Any writer who takes Henry James’s advice seriously, “Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is lost,” will end up, sooner or later, looking for the hidden story—hidden because nobody was listening for it, and because the water is rising, and because there but for the grace of God go you and I.
“He wanted to get out of his head,” she said,
“so I told him to write about his mother’s nipples.”
When she was nearly asleep, she heard voices far upstream, male voices, chanting, as if from the dawn of history. Deep, primeval. The Men were performing the rituals of manhood. But the little farts in the night were nearer and dearer.
From the ceilings of our tiny tunneled chambers, we hang.
Workers bring their parcels—drops of toothsome honeydew
fallen from foreign floral nectaries.
From the Archive: “Joining the Resistance: Psychology, Politics, Girls and Women,” by Carol Gilligan
Today, I explain, they are to be investigative reporters; their assignment is to find how girls and women appear in this museum.