Mercy (2 page)

Contents

Not Andrea: Prologue

i

o n e In August 1956 (Age 9)

5

t w o In 1961 and 1962 (Age 14, 15, 16)

29

t h r e e In January 1965 (Age 18)

35

f o u r In February 1965 (Age 18)

56

f iv e In June 1966 (Age 19)

74

s ix In June 1967 (Age 20)

100

s e v e n In 1969, 1970, 1971 (Age 22, 23, 24, 25)

134

e i g h t In March 1973 (Age 26)

164

n in e In October 1973 (Age 27)

214

TEN April 30, 1974 (Age 27)

273

e le v e n April 30, 1974 (Age 27)

308

Not Andrea: Epilogue

334

Author’s N ote

343

Not Andrea: Prologue

N o w I’ve come into m y ow n as a wom an o f letters. I am a

committed feminist, o f course. I admit to a cool, elegant

intellect with a clear superiority over the ape-like men who

write. I don’t wear silk, o f course. I am icy and formal even

alone by myself, a discipline o f identity and identification. I do

not wear m yself out with mistaken resistance, denunciation,

foolhardy anguish. I feel, o f course. I feel the pain, the sorrow ,

the lack o f freedom. I feel with a certain hard elegance. I am

admired for it— the control, the reserve, the ability to make

the fine point, the subtle point. I avoid the obvious. I have a

certain intellectual elegance, a certain refinement o f the mind.

There is nothing w rong with civilized thought. It is necessary.

I believe in it and I do have the courage o f m y convictions. One

need not raise one’s voice. I am formal and careful, yes, but

with a real power in m y style i f I do say so myself. I am not, as

a writer or a human being, insipid or bland, and I have not sold

out, even though I have manners and limits, and I am not

poor, o f course, w h y should I be? I don’t have the stink on me

that some o f the others have, I am able to say it, I am not effete.

I am their sister and their friend. I do not disavow them. I am

committed. I write checks and sign petitions. I lend m y name.

I write books with a strong narrative line in clear, detailed,

descriptive prose, in the nineteenth-century tradition o f

storytelling, intellectually coherent, nearly realistic, not

sentimental but yes with sex and romance and wom en w ho do

something, achieve something, strong women. I am

committed, I do care, and I am the one to contend with, if the

truth be told, because m y mind is clear and cool and m y prose

is exceedingly skillful if sometimes a trifle too baroque. Every

style has its dangers. I am not reckless or accusatory. I consider

freedom. I look at it from many angles. I value it. I think about

it. I’ve found this absolutely stunning passage from Sartre that

I want to use and I copy it out slow ly to savor it, because it is

cogent and meaningful, with an intellectual richness, a moral

subtlety. Y ou don’t have to shout to tell the truth. Y ou can

think. Y ou have a responsibility to think. M y wild sisters revel

in being wretched and they do not think. Sartre is writing

about the French under the German Occupation, well, French

intellectuals really, and he says— “ We were never as free as

under the German Occupation. We had lost all our rights, and,

first o f all, the right to speak; we were insulted every day, and

had to keep silent.. . . and everywhere, on the walls, the

papers, the movie screen, we were made to confront the ugly

mug that our oppressor presented to us as our own: but this is

precisely why we were free. As the German poison seeped into

our minds, every just thought we had was a real conquest; as

an omnipotent police kept forcing silence upon us, every word

we uttered had the value o f a declaration o f rights; as we were

constantly watched, every gesture we made was a commitm ent. ” This is moral eloquence, in the mouth o f a man. This

applies to the situation o f women. This is a beautiful truth,

beautifully expressed. Every just thought is a real conquest,

for women under the rule o f men. They don’t know how hard

it is to be kind. Our oppressor puts his version o f us

everywhere, on walls, in the papers, on the movie screens.

Like a poison gas, it seeps in. Every word we utter is a

declaration o f our rights. Every gesture is a commitment. I

make gestures. I experience this subtle freedom, this freedom

based on nuance, a freedom grotesquely negated by a vulgar,

reckless shout, however sincere. He didn’t know that the Je w s

were being exterminated, perhaps, not then. O f course, yes,

he did know that they had been deported from France. Yes.

And when he published these words much later, in 1949, he

did know, but one must be true to one’s original insights,

one’s true experiences, the glimpses one has o f freedom. There

is a certain pride one takes in seeing something so fine, so

subtle, and saying it so well— and, o f course, one cannot

endlessly revise backwards. His point about freedom is

elegant. He too suffered during the war. It is not a cheap point.

And it is true that for us too every w ord is a declaration o f

rights, every gesture a commitment. This is beautifully put,

strongly put. As a wom an o f letters, I fight for m y kind, for

women, for freedom. The brazen scream distracts. The wild

harridans are not persuasive. I write out Sartre’s passage with

appreciation and excitement. The analogy to the condition o f

wom en is dramatic and at the same time nuanced. I w ill not

shout. This is
not
the ovens. We are
not
the Jew s, or, to be

precise, the Je w s in certain parts o f Europe at a certain time.

We are not being pushed into the ovens, dragged in, cajoled in,

seduced in, threatened in. It is
not
us in the ovens. Such

hyperbole helps no one. I like the w ay Sartre puts it, though

the irony seems unintended: “ We were never as free as under

the German O ccupation. ” Actually, I do know that his

meaning is straightforward and completely sincere— there is

no irony. This embarrasses me, perhaps because I am a captive

o f m y time. We are cursed with hindsight. We need irony

because we are in fact incapable o f simple sincerity. “ We were

never as free as under the German O ccupation. ” It gives the

right significance to the gesture, something Brecht never

managed incidentally. I like the sophistication, the unexpected

meaning. This is what a writer must do: use w ords in subtle,

unexpected w ays to create intellectual surprise, real delight. I

love the pedagogy o f the analogy. There is a mutability o f