Ayer dediqué un párrafo, al divagar sobre "La tejedora de coronas" de nuevo al tema de cómo nos describen los hombres en la literatura. Hace unas semanas, dejé un divague completo a tenor del debate Ana Ozores, Ana Karenina, Emma Bovary, et al.
Hoy, releyendo una vieja crónica sobre uno de los ensayos que más me ha influído, "Una habitación propia" de Virginia woolf, me encuentro con esto. Qué día mejor que hoy para colgarlo.
"women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time—Clytemnestra, Antigone, Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, Phedre, Cressida, Rosalind, Desdemona, the Duchess of Malfi, among the dramatists; then among the prose writers: Millamant, Clarissa, Becky Sharp, Anna Karenina, Emma Bovary, Madame de Guermantes—the names flock to mind, nor do they recall women ‘lacking in personality and character.’ Indeed, if woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; infinitely beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man, some think even greater. But this is woman in fiction. In fact, as Professor Trevelyan points out, she was locked up, beaten and flung about the room. (p.50)
Imaginatively she is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history. She dominates the lives of kings and conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger. Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband". (p.51)