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Sita Kate Millett 9780671731694 Books

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Sita Kate Millett 9780671731694 Books

Katherine Murray ("Kate") Millett (born 1934) is a feminist writer, educator, artist, and activist. She has written other books such as Sexual Politics,Flying,Loony-Bin Trip,The Prostitution Papers, etc. [NOTE: page numbers below refer to the 313-page paperback edition.]

She wrote in the first chapter of this 1977 book, “The face that opened and shone for me like the sun, warm, reassuring, protective. Permanently and definitely loving. How fatuous was I to believe, to imagine that. Nothing of love is permanent, ever. Yet I believed it; so passionate she was, so ardent, so entire in her promises, so Indian in her patience, so Latin in her attentions, so tender, so elaborately considerate.” (Pg. 31) Later, she observes, “If life resembles the newspaper, so huge, so various, so dull, it is love which resembles the comics, so charming and so brief.” (Pg. 44)

She states, “Artists without work are naked, hungry, frantic. We do not live merely to live as she does---and how I envy her this---but for some other purpose beyond us. Merely instruments of our purpose, we are like corpses when it fails us, might as well be dead. Even feel we deserve to die. My yearning for suicide was always just the imposition of that sentence.” (Pg. 77)

She wrote, “I can’t stay here. For nothing in the world could I stay home tonight. B_tch, I whisper, b_tch. I am tricked. Said I would teach that d_mn course, said I would stay. And you do this to me the first night afterward… but what I feel is the breaking of the heart, anger is nothing to my sorrow. The grief of knowing. The despair in realizing I am actually helpless. Because I love her still. Because I must suffer this, put up with it, have not walked out. And cannot.” (Pg. 98)

She says, “My stomach melts at the sound of that voice speaking its love, I am moved past speaking or reason. Is it her love for me that I love, this melancholy and infinitely tender emotion figured forth, expressed with such perfect inflection and tone, fullness of eye? This extravagant love for me. That someone, a beautiful woman even, had loved me so plangently. This love for me now withdrawn, now bitterly withheld, hidden and eclipsed.” (Pg. 101)

She recalls, “I realize she is gone. ‘I’ll call you from the office.’ … Her exit line. The insult of it, the sheer contempt of leaving like that, the smug bureaucratese of the words, the dismissive arrogance of it. But more than anger, the humiliation, the crippling mortification that thwarts anger, when fury could be helpful. The result instead id despair. It is I who am worthless. The whole dizzy circle of despair, conflict, ambivalence.” (Pg. 102)

She admits, “Sitting across from her at the teashop today, I knew for sure she would never live as I am living, in someone else’s town, someone else’s house, with the pretext of a silly marginal course paying only a token salary while I wheeled and dealed in my world, slept with other people while she waited up nights. Unthinkable. It is this that humbles me, this knowledge that she would not endure my circumstances one single week. And perceiving this, I worried most that she would despise me, because I gave in, took every insult. I cannot ask for gratitude, yet I fear her contempt.” (Pg. 112)

She notes, “This is not love. This is sickness. Only some utterly negative aspect of what once was love. Like meat gone rotten. The failure of the illusion, the winding down, the acknowledgement of death. Debility, weakness, loss. All the hateful, the despicable traits. Dependence most of all, a paralyzing, humiliating dependence. The aftermath of love. Like its corpse. Long after the body ceases to live, the blood to run. But the vitality it gave off once, how it made me feel young, alive, intelligent, capable.” (Pg.
133)

She states, “I don’t want a fight. I want peace. But there is no winning with her. And no talking, except to quarrel. She will have her freedom, well enough. She should have it, I am only sorry about how she defines it, that it increases as I decrease, that it needs to eliminate me in order to flourish.” (Pg. 210)

She says, “I read for the class, happy, excited, lucky in the insights and perceptions one hopes for in doing this work… but looking up every now and then to be astonished again, to savor the roses… their pure loveliness, their so sensuous form… Each time I withdraw from the book I’m reading, make a note of look about me, the sunlight and the roses overwhelm me again, pleasure so close to pain, joy so much a premonition of sorrow.” (Pg. 229-230)

This book contains some of Millett’s most lyrical and passionate writing. It will be of keen interest not just to fans of her, but to anyone wanting to read about love, relationships, and their sometimes shattering aftermath.


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Sita Kate Millett 9780671731694 Books Reviews

Katherine Murray ("Kate") Millett (born 1934) is a feminist writer, educator, artist, and activist. She has written other books such as Sexual Politics,Flying,Loony-Bin Trip,The Prostitution Papers, etc. [NOTE page numbers below refer to the 313-page paperback edition.]

She wrote in the first chapter of this 1977 book, “The face that opened and shone for me like the sun, warm, reassuring, protective. Permanently and definitely loving. How fatuous was I to believe, to imagine that. Nothing of love is permanent, ever. Yet I believed it; so passionate she was, so ardent, so entire in her promises, so Indian in her patience, so Latin in her attentions, so tender, so elaborately considerate.” (Pg. 31) Later, she observes, “If life resembles the newspaper, so huge, so various, so dull, it is love which resembles the comics, so charming and so brief.” (Pg. 44)

She states, “Artists without work are naked, hungry, frantic. We do not live merely to live as she does---and how I envy her this---but for some other purpose beyond us. Merely instruments of our purpose, we are like corpses when it fails us, might as well be dead. Even feel we deserve to die. My yearning for suicide was always just the imposition of that sentence.” (Pg. 77)

She wrote, “I can’t stay here. For nothing in the world could I stay home tonight. B_tch, I whisper, b_tch. I am tricked. Said I would teach that d_mn course, said I would stay. And you do this to me the first night afterward… but what I feel is the breaking of the heart, anger is nothing to my sorrow. The grief of knowing. The despair in realizing I am actually helpless. Because I love her still. Because I must suffer this, put up with it, have not walked out. And cannot.” (Pg. 98)

She says, “My stomach melts at the sound of that voice speaking its love, I am moved past speaking or reason. Is it her love for me that I love, this melancholy and infinitely tender emotion figured forth, expressed with such perfect inflection and tone, fullness of eye? This extravagant love for me. That someone, a beautiful woman even, had loved me so plangently. This love for me now withdrawn, now bitterly withheld, hidden and eclipsed.” (Pg. 101)

She recalls, “I realize she is gone. ‘I’ll call you from the office.’ … Her exit line. The insult of it, the sheer contempt of leaving like that, the smug bureaucratese of the words, the dismissive arrogance of it. But more than anger, the humiliation, the crippling mortification that thwarts anger, when fury could be helpful. The result instead id despair. It is I who am worthless. The whole dizzy circle of despair, conflict, ambivalence.” (Pg. 102)

She admits, “Sitting across from her at the teashop today, I knew for sure she would never live as I am living, in someone else’s town, someone else’s house, with the pretext of a silly marginal course paying only a token salary while I wheeled and dealed in my world, slept with other people while she waited up nights. Unthinkable. It is this that humbles me, this knowledge that she would not endure my circumstances one single week. And perceiving this, I worried most that she would despise me, because I gave in, took every insult. I cannot ask for gratitude, yet I fear her contempt.” (Pg. 112)

She notes, “This is not love. This is sickness. Only some utterly negative aspect of what once was love. Like meat gone rotten. The failure of the illusion, the winding down, the acknowledgement of death. Debility, weakness, loss. All the hateful, the despicable traits. Dependence most of all, a paralyzing, humiliating dependence. The aftermath of love. Like its corpse. Long after the body ceases to live, the blood to run. But the vitality it gave off once, how it made me feel young, alive, intelligent, capable.” (Pg.
133)

She states, “I don’t want a fight. I want peace. But there is no winning with her. And no talking, except to quarrel. She will have her freedom, well enough. She should have it, I am only sorry about how she defines it, that it increases as I decrease, that it needs to eliminate me in order to flourish.” (Pg. 210)

She says, “I read for the class, happy, excited, lucky in the insights and perceptions one hopes for in doing this work… but looking up every now and then to be astonished again, to savor the roses… their pure loveliness, their so sensuous form… Each time I withdraw from the book I’m reading, make a note of look about me, the sunlight and the roses overwhelm me again, pleasure so close to pain, joy so much a premonition of sorrow.” (Pg. 229-230)

This book contains some of Millett’s most lyrical and passionate writing. It will be of keen interest not just to fans of her, but to anyone wanting to read about love, relationships, and their sometimes shattering aftermath.