þriðjudagur, desember 3
Yessirree. Er á lífi. Tókst að hamra saman suddaritgerð um Wollstonecraft og er farin núna að líta betur á Oroonoko eftir Öfru Behn svo ég geti sýnt eitthvað í kvöld þegar ég fer í síðasta tímann minn í "textual editing" (hef ekki græna hvað þetta myndi kallast á íslensku). Skemmti mér vel í gær. Algjörlega ósofin á flandri á efri hluta vesturbakka Manhattaneyjar, haldin uppi af svefndrykkju og misgóðum kaffibollum frá götusölum. Sofnaði svefni hinna saklausu klukkan níu (já, NÍU!) í gærkveldi og vaknaði í fyrsta skipti í mánuði fyrir klukkan átta í morgun. Sem er fínt, þar sem ég hafði tíma til að horfa á endursýningar á Buffy sem eru alltaf á þessari ungodly hour á FX sjónvarpsstöðinni minni.
Það ætti einhver að þýða Wollstonecraft á íslensku. Þetta er Æðislegur Texti. Ég meina, kíkið á þetta:
The conduct and manners of women, in fact, evidently prove that their minds are not in a healthy state; for, like the flowers which are planted in too rich a soil, strength and usefulness are sacrificed to beauty; and the flaunting leaves, after having pleased a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded on the stalk, long before the season when they ought to have arrived at maturity.—One cause of this barren blooming I attribute to a false system of education, gathered from the books written on this subject by men who, considering females rather as women than human creatures, have been more anxious to make them alluring mistresses than wives; and the understanding of the sex has been so bubbled by this specious homage, that the civilized women of the present century, with a few exceptions, are only anxious to inspire love, when they ought to cherish a nobler ambition, and by their abilities and virtues exact respect.
...
Women are every where in this deplorable state; for, in order to preserve their innocence, as ignorance is courteously termed, truth is hidden from them, and they are made to assume an artificial character before their faculties have acquired any strength. Taught from their infancy that beauty is woman's sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and, roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adore its prison.
...
How grossly do they insult us who thus advise us only to render ourselves gentle, domestic brutes! For instance, the winning softness so warmly, and frequently, recommended, that governs by obeying. What childish expressions, and how insignificant is the being—can it be an immortal one? who will condescend to govern by such sinister methods! ... Men, indeed, appear to me to act in a very unphilosophical manner when they try to secure the good conduct of women by attempting to keep them always in a state of childhood.
...
If man did attain a degree of perfection of mind when his body arrived at maturity, it might be proper, in order to make a man and his wife one, that she should rely entirely on his understanding; and the graceful ivy, clasping the oak that supported it, would form a whole in which strength and beauty would be equally conspicuous. But, alas! husbands, as well as their helpmates, are often only overgrown children; nay, thanks to early debauchery, scarcely men in their outward form—and if the blind lead the blind, one need not come from heaven to tell us the consequence.
Hello feminismi frá 1792. Go Wollstonecraft! Svona on a sidenote, eins og allir vita, þá var það dóttir hennar, einnig kölluð Mary, sem seinna skrifaði ódauðlega verkið Frankenstein sem mun lifa að eilífu í túlkun Kenneth Brannaghs. Sigh.
15:19
