Openness and Sex by David Gilmour (not the Pink Floyd guy)
I’m not interested in teaching books by women. Virginia Woolf is the
only writer that interests me as a woman writer, so I do teach one of
her short stories. But once again, when I was given this job I said I
would only teach the people that I truly, truly love. Unfortunately,
none of those happen to be Chinese, or women. Except for Virginia Woolf.
And when I tried to teach Virginia Woolf, she’s too sophisticated, even
for a third-year class. Usually at the beginning of the semester a hand
shoots up and someone asks why there aren’t any women writers in the
course. I say I don’t love women writers enough to teach them, if you
want women writers go down the hall. What I teach is guys. Serious
heterosexual guys. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Chekhov, Tolstoy. Real guy-guys.
Henry Miller. Philip Roth.
I teach Tropic of Cancer to the first-year class. They’re
shocked out of their pants. No one teaches it except for me. Sometimes
their parents actually question me about it, they say, Listen, this is really outrageous. I say, well, it’s a piece of literature that’s been around for 60 years. It’s got something going for it.
There’s an even dirtier one that I teach, by Philip Roth, called The Dying Animal. I
save it ’til the very end of the year because by that point they’ve got
fairly strong stomachs, and they’re far more sophisticated than they
are in the beginning. So they can understand the differences between
pornography and great literature. There are men eating menstrual pads,
and by the time my students get to that they’re ready. Roth has the best
understanding of middle-aged sexuality I’ve ever come across. Now
where’s my copy? I took it home to read it again, and I think I might
have packed it up and stuck it away in storage. That’s going to be a
problem, because all my favourite parts are underlined.
No comments:
Post a Comment