone's
death."
I appreciated Reb Noach's technique. I realized that I had, on
occasion, used it myself. (Don't you and your husband both
work? Suppose you lived with your sister, and you both worked,
and she wanted you to cook dinner every night because she was
tired—would you do it? Why not? Well, then, what's different
about doing it for a man?) But my intuition was unconvinced. I
still couldn't see the ultimate Reality as a being who cared, willed,
intervened in our lives, and—might as well bring it up—decreed
separate functions for men and women.
"You don't think men and women are basically different?"
"Basically, no," I said. "Basically, I think we're all human
beings."
"One of the craziest ideas in this crazy modern world," said Reb
Noach, "is that men and women are the same. Men and women are
two different species!"
I insisted that whatever the differences—and who could tell at
this point which were inherent, which imposed by a patriarchal
culture?—they did not require women to devote themselves to as
many babies as chose to make their appearance. Reb Noach shook
his head.
"Children are the greatest pleasure," he said, "but people today
are so decadent they prefer their material comforts to children."
2
95
"It's not just material comfort!" I protested. "People have a

right to some freedom—some time for themselves—"
"Decadence, Ellen. I'd have fifty children, a hundred. Every
child is a lesson in love!"
"My parents aren't decadent! They've worked hard to bring up
three children—to educate us all—"
Suddenly I found myself weeping.
"Ellen!" The rabbi's voice vibrated through me, alarmed, caring,
soothing as a touch. "I'm not condemning people] Who knows
who's better than who? I'm talking about actions. Mistakes, Ellen."
I wasn't sure why I was crying—except that if my middle-class
family-centered parents could by any standard be accused of
decadent behavior, then I was completely hopeless. My loss of
control took me by surprise. I suppose it was my first overt symp-
tom of culture shock.
How long was it since I'd landed at the airport—eight days?
nine? It felt much longer. My sense of time had changed, along
with my perspective. I was, in crucial ways, an outsider—a re-
porter, at that—in a strange culture. Yet because I was Jewish, I
was also family. Whatever anyone might think of me, whether I
was religious or not, so long as I was living in the Orthodox com-
munity I was on some basic level accepted as part of it. And so I
began, almost imperceptibly at first, to identify with that com-
munity and feel weirdly estranged from the secular world. I found
myself thinking of nonreligious people as "they." When I had an
errand in downtown Jerusalem I felt assaulted by its frenetic,
noisy, garish urbanness, by the crowds of Israelis who milled along
Jaffa Road without a care for the subtleties of Jewish law.
Even the ever-present political tension began to seem part of
that other world. A deep belief that God controls events tends to
cool political fervor, and only a minority of Orthodox Israelis fit
the stereotype of the militant religious nationalist; Mike and his
friends were critical of the rabbinical establishment for what they
saw as its readiness to bend the Torah to the demands of the state.
I had arrived in Israel at a volatile time: Palestinian students had
296
been demonstrating in the Old City; Israeli Arabs were protesting

the expropriation of Arab land in the Galilee. I read about it all in
the Jerusalem Post, feeling, absurdly, that Israeli politics had been
much more vivid to me when I was in New York.
A religious universe enveloped me. I was surrounded by people
who believed and, more important, lived that belief every minute.
Conversation among Orthodox Jews never strays far from ques-
tions of ethics, points of law, one's religious activities; even small
talk is inescapably religious: "I'm feeling better, boruch Hashemi";
"I ran into so-and-so on Shabbos"; "She's going to have a milchig
[dairy] wedding." Orthodox life has its own special rhythm.
There is the daily rhythm of prayer and the weekly rhythm of
preparations for Shabbos: rushing to clean and cook before Friday
sundown, when all work must be suspended; setting lights to go on
and off automatically; taking turns showering, hoping the hot
water won't run out; dressing up; lighting the Sabbath candles.
There is Shabbos itself: making kictdush (blessing and sharing
wine); washing and breaking bread and sitting down to the tradi-
tional European-Jewish Friday night chicken dinner; the men
going off to shut Saturday morning, coming home to a meal of
cholent, a stew that is made before Shabbos and left simmering on
the stove; studying, walking, visiting, or napping in the afternoon;
the light supper and finally the havdalah ("division") ceremony
with which Shabbos ends.
Although the process was less dramatic, my immersion in Jewish
life was having a far more potent effect on me than my confronta-
tion with Jewish ideas. I could argue with ideas, but I could not,
without being an abrasive nuisance, refuse to adapt, in important
respects, to the customs of my hosts. On the most superficial level
this meant not washing Abby and Sharon's dairy dishes in the meat
sink, but it also meant shifting mental gears to participate in con-
versations that took a religious outlook for granted. Living with
Orthodox Jews was like being straight at a party where everyone
else is stoned; after a while, out of sheer social necessity, you find
yourself getting a contact high.
2
97
There was, for instance, the afternoon I spent talking with Lorie
and Frieda. Frieda had recruited Lorie for her ba'al tshuva organi-
zation; they were planning to go back to New York in July to get
the project moving. I started giving advice. If they wanted young,
educated women to take Judaism seriously, I argued, their organi-
zation would have to engage women's minds the way Aish Ha-
Torah had engaged Mike's. That meant . . . and then I heard
myself: I was telling them how to seduce me.
I had always thought of Orthodox Judaism as a refuge for com-
pulsives: not only did its ubiquitous requirements and prohibitions
seem to preclude spontaneity, but since the halacha, like any body
of law that applies basic principles to specific situations, was open
to interpretation, it provided endless opportunities for what out-
siders would call hairsplitting. For example, it's Shabbos and
Sharon and Abby have a problem: they have, as usual, left a kettle
of boiling water on a burner they lit Friday afternoon, and now
the flame has gone out. Is it permitted to switch the kettle to
another lit burner? If the water has cooled off, heating it up again
would violate the rule against cooking on Shabbos. If it's still hot,
moving it should be okay. But it must have cooled off slightly.
How hot does it have to be? Under the kettle, covering both
burners, is a metal sheet, there as a reminder not to turn the flames
up or down; does this make both flames one fire, which would
mean that switching the kettle is allowed in any case? Abby,
Sharon, and Josh debated this issue for half an hour; it remained
unresolved, and they did not move the kettle.
I understood now that to call this sort of behavior compulsive
was to assume that religious observance was a distraction from life,
while for believers it was the whole point; secular concerns were
the distraction. If doing mitzvos—all of them, not just those you
understood or liked—was the way to serve God, to connect with
Reality, then it was crucial to do them exactly right. For the
people around me, Torah was not a strait jacket but a discipline,
shaping and focusing their energies toward the only meaningful
end. It was an arduous discipline, but one that was no more inher-
298
Next Year In Jerusalem
ently compulsive than my own search for the precise adjective or

the care with which feminists analyzed the minutiae of sexual rela-
tionships.
And what was so sacred, anyway, about the arcane customs of
my hyperurban, free-lance existence? For all that I was so attached
to it, I had to admit that it was, in the context of human history,
more than a little strange. Sociologists liked to talk about how
rootless and mobile Americans were, but most Americans at least
had families. Despite my reluctance to assume the burdens of
motherhood in a sexist society, it disturbed me to think that I
would very likely never have children: I felt that child rearing,
like working and loving, was one of the activities that denned
humanness. Even my work—my excuse for so much of what I did
or didn't do—sometimes struck me as ridiculous. What was the
point of sitting home scratching symbols on paper, adding my
babblings to a world already overloaded with information? And
what of my belief in the supreme importance of connecting with
Reality? Orthodox Jews acted on their version of that belief; did
I? Well, there was my therapy. It occupied all of forty-five min-
utes of my week—less time than it took me (speaking of compul-
sive rituals) to read the Sunday Times. Did I really have my
priorities straight?
If my traumatic talk with Mike had shocked me into realizing
that Judaism was a plausible intellectual system, living in Jerusalem
was making me realize that Judaism was a plausible way of life.
And that realization slid relentlessly into the next: that it was
plausible even for me. My rapport with Abby and Sharon weak-
ened my defenses against this frightening idea. I experienced
Shimoni Street as a kind of halfway house. Much as I admired the
rebbetsen, she was too unlike me to be a model. Lorie, in an
entirely different way, was also from another world. But Abby
and Sharon had the psychology of modern intellectual women. If
they found Orthodox life exciting and full of purpose-—if they had
been exposed to the freedoms I had, yet did not feel deprived—
perhaps I did not need those freedoms as much as I thought.
299
Yet even as I was drawn into the Orthodox subculture, I also

resisted it. My resistance took an embarrassing form; it surfaced as
a spoiled brat yelling, "I won't!" If I had come to Israel to experi-
ence Judaism, it made sense for me to try to observe Jewish law. I
had resolved, for instance, to eat only kosher food during my stay.
For a month this would scarcely be a major deprivation; I had
stuck to reducing diets that required much more discipline. Yet I
found that I couldn't keep away from the junk-food stands on
Jaffa Road; I stuffed myself with suspect brands of chocolate;
under my modest dresses I was puffing out at a disquieting rate.
Then there was the synagogue issue. Though communal prayer
was not required of women, I felt that I should, at least once,
attend services at an Orthodox shut. But I was afraid to face what I
saw as the total humiliation of sitting upstairs in the women's
section. Some journalist, I mocked myself. Lucky no one ever sent
you to cover a war.
I began to realize that I was depressed. The weather, still wintry
and raw, depressed me. The city itself depressed me, which was a
surprise. On my first trip to Israel I had reacted very differently. I
was not thinking about religion then; I was preoccupied with pol-
itics, war, history, the tragic clash of nationalisms. But I had been
awed by the radiance of Jerusalem. Perhaps it was just the com-
bination of natural beauty and antiquity, but whatever holiness
was, the city breathed it. Standing before the massive stones of the
Western Wall, submerged in a crowd of people praying, I had felt
the pain and ecstasy of millions of pilgrims course through me.
A friend had arranged for several members of our group to have
Friday night dinner with a religious family, and all evening I felt
the way I had at the Wall. Everything had a preternatural clarity
and significance. When our host said the blessings over the bread
and wine, I marveled that I had been so obtuse as not to see.
Blessing one's food—appreciating the miracle of food—what could
be more fitting? And the whole idea of the Sabbath, one day a
week when you were forbidden ordinary distractions and had to
be alone with yourself and Reality. . . . I imagined myself back in
300
New York City, spending a Saturday without writing, eating in a

restaurant, taking the subway; a whole day with the phone off the
hook and the record player silent. A fantasy, of course, I could
never live that way, didn't even want to, and yet I felt a pang: isn't
this what it's all about, the acid peace, the connection you say you
want, getting rid of all the noise'?
Now, though I remembered those feelings, I couldn't re-create
them. I went to the Wall, saw weathered stone spattered with
pigeon droppings, left quickly because of the cold wind. And
Shabbos, with all its restrictions, was simply oppressive, like a tight
girdle. "Last time," said Mike, "you could be open to it because
you weren't seriously thinking about it as a possibility."
It was during Shabbos, the second since I'd arrived, that my
depression hit full force. A friend of Mike's had invited us for the
weekend. He and his wife were warmly hospitable, and I struggled
guiltily against my gloom. I felt suffocated by domesticity, by the
children calling for mommy, the men leaving for shul and the
women staying home, the men sitting at the table and the women
carting away the dishes. I wanted to tear off my itchy, constricting
stockings. I wanted to write in my notebook, turn on lights, eat
without going through half an hour of ritual first.
The next day I went to El Al to confirm my return reservation.
The flight I was booked on left April 22, but my excursion ticket
was good for two extra weeks if I wanted them, and I figured it
was time to decide. I was always superstitious about switching
flights; now, looking over the timetable, I felt irrationally certain
that if I changed my plans I would end up staying in Israel. Some-
thing would trap me here. When Lorie first came to Jerusalem, she
had dreamed she was in prison, supervised by a mean lady; she had
wanted to get out, but by the time they were ready to let her go, a
month later, she loved it and wanted to stay. On the strength of
that dream Lorie had decided to stay a month and, sure enough,
she was still here. . . . This is ridiculous, I lectured myself. If you
want to go you'll go; if you want to stay you'll stay; and if God is
really controlling your life, it's useless to second-guess Him. I
301
debated staying at least a few extra days, but that would mean
going through another Shabbos. I decided to stick with my orig-
inal flight.
As soon as I left the office, a new wave of paranoia hit: God
would punish me for my rotten attitude toward Shabbos. My
plane would crash or be attacked by terrorists. Mida k'neged mida
—measure for measure. Later that day, I realized I couldn't leave
on April 2 2: it was the last day of Passover, and I had been invited
to Reb Noach's. The prospect of having to change my reservation
after all solidified my conviction that I would never make it back
to the States. I had received a sign. There were no coincidences.
When I told Mike about my scheduling mix-up, he looked as if
I'd punched him in the jaw. "You're leaving early," he said. "I
thought you had six weeks."
"I planned on staying a month. I'm just doing what I was going
to do all along."
"It's not just that. You want to leave because you're depressed.
You're reacting exactly the same way I did."
My gut contracted.
"Mike, I'm not you. We may be alike in a lot of ways, but we're
two different people." Under the panic I had to remember that,
hold on to that. "If I want to go home, I'm going home, and I'm
not going to feel guilty about it."
"But you can't postpone these questions—" He shook his head.
"When you first came, you were really relating to what was going
on. Now I feel as if you've withdrawn."
"Do you really have to go back?" the rebbetsen asked. I had

come over for another talk with Reb Noach.
"Theoretically," I said, "I could throw over my entire life and
stay. But I don't want to."
"Do you think it's important to find out if there's a God?"
"Well—" Leave me alone! Get off my back!
"If there is, and we don't find out, are we culpable?"
302
1 don't have to listen to this! It's brainwashing, that's what it

<:>
IS.'
"I can find out in New York," I said.
"If I offered you a $200,000 business deal," Reb Noach put in,
"you wouldn't say, 'I can make the same deal in America.' You'd
say, 'Let's talk.' "
"I have a whole life to get back to," I insisted. "I like my life."
"Then you won't really try to find out," said the rebbetsen.
"I didn't say that."
"Well, will you?"
"I don't know," I said, feeling miserable.
I was not in the best mood to face Reb Noach. During our talks
he had been going through the proofs of God one by one. His
theme this time was: "A design must have a designer." I had by
now had this argument with several people. I still didn't buy it.
Finally, Reb Noach said, "Ellen, think for a minute: is there a
reason you don't want to believe the proofs?"
"Well, I can't deny that," I said. "I don't want to change my
whole world view. But—"
"Look at it objectively! If you accept one proof it doesn't mean
changing your whole world view."
"But I don't accept it. I don't see that the order in the universe
has to be created by a personal God."
"There seems to be a wall here," said Reb Noach. "I don't want
to pursue this unless you want to."
He started on another tack. "Why was the world created? For
our pleasure. What is the one thing we are capable of doing?
Seeking pleasure. So how can we go wrong? Insanity! Tell me—
what's the opposite of pleasure?"
"Pain," I said.
"No! No! The opposite of pleasure is comfort. Pleasure involves
pain. Decadence is opting for comfort. For example, what's more
important, wisdom or money? Ask most people, they'll say 'wis-
dom.' 'Okay, stay here six months and I'll give you wisdom.' 'I
can't—I have a job, a girlfriend, I'm supposed to take a vacation in
303
the Greek islands.' 'Stay six months and I'll give you $20,000.'
'Fine!' 'What about your job, your girlfriend?' 'They'll wait.'
"The soul wants wisdom; the body wants money. The soul wants
pleasure; the body wants comfort. And what's the highest plea-
sure? The aim of the soul? God, Ellen. That's real happiness—
ecstasy, Ellen! Find out what you're living for! Take the pain
—pleasure only comes with a lot of pain. I'm your friend—I'm
with you. Give up your life of striving for success, for identity,
your name up there—"
Unfair!
"Do you really think I write just to get my name in print?"
"I think you do it to have an identity. To be 'a writer.' "
"I do like having that. But would you believe that I write mainly
because I enjoy it, and I'm good at it, and"—defiantly—"I think
it's useful work!"
"Shakespeare's okay," said Reb Noach, "but unless you know
the real meaning of life, you're a zombie, a walking dead man. Find
out what you're living for, Ellen. Clarity or death!"
There began to be moments—usually early in the morning, be-

fore I forced myself to get up and face the day—when I was more
inclined than not to believe that it was all true, that I was only
resisting because I couldn't stand the pain of admitting how wrong
I was. What about the prophecies . . . and the way modern history
seemed almost a conspiracy to drive the Jews back to Israel. . . and
the Bible . . . Mike and I had been going over Genesis, along with
the Rashi commentary, and I had had a sudden vision, like an acid
flash, of a Garden, and a Presence . . . and my personality, my
Sagittarian compulsion to aim straight at the cosmic bull's-eye . . .
"The blessing and curse of being a Jew," said Reb Noach, "is that
Jews are thirsty for God, for the absolute. A Jew can never have
peace. Whatever he does, he'll be the best at, whether it's being a
radical or being a criminal. It's all misplaced searching for God.
Every Jew is a neurotic...."
304
And if I became religious, what would I do? Insanity, deca-

dence, call it what you please, I could never be a traditional Jewish
mother. But maybe I didn't have to be. Actually, only men were
subject to a specific mitzva to marry and have children. And not
everyone took the Weinbergs' hard line on procreation—accord-
ing to one rabbi I'd met, a psychologist, the halacha permitted
contraception when necessary to preserve a woman's health, in-
cluding her emotional health. Nor were the role divisions in the
family absolute; no law actually forbade women to work outside
the home, or men to share housework. Even within the bounds of
Judaism I could be a feminist of sorts, crusading for reforms like
equal education, perhaps contesting the biased halachic interpreta-
tions of male rabbis. And my experience would put me in a unique
position to reach women like me and bring them back.
In private I could have this fantasy, even take it seriously.
Which would not stop me, an hour or a minute later, from getting
into a furious argument with a man. It was one thing to consider
the abstract possibility that women's role in Judaism was not in-
herently oppressive, another to live in a culture that made me feel
oppressed. Once when Mike and I were dinner guests of another
of his teachers I complained, "You know, it makes me feel like a
servant when you sit there like a lump while I help serve and clean
up."
"It isn't customary for the men to help," Mike said, "and if I got
up I'd make everybody uncomfortable, including the women." He
had a point—when in Rome and all that—but it was a point he was
not exactly loath to make. The fact was that for Mike, moving
from Western secular society to Orthodox Judaism had meant an
increase in status and privilege; for me it meant a loss.
One night Mike and I got together with Dick Berger, one of his
best friends at the yeshiva. Mike was very high on Dick, who, he
said, was an unusually perceptive person with a gift for sensing
someone's emotional blocks. He had been encouraging Mike to get
more connected to his feelings. I had met Dick once and he had
told me a little about himself. He had been a newspaper reporter in
305
Pittsburgh, had written an unpublished novel, had been into psy-

chedelics and Transcendental Meditation. Later he had told Mike
that he felt I had seen him only as material for my article. I didn't
think that was true, but I worried about it anyway. I hated it when
people claimed to know my motives better than I did, but I always
worried that they were right.
The conversation that night was pleasant enough until Dick and
I got into an argument about men sharing child care. Dick sug-
gested that three thousand years of tradition shouldn't be tampered
with, and I started getting angry in a way I knew from experience
led to no good. Then he really pushed the wrong button.
"You're so emotional! Can't we talk about this objectively?"
"You're hardly being objective. It's in your interest as a man to
think what you think."
"I'm feeling detached," Dick insisted. "By that I mean attached
to my basic essence. You're reacting out of your conditioning in
Western culture."
"You're reacting out of your male-supremacist prejudices, only
you have three thousand years of tradition on your side."
"But I'm not being aggressive and hostile—you are!"
"You can afford to be 'objective' and 'detached'! You're happy
with the system—I'm the one who's being oppressed by it! Why
shouldn't I be hostile—what right do you have to demand that we
have this conversation on your terms—" My sentence went
hurtling off into the inarticulate reaches of un-God-like rage.
Another time, another friend of Mike's: Harvey, a tall, dark,
intense South African. "I'm not here because I want to be," he
said. "I want freedom and money and the pleasures of the body. I
was happy in my nonreligious life—I miss it. But once you know
there's a God—"
We started arguing about design and evolution. "Either there's a
God," Harvey said, "or all this harmony and purpose is a coinci-
dence."
"Those aren't the only possibilities—"
"And there are vast odds against coincidence. If you had a dart
306
board that had lots of red and just a little white, where do you
think your dart would hit?"
"That's a silly analogy," I said.
"What if you had to lay money on it?"
"I'm not going to play this game! It's ridiculous! It's irrelevant!"
"Answer me," the prosecutor insisted. "Would you bet on
white or red?"
"I'm not Pascal!" I yelled. "And I'm not about to change my
entire life because of some abstract intellectual decision about what
the odds are on there being a God!"
"The Torah isn't only a carrot, you know. It's a stick, as well.
There's punishment—you get cut off—"
And I'm not going to play your guilt game, either! You men
are not going to cram your sexist religion down my throat!
There it was: I might be persuaded to return to Judaism—but
not by a man. After one of our encounters, Reb Noach had de-
clared, "You are emotionally committed to rebelling against the
male sex!" He was right, of course, and in principle I agreed that
one ought to be wary of such a priori commitments. But whenever
I clashed with a man I seemed to end up with a renewed convic-
tion that my rebellion was a matter of simple sanity. Men with
their bullshit head trips! Men with their "objectivity": "Let's dis-
cuss this rationally—should I remove my foot from your neck, or
shouldn't I?"
EXODUS
And it shall be when thy son asketh thee in time to come,

saying, What is this? that thou shalt say unto him, By strength
of hand the Lord brought us out from Egypt, from the house
of bondage.
—EXODUS XIII: 14
You know her life was saved by rock and roll.

—VELVET UNDERGROUND
307
Mike and I were walking in Mea Shearim, talking about happi-

ness. My revised departure date was nearly two weeks away,
time for plenty of changes, but I knew that I would not, at
least for the present, become an Orthodox Jew. My decision had
involved no epiphany, no cathartic moment of truth; my doubts re-
mained and perhaps always would. But to put it that way was look-
ing at it backward. The fact was that only a compelling, inescapable
moment of truth could have made me religious. Nothing less could
shake my presumption in favor of a life that made me happy.
From Mike's point of view I was refusing to accept the truth
because of a strong emotional resistance; though he too had re-
sisted, his unhappiness with secular life had made it easier to give
up. On the other hand, he kept suggesting, I might be a lot less
happy than I thought.
"Dick sees you as a very unhappy person," Mike said. "And Reb
Noach thinks you're really unhappy."
I felt a twinge of resentment—who were these people, who
hardly knew me, to call me unhappy?—mixed with anxiety. Was I
fooling myself? I didn't think so. I was not perfectly happy, or as
happy as I wanted to be, but in spite of my unresolved problems I
was happier than not. Having problems, even serious ones, was not
the same as being unhappy. I knew the difference because I had
experienced it. For about seven years, beginning the year I started
college, I had suffered from a severe depression. At the time I
hadn't called it that; I didn't know what to call it. I wasn't espe-
cially sad; I just had this puzzling sense that nothing was quite real,
that my life was, as I put it to myself, all procedure and no sub-
stance. Most of my activities, however theoretically enjoyable,
secretly disappointed me. Reading my favorite poets, camping in
Yosemite, marching on CORE picket lines, making love, somehow
I nearly always felt like a spectator. When I got married I knew I
was making a mistake but felt powerless to act on that knowledge;
no matter how a movie may horrify you, you don't yell "No!" at
it or smash the projector. I was conscious that all was not well, but
then, I thought, perhaps everyone felt this way, perhaps this was
308
just the way life was. In the beginning that thought jibed neatly
with the spirit of the time—the tail end of the silent fifties.
My depression had begun gradually, for no obvious reason, and
ended the same way. But over the years my memories of descent
and recovery had crystallized around a few symbolic events. The
first occurred when I was a Barnard freshman infatuated with a
Columbia sophomore, an old friend from high school. One day I
ran into him on the street and casually suggested—we were
friends, right?—getting together sometime. He looked uncomfort-
able and mumbled a nonanswer. To my surprise I felt almost no
pain. I noted that fact with detached interest. How sensible, I
thought. Why cry over a situation I have no power to change?
Four years later, when I was living in Berkeley, I heard Bob Dylan
for the first time and was an instant fanatic. Dylan's voice got
straight through to me, and what it said was, No, this is not just
the way life is. Then a friend lent me Wilhelm Reich's classic,
Character Analysis. I had never heard of Reich, and the book was a
revelation: among other things, it contained a precise description
of my emotional state. Other people had been in the same condi-
tion and been cured! I was not hopeless! It took me a while to pick
up on these messages, but eventually I left my husband, returned
to New York, became a journalist, decided I thought I was really a
radical, and fell in love. Somewhere along the line I noticed that
my strange remoteness was gone.
I had had bouts of depression since then—the worst one had
driven me to my therapist—and in occasional moments of stress I
had reverted to staring at the movie. But I felt certain that I would
never again lose myself in so terrible a way. In retrospect, it was
clear that what had done me in were my conflicts about growing
up female—conflicts I still felt. The difference was that I had
decided to engage and struggle with life rather than withdraw
from it. And making that decision—as often as necessary—was
what happiness was about. I agreed with the Jewish insistence
that happiness was a choice. Yet how I had gained the strength to
choose remained a mystery, part of the larger mystery of how one
309
connected with Reality. Like the inexplicable, ineffable liberation

I'd experienced on acid, my emergence from despair had ulti-
mately depended on what religious people call the grace of God.
Not that external circumstances were irrelevant. Things might
have been very different if it had not been for the sixties—and
especially for rock-and-roll. Rock had been a major factor in my
recovery; it had had the power to move me when almost nothing
else did. I had been an ardent rock-and-roll fan in high school.
(Sometimes I thought this was why my depression hadn't hit until
I arrived at Barnard where—this was 1958—you were still sup-
posed to dance to Lester Lanin.) But by the early sixties I had
largely abandoned pop for folk music. Still, when Dylan released
his first rock album, I was excited; I felt he had brought it all back
home in more ways than one. After my marriage broke up in 1965,
I started listening to AM radio again. The sixties renaissance had
begun; the pop charts were dominated by the Beatles and Stones
and their epigoni, by Motown and folk rock. My new lover was
not only obsessed with the music but self-conscious about its cul-
tural significance and its influence on our lives in a way that was
new to me. I began to make my own connections. My first serious
article was a long essay on Dylan.
Mike had once been a rock fan, but since becoming religious he
had come to see rock as a drug, an escapist distraction. He also
considered my writing a suspect activity; he and Dick Berger
agreed that journalism, like traveling, was a way of observing life
rather than participating in it.
"Do you think you would have gotten more out of being here if
you had just come and gotten involved instead of having to think
about your article?" Mike asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But if I hadn't decided to write an
article I probably wouldn't have come."
Without the protection of my writer's role—my license to
observe—I might not have had the courage to come. But more
important, my overwhelming urge to write about a subject that
touched every major issue in my life had routed a powerful im-
310
Next Year in Jerusalem.
pulse to repress, sit tight, let inertia take over; my decision to face
up to my spiritual crisis was inseparable from my compulsion to
observe and analyze it, to pursue every last connection. Anyway,
writing was not just observing—it was sharing one's observations,
a social act. It was also hard work. My identity as a writer might,
as Reb Noach had suggested, be a prop for my ego, but it also had
something to do with taking my work seriously. I had not begun
thinking of myself as "a writer" until I had changed my attitude
from "Right now I'm writing, maybe next year I'll study psychol-
ogy" to "I'm going to stop playing games and commit myself to
being the best writer I can be." Now, looking back on that change,
I saw it as another crucial step toward happiness.
Clarity or death! Reb Noach insisted, and if there was one bit of
clarity that emerged from all my confusion, it was the conviction
that my happiness was not illusory. As I tried to explain that
conviction to Mike, I felt suddenly disgusted with my current
funk. No wonder Dick and Reb Noach thought I was unhappy. I
was a mess. I had gained ten pounds and developed a cold. I was
sleeping later and later. If I had a serious talk with someone it
exhausted me so much I would run back to the security of Shimoni
Street and take a nap. "When we act out of fear of pain, we're
choosing death," Reb Noach was always saying. "The Torah says,
'Choose life!'" I had been running from the pain of uncertainty
and conflict, had even thought, "I can't stand any more of this—
I'm going to kill myself." How absurdly self-important!
Perhaps it was sheer determination to prove Mike wrong, but
my mood slowly began to change. I began, finally, to respond to
the beauty of Jerusalem, to the hills and the peculiar atmospheric
sparkle I had noticed nowhere else. I felt as if I'd been let out of
prison.
Passover was approaching. I had deliberately scheduled my trip

so that I would be in Israel for the week-long holiday. The Passover
Seder—which was supposed to be celebrated on each of the first
311
two nights—was the one Jewish ritual my family regularly ob-

served. Most years we had our Seders with my mother's sister's
family; my uncle, who was observant though not Orthodox,
presided at the ceremony. For the rest of us Passover was less a
religious occasion than a family party, a spring version of Thanks-
giving. Still, it was impossible to retell the Exodus story year after
year and be unaffected by it. It was, after all, a story about escap-
ing oppression for freedom, and I was fond of thinking of it in
contemporary political and psychological terms; to me, the Seder's
concluding invocation—"Next year in Jerusalem!"—expressed
hope for both kinds of liberation. To Orthodox Jews, however,
Passover meant something very different; as I had learned attend-
ing Lorie's classes, the traditional definition of the freedom the
Exodus represented was a mirror image of my own.
Passover commemorates a historical event—the deliverance of
the Jewish people from slavery in Egypt, the prelude to the reve-
lation of the Torah. But for the religious Jew it is also an ongoing
reality. The Haggadah (the account of the Exodus read at the
Seder) says, "In every generation each individual is bound to re-
gard himself as if he personally had gone forth from Egypt."
According to tradition, Egypt represents materialism, hedonism,
amorality. To relive the Exodus is to affirm one's liberation from
bondage to the pharaoh within—the yeitzer bara—and one's readi-
ness to live in true freedom, that is, under God's law. This theme is
made concrete in the central symbol of Passover, the matzo—
unleavened bread. Because the fleeing Jews did not have time to let
their bread rise, it is forbidden during Passover to eat or possess
bread or any food made with leaven; symbolically, leaven repre-
sents the expansion of the yeitzer bara.
Reb David, a young teacher at Aish HaTorah, and his wife Ruth
had invited Mike and me for the first Seder. In the morning we
went over to help with last-minute preparations. Ruth put me to
work hemming her older son's new holiday pants. Later I played
with the kids, who had been sent out on the porch with a bowl
of nuts to crack. A week ago, their noise, mess, and bickering
312
would have driven me further into myself; now I was actually

having fun.
The Seder began around eight. The idea of the ceremony is to
teach everyone—especially the children present—as much about
the Exodus and its meaning as possible. Reb David went over each
page of the Haggadah, asking questions, discussing various rabbis'
interpretations, and by the time we reached the end of the first
part—which we had to do before we could eat—it was almost
midnight. After dinner we carried on for two more hours. The
Seder ended—I had wondered about this beforehand—with the
traditional words: "Next year in Jerusalem."
Later in the week, Mike and I were guests at the Weinbergs',

along with several vacationing students of both sexes. I was very
conscious of the rebbetsen, who seemed continually busy—though
her admiring female guests competed with each other for jobs,
there was always more to do—and continually serene. Occasion-
ally one of the kids gave her a hard time, balking at some little
chore. Long after the average parent would have been shrieking
with frustration, the rebbetsen would calmly repeat her request—or
else, with no visible resentment, she would do the task herself.
Feeling guilty about my own lack of patience and selflessness, a
lack I was sure was obvious to everyone, I slinked around trying to
be inconspicuous. Finally the rebbetsen cornered me.
"I think," she began, "that you think you have to hide your
femininity to be taken seriously."
For a moment I was speechless. "Why do you think that?"
"Well, for instance, the way you dress. The way you wear your
hair."
Oh, if that's all she means, I thought. She doesn't realize, I'm
only looking this way because I've been depressed. I knew I had
been neglecting my appearance. Most days I stuck my long hair
under a scarf so I wouldn't have to bother with it, and I couldn't
wear anything with a waistline because I'd gained so much weight.
3!3
On the other hand, the baggy dress I had on was actually quite
fashionable in New York, and besides, since my normal jeans-and-
T-shirt wardrobe was halachically unacceptable, what was I sup-
posed to wear, and anyway, wasn't this the same old oppressive
business of always judging a woman by her looks. . . . Nice try,
but it won't do, I admitted. Face it: she's right.
The big lie of male supremacy is that women are less than fully
human; the basic task of feminism is to expose that lie and fight it
on every level. Yet for all my feminist militance, I was, it seemed,
secretly afraid that the lie was true—that my humanity was hope-
lessly at odds with my ineluctably female sexuality—while the
rebbetsen, staunch apostle of traditional femininity, did not appear
to doubt for a moment that she could be both a woman and a
serious person. Which was only superficially paradoxical, for if
you were absolutely convinced that the Jewish woman's role was
ordained by God, and that it was every bit as important spiritually
as the man's, how could you believe the lie?
I was too much the product of Western libertarian values to
travel the rebbetseris route to self-acceptance, and so far I had not
succeeded in finding my own. I did, however, have an idea where
to look. For me, the question of women's liberation was bound up
with the question of sex itself. And one reason I could not accept
Judaism was that I could not swallow the Jewish view of sex.
Though Jews regarded sex as a gift of God, to be enjoyed under
the proper conditions, the sexual drive, like all physical desires, was
seen as destructive unless strictly controlled. Male sexuality was
particularly suspect; it was assumed that men naturally sought to
gratify a selfish, exploitative, insatiable lust totally divorced from
love or social responsibility. I believed—with Wilhelm Reich, who
had rejected Freud's contention that the sexual instincts were in-
herently antisocial—that alienated lust was not natural at all, but
the aberration of a culture that viewed women as objects and the
penis as an instrument of conquest and possession; I believed that
when people were in touch with Reality the boundary between
lust and love dissolved. And I believed that since women had not
3H
been conquerors, they were more likely to see the truth: that
natural sexuality had nothing to do with conquest, that it required,
on the contrary, a complete mutual surrender of egos. Sexually, it
was men who were more estranged from their humanity; women
who were closer to what we all must become. I knew the truth,
had always known it—and it scared me to death. Which is why I
had not yet been able to make the most important choices of all: to
admit that surrender was not necessarily weakness; to stop trying
to prove I could be as invulnerable as any man.
On my last night in Jerusalem I went back for a final visit with

the Weinbergs. Reb Noach was talking to a young visitor named
Ron. Ron was explaining that he had come to Israel to get his head
straight, figure out what to do with his life. Did he want to take
over his father's diamond-polishing business or what?
"Come to our yeshiva," Reb Noach said. "Find out what Juda-
ism has to say about these questions. For instance, why are we
here? What are we here for?"
"To serve God?"
"No. The world was created to give man pleasure. The Torah
tells us how to get it. The Almighty didn't want us wandering
around like chickens with their heads chopped off."
Ron was obviously interested, and Reb Noach began urging him
to come to Aish HaTorah for a week.
"I can't," said Ron. "I've committed myself to work on my
kibbutz till the end of July. And my girlfriend is there."
"Don't worry about the kibbutz. They can get someone to take
your place. What are you there for? You won't find the answers to
your questions on a kibbutz."
"I can't come now," said Ron. "But I promise in three months
I'll be back."
"Come now," Reb Noach persisted. "Who knows what could
happen in three months? A man should never say, 'When I have
time I'll study.'"
3'5
"I can't," said Ron, "but my mind is really blown by your

concern."
I made my good-byes. Reb Noach gave me some parting advice-.
"Jews say, whatever else you do, be happy. Even if you're a law-
breaker, just fulfill that one commandment."
In the morning Mike went with me to the airport. We stood
there awkwardly, unable to say most of what we felt. For the first
time since this long trip had begun, I had the old flash that he was
my male mirror image.
Judaism teaches the conventional patriarchal idea that men have
more of a bent for abstract reasoning, women for intuitive under-
standing. I believe that this split is social, not biological—that in a
society where men rule and women nurture, it makes sense for
men to develop their intellect at the expense of their emotions and
for women to do the opposite. Still, I agree that although the
difference is probably not innate, and certainly not absolute—I, for
one, am more cerebral than most of the men I know—it does exist.
And at the moment Mike and I were a study in contrasting male
and female sensibilities. I was leaving Israel, with all the intel-
lectual questions unresolved, because in the end I trusted my feel-
ings and believed in acting on them. Though I might use logic as a
weapon against uncertainty, I did not, finally, have Mike's faith
that it would lead me to the truth.
Mike had been twenty-four when he became religious. I had
been twenty-three when I came out of my deadly depression. It
seemed to me that both changes represented the same basic deci-
sion to be happy. But mine had been a purely intuitive decision, to
allow myself to feel; his had presented itself as an intellectual
decision, to go where his logic led. Perhaps our paths were equally
valid. Perhaps not. As I kissed my brother good-bye, I still did not
know whether my refusal to believe was healthy self-assertion or
stubborn egotism; the Jews, the Bible tells us, are a stiff-necked
people.
I arrived exhausted at Kennedy, retrieved my baggage, slogged
through customs, and went outside to wait for my parents to pick
3r6
me up. Only then did I allow myself a moment of enormous relief.

I had made it after all. No crash, no bomb, no hijacker, no unex-
plained delay. I was here in New York, body and soul intact.
And then I thought, so what? Suddenly I was quite unable to
understand what I had been so anxious to come back to. The
airport was bleak and sterile. The weather was unseasonably cold,
and a freaky windstorm was making everyone run for cover. I
huddled in the doorway of the terminal, watching the cars go by
like an endless procession of anti-American cliches. When my par-
ents drove up I felt another surge of relief, but on the way back to
their house my confusion returned. Where did I belong? What did
I want?
The following evening my father drove me home to my apart-
ment in Manhattan. The windstorm had blown away the smog,
and from the expressway we had an unusually clear view of the
harbor and the skyline. It was dusk, the lights of the city were
beginning to blink on, and I was seized with an almost religious
tenderness for New York and its special beauty. Yet at the same
time, staring at those glittering lights, I saw something else: the
temptations of Egypt. My eyes filled, and I thought—groping for
irony I could not quite reach—
How does it feel

To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown?
'976
3i7
Permissions Acknowledgments
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint

from previously published material:
DWARF MUSIC: Excerpts from the following lyrics by Bob Dylan: "Leopard-
Skin Pill-Box Hat," copyright © 1966, Dwarf Music. "Stuck Inside of Mobile
with the Memphis Blues Again," copyright © 1966, Dwarf Music. "Just Like
a Woman," copyright © 1966, Dwarf Music. "One of Us Must Know (Sooner
or Later)," copyright © 1966, Dwarf Music. "Dear Landlord," copyright ©
1968, Dwarf Music. "John Wesley Harding," copyright © 1968, Dwarf Music.
"All Along the Watchtower," copyright © 1968, Dwarf Music. Used by per-
mission. All rights reserved.
FABULOUS MUSIC LIMITED AND TOWSER TUNES, INC: Excerpts from "You
Didn't See It," "Sally Simpson," and "The Acid Queen" by Peter Town-
shend, copyright © 1969 by Fabulous Music Limited. All rights in the U.S.,
its territories and possessions, Canada, Mexico, and the Philippines are con-
trolled by Towser Tunes, Inc. All rights reserved. International Copyright
Secured. Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of Peter Townshend, Fabulous
Music Limited, and Towser Tunes, Inc.
ELLIN HIRST: Excerpt from lyrics of "Night Blindness," copyright © 1972 by

Ellin Hirst. Used by permission of the author.
METAL MACHINE MUSIC: Excerpt from "Street Hassle," written by Lou Reed,
copyright © 1978 Metal Machine Music. Used by permission. All rights
reserved.
OAKFIELD AVENUE MUSIC: Excerpts from "I'll Be Your Mirror" and "Heroin," written
by Lou Reed, copyright © 1966 Oakfield Avenue Music. Excerpts from "Here She
Comes Now," written by Lou Reed, copyright © 1967 Oakfield Avenue Music/John
Cale Music, Inc. Excerpts from "Beginning to See the Light," "Candy Says," "I'm Set
Free," and "Pale Blue Eyes," written by Lou Reed, copyright © 1969 Oakfield Avenue
Music. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
319
UNITED ARTISTS MUSIC: Excerpt from "London Waltz" by Eric von Schmidt
and Richard Farina, copyright © 1967 Robbins Music Corporation and Chan-
dos Music Company. All rights administered by Robbins Music Corporation.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
WARNER BROS. MUSIC: Excerpts from the following lyrics by Bob Dylan. "When the
Ship Comes In," copyright © 1963 Warner Bros. Music. Renewed 1991 by Special
Rider Music. "My Back Pages," copyright © 1964 Warner Bros. Music. Renewed 1992
by Special Rider Music. "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right," copyright © 1963
Warner Bros. Music. Renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music. "It's Alright Ma (I'm
Only Bleeding)," copyright © 1965 Warner Bros. Music. "Mr. Tambourine Man,"
copyright © 1964, 1965 Warner Bros. Music. Renewed 1992 by Special Rider Music.
"Subterranean Homesick Blues," copyright © 1965 Warner Bros. Music. "Ballad of a
Thin Man," copyright © 1965 Warner Bros. Music. "Talkin" John Birch Paranoid
Blues," copyright © 1970 Special Rider Music. "Like a Rolling Stone," copyright ©
1965 Warner Bros. Music. "Ballad in Plain D," copyright © 1964 Warner Bros. Music.
Renewed 1992 by Special Rider Music. "Desolation Row," copyright © 1965 Warner
Bros. Music. "I Shall Be Free," copyright © 1963, 1967 Warner Bros. Music. Renewed
1991 by Special Rider Music. "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," copyright © 1963
Warner Bros. Music. Renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music. Used by permission.
International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
320
ELLEN WILLIS (1941-2006) was a groundbreaking radical leftist
writer and thinker whose true loves were rock music, feminism, plea-
sure, and freedom. She was the first pop music critic for The New
Yorker and an editor and columnist at the Village Voice. She wrote
for numerous publications, including Rolling Stone, the New York
Times, The Nation, and Dissent. She was the founder of the Cultural
Reporting and Criticism program at New York University. Other
essay collections by Willis published by the University of Minnesota
Press are No More Nice Girls: Countercultural Essays (2012) and Out of
the Vinyl Deeps: Ellen Willis on Rock Music (2011).

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What books has Ellen Willis published?

What books has Ellen Willis published?

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What information is provided on pages 3 and 4?

Beginning to See the Light

Other Books by Ellen Willis

No More Nice Girls: Counter cultural Essays

University of Minnesota Press

First University of Minnesota Press edition, 2012

Published by the University of Minnesota Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer.

I O U T O F THE VINYL DEEPS

II AMERICAN GIRLS WANT EVERYTHING

Learning from Chicago i 27

III NEXT YEAR IN JERUSALEM

Next Year in Jerusalem 26 i

want first of all to thank my close friends, feminist co-

William Shawn, who brought me to The New Yorker and edited

restaurants at which large chunks of this book were written—

Since I believe that journalism exists in and draws much of its

U itil I started putting this collection together, I did not realize

moral and religious outlook—a fact that, to my mind, reveals the

or no control over the conditions of their own working lives, let

tures imposed on the artist; on the deepest level it is the enemy of

structure of the record business, the mood of the audience—and

the sexual questions and explore their most radical implications. In

embodied in an existing social system, a, well, organic community.

S hortly before I started working on this introduction, I saw "Thelma

shift began in 1968, when the anti-war movement's unsuccessful at-

needed trimming to today's harsh realities, but an evil that had to be

securities (and concomitant obsession with "survival") that were sup-

female subordination. As a society we have responded to this crisis by

attention from domestic problems to a foreign (even better, a non-

defensive balkanizing impulse propelled by a sense of scarcity and de-

culture — especially rock-and-roll — along with the adoption of bohe-

genuine radicalism. But I would not abandon my ground to stand

and my own, through memories that years of therapy hadn't dredged

N early two years ago, Bob Dylan had a motorcycle accident.

imagination. According to a less romantic version, he was keeping

identifiable persona has been disappearing into his songs, which is

folk groups at one end, resurrected cigar-box guitarists and Ozark

their older sister. Later, they were to acquire an angel—Joan Baez,

ancient. At first hearing, most of the Freewheelin' songs sounded

In retrospect, Dylan's break with the topical song movement

Oklahoma, but while Guthrie had been a victim, Dylan was a

sign, folk and pop records (including earlier Dylan), a portrait, a

Man," which derided the rationalist bewildered by the instinctual

Pure folk sound and idiom, in theory the expression of ordinary

tune. Their cynicism, like Leadbelly's violence or Charlie Parker's

* This statement now strikes me as absurd, a confusion of aesthetic sophisti-

Malvina Reynolds pronounced the new rock-and-roll "a -wonder

tion out of pop, was much like a folk culture—oral, naive,

It is a truism among Dylan's admirers that he is a poet using rock-

verses, horrendous grammar, tangled phrases, silly metaphors,

lie surface. John Wesley Harding, released after twenty months of

almost a parody of the whole art-rock phenomenon. How was

fantastic produces an unsettling gnomic effect, enhanced in some