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Fetid dingo's kidneys.
on June 21, 1998
I find it unfortunate that so many hear the voice of femininism in Dworkin's hysterical, illogical, venom spewing shrieks. While I do not doubt her when she speaks to the need for reform, her quixotic policies, and near-schizophrenic tendency to scream out hatred and blame (seemingly indiscriminatly) negate any progressive crumb that may sneak through.
As a feminist, I am forced into despair whenever I hear of Dworkin -- directly or indirectly, bandied about as a spokeswoman for feminism. Not all feminists (or feminisms) share her paranoia or delusions of persecution (there is enough persecution of women out there, Andrea, why go chasing windmills?).
I find most of Dworkin's prose fueled by these insane delusions. This book in particular reminded me of Mein Kampf in it's finger-pointing, scapegoating and hate/fear/disinformation fueled invective.
One of the first things I learned in my college education was to be able to tell the s*** from the daffodils. One does not need an expensive education, though, to know to compost this book.