![]() I was reading Mao II, and this was before DeLillo finally did bring it home with Underworld, and so I learned that whatever ‘70s time warp she was stuck in, she certainly knew how to read. “DeLillo always almost gets it, enough anyway to keep me hoping his next book will finally deliver,” she said. That she was ugly and bitter, the personification of female resentment. In other words, I knew nothing of Andrea Dworkin except what others had said about her. All I knew about Dworkin was that she hated men, hated sex, wanted to help the government censor porn and hated my dick, which I so very much loved. Two smart women of the generation that broke out with what they used to call Women’s Liberation, they had learned not to fear their own intelligence no matter who they scared. She had the same wild, Jewish hair and piercing, yet gentle eyes as my mother. ![]() ![]() She was a large woman, powerful in presence even when seated. I only met Andrea Dworkin once, in passing, at a Brooklyn cafe where I was parsing the Village Voice job listings and halfreading a Don DeLillo book that caught her eye. ![]()
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