Kate Millett's 'Sexual Politics'

 (This 1968 essay, entitled 'Sexual Politics', by Kate Millett was circulated as a pamphlet before the publication of her influential book Sexual Politics. The ideas within it were later incorporated into Chapter 2 of the book, which is a feminist classic.)

Is it possible to regard the relation of the sexes in a political light at all? It depends on how one defines politics. I do not define the political area here as that narrow and exclusive sector known as institutional or official politics of the Democrat or Republican--- we have all reason to be tired and suspicious of them. By politics I mean powerstructured relationships, the entire arrangement whereby one group of people is governed by another, one group is dominant and the other subordinate.

It is time we developed a more cogent and relevant psychology and philosophy of power relationships not yet considered in out institutional politics. It is time we gave attention to defining a theory of politics which treats of power relationships on the less formal than establishmentarian grounds of personal intercourse between members of well defined and coherent groups-- races, castes, classes and sexes. It is precisely because such groups have no representation in formal political structures that their oppression is so entire and so continuous.

In the recent past, we have been forced to acknowledge that the relationship between the races in the United States is indeed a political one-- and one of the control of collectivity defined by birth, or another collectivity also defined by birth. Groups who rule by birth are fast disappearing in the West and white supremacists are fated to go the way of aristocrats and other extinct upper castes. We have yet one ancient and universal arrangement for the political exploitation of one birth group by another-- in the area of sex.

Just as the study of racism has convinced as that there exists a truly political relationship between races, and an oppressive situation from which the subordinated group had no redress through formal political structures whereby they might organize into conventional political struggle and opposition--just so any intelligent and objective examination of our system of sexual politics or sex role structure will prove that the relationship between the sexes now-- and throughout history-- is one of what Max Weber once termed "Herrschaft"-- or dominance and subordination-- the birthright control of one group by another-the male to rule and the female to be ruled. Women have been placed in the position of minority status throughout history and even after the grudging extension of certain minimal rights of citizenship and suffrage at the beginning of this century. It is fatuous to suppose that women-- white or black-- have any greater representation now that they vote -- than that they ever did. Previous history has made it clear that the possession of the vote for 100 years has done the black man precious little good at all.

Why, when this arrangement of male rule and control of our society is so obvious -- why is it never acknowledged or discussed? Partly, I suspect because such discussion is regarded as dangerous in the extreme and because a culture does not discuss its most basic assumptions and most cherished bigotries. Why does no one ever remark that the military, industry,the universities, the sciences, political office and finance (despite absurd declarations to the contrary on the evidence that some little old lady owns stock over which she has no control). Why does no one ever remark that every avenue of power in our culture including the repressive forces of the police -- entirely in male hands? Money, guns, authority itself, are male provinces. Even God is male -- and a white male at that.

The reasons for this gigantic evasion of the very facts of our situation are -many and obvious. They are also rather amusing. Let's look at a few of the thousand defenses the masculine culture has built against any infringement or even exposure of its control: is to react with ridicule and the primitive mechanism of laughter and denial. Sex is funny -- it's dirty -- and it is something women have. Men are not sexual beings -- they are people -- they are humanity. Therefore, any rational discussion of the realities of sexual life degenerate as quickly as men can make them into sniggering sessions, where through cliché so ancient as to have almost ritual value, women who might be anxious to carry on an adult dialogue are bullied back into "their place".

At the level of common attitude -- sex and particularly that very explosive subject of the relationship of the sexes -- is a subject closed to intelligent investigation and accessible only to persiflage and levity.

The second evasion our culture has evolved is via folk myth. From Dagwood to the college professor, sex is folklore and the official version of both is that the male is the "victim" of a widespread conspiracy. From the folk figure of Jiggs or Punch to the very latest study of the damage which mothers wreak upon their sons, we are assailed by the bogey of the overbearing woman -- woman as some terrible and primitive natural evil -- our twentieth-century remnant of the primitive fear of the unknown, unknown at least to the male, and remember, it is the male in our culture who defines reality. Man is innocent, he is put upon, everywhere he is in danger of being dethroned. Dagwood -- the archetypal henpecked husband -- is a figure of folk fun only because the culture assumes that a man will rule his wife or cease to be very much of a man. Like a dimwitted plantation owner who is virtually controlled by his far-cleverer steward or valet, Dagwood is a member of the ruling class held up both to scorn and to sympathy-scorn for being too human or too incompetent to rule, yet sympathetic because every other member of the privileged group knows in his heart how burdensome it is to maintain the illusory facade of superiority over those who are your natural equals.

The phantasy of the male victim is not only a myth, it is politically expedient myth, myth either invented or disseminated to serve the---political end of a rationalization or a softening and partial denial of power. The actual relation of the sexes in our culture from the dawn of history has been diametrically opposite to the of official cult of the downtrodden. Yet our culture seeks on every level of discussion to deny logical charge of oppression which any objective view of the, sex structure would bring up, masculine society has a fascinating tactic of appropriating all sympathy for itself. It has lately taken up the practice of screaming out that it is the victim of unnatural surgery . . . it has been "castrated". Even Albert Shanker. has discovered of late that black community control, the Mayor, and the Board of Education have performed this abomination upon his person. To those in fear of castration word one word of comfort. The last instance of its practice on a white man in western culture was the late l8th century when the last castrati lost a vital section of his anatomy in the cause of the art of music --at the hands of another male, I must add. For castration is an ancient cruelty which males practice on each other. In the American South it was as a way to humiliate black victims of the Klan. In the Ancient East it was a barbarous form of punishment for crime. In the courts of the Italian Renaissance castration was a perverse method of providing soprano voices for the Papal Choir. It was felt that women were too profane to sing the holy offices so to supply the demand for the higher musical register, eunuchs were created through putting young men to the knife

As the practice of physical castration has been abolished clear that the word in current usage must be accepted in a metaphoric rather than literal connotation, if we are to any sense of the fantastic anxiety contemporary male egos, for on every hand, in the media and in the culture both high and low, men today have come to see the terrible specter of the "castrating female" all about them, their paranoiac delusions are taken for social fact. Having in a confused way, associated his genitals with his power, the- male -now bellows in physical pain and true hysteria every time his social and political prerogatives are threatened. If by castration is meant a loss through being forced to share power:with oppressed groups deprived of power- or even of human status, then there are many white men in America who will suffer this psychic operation,-but it will be the removal of a cancer in the brain and heart not of any. pleasurable or creative organ. To, argue that any woman who insists on full human, status is a "castrating bitch" or guilty of the obscure- evil: of "penis envy" (only the consummate male chauvinist could have imagined this term)'is as patently silly as to argue that dispossessed blacks want to become white men-- issue is not to be Whitey, but to have a fair share of what Whitey has - - the whole world of human possibility

While I am fully aware that equal rights entail equal responsibility there are some things Whitey has which I- am very sure I don't want, for example, a Green Beret, a Zippo for burning down, villages the ear of a dead of peasant, the burden of the charred flesh a Vietnamese child. Nor do I have an any interest in acquiring the habits of violence, warfare-' (unless in the just cause of self-defense -- a cause I cannot foresee ever happening-in American foreign policy) ), or the white man's imperialist racism, or rape or the capitalist exploitation of poverty and ignorance.

Because of the smoke-screen of masculine propaganda one hears endless cant about castration--whereas real and actual crimes men commit against women are never mentioned. It is considered bad taste, unsportsmanlike ---to refer to the fact that the are thousands of rapes-or crimes against the female personality--in New-York City every year--I speak only of those instances which are reported--probably one tenth of those which occur. It is also generally accepted that to regard Richard Speck and so many others like him in anything. but the light, of exceptional and irrelevant instances of individual pathology, is another instance of not playing that Speck merely enacted the presupposition of the majority male supremacists of the sterner sort--and they are -legion. That his murders echo in the surrealist chambers of masculine phantasy and wish fulfillment is testified to by every sleazy essay into sadism and white slave traffic on the dirty movie belt of 42nd St. and anti-social character of hard core pornography. The Story of O tells it like it is about masculine phantasy better than does Romeo and Juliet. So does the -Playboy, chortling over the con-game he has played on that Rabbit, he dreams of screwing ---the Bunny, or woman reduced to a meek and docile animal toy.

For the extent and depth -of the male's hatred and hostility toward his subject colony of women is a source of continual astonishment.' Just as be hind the glowing' mirage 'of "darkeys"crooning in the twilight --is reality the block, the whip and the manacle, the history of women is full of colorful artifact. ...the bound feet of all of old China's women---women deliberately deformed- that they might be the better controlled -- (you can work with those useless feet, but you cannot run away) -- the veil of Islam (or an attenuated existence as a human soul condemned to wear a cloth sack over her head all the days of her half-life) ;-- the lash, the rod, domestic imprisonment through most of the world's history -rape, concubinage, prostitution . Yes, we have our own impressive catalogue of open tyrannies. Woman are still sold in Saudi Arabia and elsewhere. In Switzerland, they are even today disenfranchised. And in nearly every rod of ground on this earth they live only via the barter system of sex in return for for food of the latter. Like every system of oppression male supremacy rests finally on force, physical power, rape, assault and the threat of assault. A final resource when all else has failed the male resorts to attack. But the fear of force is there before every woman always as a deterrent-- dismissal, divorce, violence --personal sexual or economic.

As in any society in a state of war, the enforcement of male rule which euphemism calls "the battle of the sexes", is possible only through the usual lies convenient to' countries at war-- The Enemy is Evil---the Enemy is not Human. And men have always been able to believe in the innate evil of women. Studies of primitive societies just as studies of our own religious texts -- illustrate over and over-the innumerable instances of taboos practiced against women. A group of aborigines agree with Judaism in the faith that a menstruating, woman is "unclean," taboo, untouchable. Should she have access to weapons or other sacred and ritual articles the male, she will place a hex or spell upon them that their "masculine" owners will not survive. Everything that pertains to her physical make-up or function -is despicable or subversive. Let side the village and inhabit a hut alone and without food during her period - let her be forbidden the temple -- even those outer precincts assigned to her for a-specified number of-days after, as the Gospels-coolly inform us she has given birth to the very savior of the world'-- for she is still, dirty. Dirty and mysterious. Have you ever thought it curious that 'nocturnal' emissions were not regarded as either dirty -or mysterious, that the penis was (until Industrialism decided to veil it again for greater effect) never considered as dirty-- but so regal and imperious that its shape is the one assigned to scepters, bombs, guns, and airplanes?

In history; vast numbers of peoples have worshipped the phallus openly. It may also be true that ever larger numbers of peoples once worshipped the womb or the fertility powers of the earth. It may also be true that one of the-many causes for the commencement of that now-universal oppression and contempt for women lay in the male's very fear of the female powers of giving life and perhaps inspired that enormous change in world affairs we call the patriarchal take-over. Living so close to the earth, without having yet developed toys of his own in warfare and the rise of princely city-states full of toiling slaves building him empty monuments, and unaware of his own vital role in conception the male may well have past glances of envy on the woman and what was -- in those conditions-- her miraculous capacity to bring another human life out of her very belly-and seen in it a connection with the phases of the moon, and the seasons of the earth's vegetation -- and stood both in awe and terror -- and finally in hatred -- and decided to cast this function down from what he rather naturally I assumed was its collusion with the supernatural, the terrible, the uncontrollable forces of nature -- and denigrate it to the level of the the bestial, the pernicious and the obscene. And thus the filthy totem was,appropriated by the male and taboo assigned in a thousand ways to operate against the female.

Having vitiated all effects of the female power the male set about aggrandizing his own. Having finally appropriated all access to the supernatural for himself he established an alliance with the new male god (both his brother his father, depending on auspicious or inauspicious circumstance), he then proceeded to announce his kinship with the divine through a long and impressive list of patriarchs and prophets, high priests and emperors. Now that he had gone into partnership with God, the male set himself up as God to the female. Milton puts it this way: "He for God only, she. for God in him".

In some cultures females were allowed to participate on an inferior level as figures of identification for human females-- useful in encouraging them to an enforced cooperation in their own control. So they can see themselves as honored through the rapes of Jove on Europa and Leda, favored in divine seduction scenarios as an endless series of wood nymphs, possibly debased versions of other tribal goddesses at loose ends now their matriarchal reign had ended -- or incarnate in that first troublesome woman, Juno - the insubordinate wife.

But in sterner patriarchal societies such as the Judaic and Christian, there was never any kidding around about goddesses. Christianity did not elevate the Virgin to goddess status until the 12th Century and the Protestants dethroned her a mere 4 hundred years later. The device of making her both virgin and mother not only excites admiration for its ingenuity but astonishment as its perfection of effect -- here is divine or nearly divine woman completely relieved of that insidious sexuality by which woman herself has always been defined.

Mere mortal women in the Christian ages were continuously assured of their inherent evil and inferiority by a whole procession of fanatic mile supremacists--from Paul who found even the exhibition of their hair in church a powerful provocation and an indelicate enticement to hellish practices more apparent in his mind than in others-- (such it is to represent the sexuality of the whole race in only one half of it)-- to Jerome, Augustine, Aquinas and a whole parade of ascetics, hermits, and other non-participating types who have projected their own teeming sexuality onto the female. For so strong is the hold of the Christian assumption through Eve and other notable exempla that the "evil" of sex was introduced via the female alone-- that today even Women think of Women when they think of sex, sexiness, sex objects, sexuality and sex symbols -- a state of rather surprising paradox in a society which rigidly enforces heterosexuality for women.

Judaism is even more punctilious than Christianity in the matter of male supremacy. First thing in the morning every male Jew is enjoined to thank God for creating him a male and therefore a superior order of being. I have never been informed as to what Jewish women are instructed to say on such occasions of coming to consciousness--perhaps it is some little bit of advice to themselves not to fall into the much-satirized posture of the overbearing Jewish mother.

Of course it is not surprising that religion as we know it takes the enforcement of male supremacy by divine fiat as part of its function in a patriarchy -- so too does literature, all traditional and contemporary notions of government, those platitudes which currently pass for social science --and even--despite the influence of the Enlightenment--science itself cooperates in a number of transparently expedient rationalizations in maintaining the traditional sexual politics on grounds so specious as to have a certain comic charm.

A further way in which contemporary masculine culture refuses to face the issue of sexual politics is through the reduction of the two sexual collectivities of male and female into an endless variety of purely individual situations, whereby all cases are unique --each a delicate matter of adjustment of one diverse character to another --all of them merely the very private matter of one-to-one. relationships. That this is so largely our favorite method of portraying sexual relationships today --since Freud and the development of that very private science of psychoanalysis - is probably due in good part to the convenience it offers in shielding us from the unpleasant reality of sexual relations should we begin to view them on general or class/caste terms as we have learned to see race. For we know very well now that race is not a matter between one employer and his "boy" or one family and its "maid", but it is to be perceived in the far more pertinent light of one race's control over the other

The Individual Case translates our older myth of the dangerous Female into a newer but by now rather shop-worn cliché of the bitch stereotype --the most stock figure of the contemporary media. It is interesting to note how this bitch leads one to fancy - without ever coming right out and saying it -- that all women are bitches. It is puzzling too how, as woman -- with woman's minority status and therefore a creature completely out of the male power structure-- she is arbitrarily and unjustly blamed for nearly every fault in American life today -- and turned into a veritable symbol of the Hateful Establishment. As beauty queen, the male establishment is willing to allow woman a place as mascot or cheerleader--but it is a long way from admitting her to any personal stake in the establishment's show. As a girlfriend or a wife, she may participate vicariously for a time, --but she is easy to replace and the trade-in on old models of wife and mistress is pretty brisk. She may sleep with so many thousands a year or such and such an office, but she is dreaming if she ever fancies such glory is her own.

For the purpose of male propaganda, one of the most felicitous effects of the Individual Case myth is that it immediately translates any resistance to the present political situation in sex relations into a damning conviction of the sin of neurosis. As Psychology has replaced religion as the conformist in social behavior, it has branded any activity at odds with the force quo (which, by the way, it has taken to be "normality") as deranged, pitiable or dangerous behavior. By this criteria, current "normality" in the United States is racism, police brutality and ruthless economic exploitation.

This is what happens, if, like the Shrinks, you take 19th Century social life as both the State of Nature and the State of a Healthy Society. Any woman who fails to conform to the sterile stereotype of wife and motherhood as all and only, or who fails to bow in elaborate deference to male authority and opinion on any and all questions ---is clearly off her nut. Men have said it.

One other device to maintain the current and traditional sexual politics is to claim that the whole thing has already been settled a long time ago "we gave you the vote" as the male authoritarian puts it with such stunning arrogance —we went to the polls and elected you into the human race because one day you mentioned the oversight of your exclusion and, obliging fellow that we are, we immediately rectifies this very trivial detail .

The foregoing is both a distortion of history and a denial of reality. Women fought hard and almost without hope, driven to massive and forceful protest which has served as a model both for the labor movement and the black movement. They struggled on against overwhelming odds of power and repression for over one hundred and fifty years to get this worthless rag known as the ballot. We got it last of all,-- black and white-- women are the last citizens of the United States'-- and we had to work hardest of all to get it.

And now we have it we realize how badly we were cheated--we had fought so long, worked so hard, pushed back despair so many times that we were exhausted-- we just said then give us that and we will do the rest ourselves. But -we didn't realize, as perhaps blacks never realized until the Civil Rights Movement, that the ballot is no real admission to civil life in America; it means nothing at all if you are not represented in a representative democracy. And we are not represented now any more than black people...both groups have only one senator --- one Tom apiece. The United States has fewer women in public office than hardly any nation in the world--we are more effectively ostracized from political life-in this country than any other constituency in America --and we are 53% of its population. Political nominees announced their intention of helping asthmatic children and the mentally retarded of every age, if elected-- but not a word about women half the population- but not a word --the largest minority status group in history. But not one word.

It is time the official fallacy of the West and of the United States particularly - that the sexes are now equal socially and politically - be exploded for the hoax it really is. For at present any gainsaying of this piety is countered with the threat that "women have got too much power I they're running the world", and other tidbits of frivolity which the speaker, strange as it may seem, might often enough believe. For the more petty male ego(like that of the cracker or the Union man..in the North who voted for Wallace) - in his paranoia is likely to believe that because one woman or one black man in millions can make nearly or even a bit more than he does -- the whole bunch are taking over that sordid little corner of the world he regarded as his birthright because the was white and male -- and on which he had staked his very identity-just because it prevented him from seeing himself as exploited by the very caste he had imagined he was part of and with whom, despite all evidence to the contrary, he fancied he shared the gifts of the earth and the American dream--. Nightmare that it is.

The actual facts of the situation of woman in America today are sufficient evidence that, white or black, women are at the bottom unless they sleep with the top. On their own they are Nobody and taught every day they are Nobody and taught so well they have come to internalize that destructive notion and even believe it. The Department of Labor statistics can't hide the fact that this is a man's world --- a white man's world: the average year-round income of the white male is $6,704, of a black male $4,277, of a white I female $3,991, and of the black woman $2,816. As students you live in a Utopia--enjoy it, for it is the only moment in your lives when you will be treated nearly as equals. When you get married or get a job you will be made to see where power is, but then it will be too late. That is why you should organize now: look at your curriculum and look at your housing rules,--that's a start at realizing how-you are treated unfairly.

But the oppression of women is not only economic; that's just a part of it. The oppression of women is Total and therefore it exists in the mind, it is psychological oppression. Let's have a look at how it works, for it works like a charm. From earliest childhood every female child is carefully taught that she is to be a life-long incompetent at every sphere of significant human activity therefore she must convert herself into a sex object -- a Thing. She must be pretty and assessed by the world: weighed, judged and measured by her looks alone. If she's pretty, she can marry; then she can concentrate rate her energies on pregnancy and diapers. That's life --that's female life. That's what it is to reduce and limit the expectations and potentialities of one half of the human race to the level animal behavior.

It is time we realized that the whole structure of male and female personality is arbitrarily imposed by social conditioning a social conditioning which has taken all the possible traits of human personality-- which Margaret Mead once, by way of analogy, compared to the many colors of the rainbow's spectrum --and arbitrarily assigned traits into two categories; thus aggression is masculine, passivity-feminine violence- masculine, tenderness feminine, intelligence masculine' and emotion feminine, etc., etc....arbitrarily departmentalizing human qualities into two neat little piles which are drilled into children by toys, games, the social propaganda of television and the board of education's deranged whim as to what is proper male - female Role- Building. What we must now set about doing is to reexamine this whole foolish and segregated house of cards, and pick from it what we can use: Dante, Shakespeare, Lady Murasaki and Mozart, Einstein and the care for life which we have bred into women -- and accept these as human traits. Then we must get busy to eliminate what are not properly humane or even human ideas -- the warrior, the killer, the hero as homicide, the passive, dumb cow victim.

We must now begin to realize and to retrain ourselves to see that both intelligence and a reverence for life are HUMAN qualities. It is high time we began to be reasonable about the relationship of sexuality to personality and admit the facts -the present assignment of temperamental traits to sex is moronic, limiting and hazardous. Virility - the murderer's complex- or self definition in terms of how many or how often or how efficiently he can oppress his fellow --- This has got to go. There is a whole generation coming of age in America who have already thoroughly sickened of the military male ideal, who know they were born men and don't have to prove it by killing someone or wearing crew cuts. There is also a vast number of women who are beginning to wake out of the long sleep known as cooperating in one's own oppression and self-denigration, and they are banding together, in nationwide chapters of the National Organization for Women -- in the myriad groups of Radical Women springing up in cities all over the country and the world, in the women's liberation groups of SDS and in other groups or, on campus, and they are joining together to make the beginnings of a new and massive women's movement in America and in the world -- to establish true equality between the sexes, to break the old machine of sexual politics and replace it with a more human and civilized world for both sexes, and to end the present system's oppression of men as well as women.

There are other forces at work to change the ;whole face of American society: the black movement to end racism, the student movement with its numbers and powers for spreading the idea of a new society founded on democratic principles, free of the war reflex. free of the economic and racial exploitation reflex. Black people, students and women --that's alot of people with -our combined numbers it is probably 70% of the population or more. It is more than enough to change the course and character of our society -- surely enough to cause a radical social revolution. And maybe it will also be the first Revolution to avoid the pitfall of bloodshed, a mere change of dictators and the inevitable counter-revolution which follows upon such betrayal and loss of purpose.

We are numbers sufficient to alter the course of human history -by changing fundamental values by affecting an entire change of consciousness. We cannot have such a change of consciousness unless we rebuild values---we cannot rebuild values unless we 'restructure personality.' But we cannot do this or solve racial and economic crimes unless we end the oppression of all people- unless we end the idea of violence, of dominance, of power, unless we end the idea of oppression itself -- unless we realize-that a revolution in sexual policy is not only part of but basic to any real change in the quality life. Social and cultural revolution in America and the world depend on a change of consciousness of which a new relationship between the sexes and a new definition of humanity and human personality are an integral part.

As we awake and begin to take action, there will be enough of us and we will have both a purpose and a goal -- the first truly human condition, the first really human society. Let us begin the revolution and let us begin it with love: All of us, black, white, and gold, male and, female, have it, within our power to create a world we could bear out of the desert we inhabit for we hold our very fate in our hands.

What I Feel: 

   In this radical essay Millett has attacked the traditional patriarchal society and the Western civilization as a whole which is very much sexually biased. The word 'politics' refers to the power-structure of the society which serves to preserve and perpetuate male dominance. Millett belongs to the 'angry group' of first generation of feminists who evoke their ire against the male bias in every sphere of life. It should not be tolerated long, she holds, to see women as a sex-slave of play-thing of men. She also criticizes the psychoanalytical theory of Freud, asks to re-assess the works of Dante, Shakespeare, Mozart which she considers to be sexually biased. Between the lines, however, also lies the problem of stark distinction between the White and the Black in American society. 

FAITH IN POWER OF VERSE: SPENSER AND SHAKESPEARE

   Spenser and Shakespeare, the two great Elizabethans, both had farm faith in the power of their verse. The similarity lies in their preoccupation with the conflict between Love and Time. While Love is beautiful and tender, Time is fleeting and corrosive. Almost no object can escape the wreck of Time. But only powerful verse which records the beautiful experiences of love or the charm of one's beloved can possibly survive. And thus verse can make Love immortal. Let us look at the similarity between these two well-known sonnets:


1.
   One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
   But came the waves and washed it away;
   Agayne I wrote it with a second hand,
   But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray.
   “Vayne man”, sayd she, “That dost in vaine assay,
   A mortall thing so to immortalize,
   For I myselve shall lyke to this decay,
   And eek my name bee wiped out lykewize”.


   “Not so”, quod I, “Let baser things devize
   To dye in dust but you shall live by fame;
   My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
   And in the hevens wryte your glorious name.
   Where as death shall all the world subdew,
   Our love shall live, and later life renew”.


                     --Spenser, Sonnet No. 75


2.
   Shall I compare thee to a Sumer’s day?
   Thou art more lovely and more temperate
   Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
   And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:


   Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
   And often is his gold complexion dimm’d:
   And every fair from fair sometime declines,
   By chance, or natures changing course untrimm’d;


   But thy eternal Summer shall not fade,
   Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
   Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade
   When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.


   So long a man can breathe, or eyes can see,
   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


                     --Shakespeare, Sonnet No. 18

HAWK ROOSTING by Ted Hughes

HAWK ROOSTING

Ted Hughes

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes close.

Inaction, no falsifying dream

Between my hooked head and hooked feet:

Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills  and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!

The air’s buoyancy and the sun’s ray

Are the advantage to me;

And the earth’s face upwards for my inspection.

My feet are looked upon the rough bark.

It took the whole of Creation

To produce my foot, my each feather:

Now I hold Creation in my foot.

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly-

I kill where I please because it is all mine.

There is no sophistry in my body:

My manners are tearing off heads-

The allotment of death.

For the one path of my flight is direct

Through the bones of the living.

No argument assert my right:

The sun is behind me.

Nothing has changed since I began.

My eye has permitted no change.

I am going to keep things like this.

WHAT I FEEL:

   One of Hughes' most well-known poem is 'Hawk Roosting'. Animal world always fascinated the poet; especially he was interested in the violent aspects and brutal forces of nature. In this poem the hawk is consumed with the thought of death. It seems to me as a personification of fascism which is an all-devouring radical idea. The hawk is willing to kill every tender animal, and thus it wishes to establish its utmost supremacy--very much reminiscent of the dream of Hitler. 

Commentary on 'THE WASTE LAND' by T. S. Eliot

SYMBOLIC STRUCTURE OF 'THE WASTE LAND'

  The poem has been divided into five sections: i. The Burial of the Dead, ii. A Game of Chess, iii. The Fire Sermon, iv. Death by Water, and v. What the Thunder Said. All the movements are the movements of Tiresias through blind eyes all the characters and sights are seen. Eliot himself said that what Tiresias sees is the summary of the poem. “The lesser characters are not clearly distinguished. They melt into each other, for they are phantom inhabiting an unreality” (M. C. Bradbrook). The structure of the poem is based on Eliot’s use of symbols, both traditional and personal. In the opinion of Bradbrook, “Each of Eliot’s poems moves upon several planes simultaneously, and can be both topical and timeless in its implications”. ‘The Waste Land’ has been written from several philosophic view points. They are spiritual- Christian Existentialism and Upanishadic Doctrine of Soul. Soul or Spirit is the only reality in the universe; nothing else is real. The soul is immortal; it exists in the state of ‘being’ in human life. Man should make his soul noble by charity, compassion and love.

  Eliot observes, and quite rightly too, that the western world has become totally materialistic. People are mad after material gains and bodily pleasure. The spiritual side of life is deplorably ignored. Soul is starving. The materialistic world as reflected in the materialistic mind is a ‘waste land’ for the Soul. The five parts or movements of the poem are related to each another since they are the units of Tiresias’s interior monologue.

i. The Burial of the Dead

     ‘The Burial of the Dead means the burial by materialism of the dead. Materialism does not believe in the existence of the Soul after dead. To the Spiritualists, the man without a Soul is dead. And the dead are buried in the graves. So materialism has buried the materialistic world. As such the world has become a waste land particularly the Western n, materialistic world. The first part of the poem describes that four things are burying the dead: sensualism, unholy love, fraud, and thoughts of earning and spending.

ii. A Game of Chess

     The second part of the poem represents the mentality of the modern materialistic women. Modern woman is wrongly under the dazzling and tantalizing influence of gross materialism and physical pleasure, and is thus losing her Soul to the evil effect of materialism. The theme of this section is that modern woman considers life “a game of chess” in which she is playing with man as co-player. She wants to defeat him in the game, and keep him under the command till another lover arrives.

iii. The Fire Sermon

     The influence of sensualism on modern life forms the main theme of this part of the poem. The Speaker sees “white bodies naked on the low dam ground”. Modern materialistic man’s behaviour is abnormally changed under the evil influence of sensualism. Promiscuity in sex, indiscriminate sex, homo-sexuality, perversion in sexual behaviour have been vividly described in this part. The city has become sexually so hot (corrupted) that it is almost burning in the blaze of sexual lust. The Speaker prays to God to come to his rescue and take him out of the hellish city of gross sensation.

iv. Death by Water

     There is a warning in this movement. The people have been gone mad after wealth are sternly warned. The theme has been discussed in a beautiful metaphor. The materialists want to cross the vast ocean of innumerable desires by means of their body-boats. It is practically impossible. They are unmindful of the undercurrent of death which would drown them in the mid-ocean. The modern man in this materialistic world is unaware of the impending danger of imminent death stalking behind him stealthily.

v. What the Thunder Said

     The Speaker says that since people have forsaken religion and denied God, the world has become a waste land. Sensualism and agnosticism prevail all around. ‘Water’ of selfless love for God and Man is absent from this world. A series of visions come to the speaker. He perceives the demolition of unreal cities. Then he hears voices singing out of empty wells. It is followed by the fall of rain over the church. There comes from his unconscious a vision of a fall of rain over the Ganga and the land around it. A peal of thunder proclaims, “Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata”- meaning thereby, Charity, Compassion, Self-Control. This is the Upanishadic message. The Speaker says that he tried to elevate his Soul through these dictates, but fell unfortunately into the trap of sensuality. He would now try again through those principles.

'Aagun' (Fire) by Taslima Nasrin

Translated from original Bengali by Saikat Guha


He is my husband, it is acclaimed that he is my
Master, owner, lord, etc., etc.
The society accepts he is my only god.


My unworthy husband has learnt
The familiar rules of how to rule.
He craves very much to go to Heaven walking on the cloudy path
And wants fruits, coloured wine and delicious food
He longs for
Enchanting figure of fairies to eat and lick and suck.


I have nothing except evil in my fate
I spend my days giving wood into the fireplace of this life,
In the next life I see my unable husband ecstatic in seventy-seventh love-making.


I am alone, in the beautiful garden of Heaven I an alone
Seeing the blind filthiness of man
I, a chaste, pure woman, burn within myself in the infinite fire of Hell.


Note:


   Taslima is a Bangladeshi writer who was banished from her country because of her continuous attack on the rules of Islam which deny women's emancipation in personal columns and her protest against oppression on Hindus in Bangladesh in the novel 'Lajja'  (Shame), which portrays the oppression on Bangladeshi Hindus following the destruction of Babri Mosque in India by an orthodox Hindu group. She is a staunch advocate of feminism and her works, translated in more than 15 languages, have won critical acclamation worldwide. In this poem she portrays a housewife's sad plight in the house of  her tyrannic husband. The woman suffers more from the hypocrisy of her husband, or rather men in general, than her being physically tortured.

A Fragment from Sidney Sheldon

THE TWO SISTERS

When she was only eight years old, most of the happiness

in Teresa De Fosse's life came from the church. It was like a

sacred flame drawing her to its warmth. She visited the

Chapelle des Penitents Blancs, and prayed at the cathedral in

Monaco and Notre Dame Bon Voyage in Cannes, but most

frequently she attended services at the church in Èze.

Teresa lived in a chateau on a mountain above the

medieval

village Eze near Monte Carlo, overlooking the Cote

d'Azur. The village was perched high on a rock and it seemed

to Teresa that she could look down upon the whole world.

There was a monastery at the top, with rows of houses

cascading down the side of the mountain to the blue

Mediterranean below. Monique, a year younger than Teresa, was

the beauty in the family. Even when she was a child, one

could see that she would grow up to be an exquisite woman.

She had fine-boned features, sparkling blue eyes, and an easy

self-assurance that suited her looks.

Teresa was the ugly duckling. The truth was that the De

Fosses were embarrassed by their elder daughter. If Teresa

had been conventionally ugly, they might have sent her to a

plastic surgeon and had her nose shortened, or her chin

brought forward, or her eyes fixed. But the problem was that

all of Teresa's features were just slightly askew. Everything

seemed out of place, as though she were a comedienne who had

donned her face for laughter.

But if God had cheated her in the matter of looks, He had

compensated for it by blessing her with a remarkable gift.

Teresa had the voice of an angel. It had been noticed the

first time she sang in the church choir. The parishioners

listened in astonishment to the pure, clear tones that came

from the young child. And as Teresa grew older, her voice

grew even more beautiful. She was given all the solos to sing

in church. There, she felt as though she belonged. But away

from church, Teresa was inordinately shy, self-conscious of

her appearance.

At school it was Monique who had all the friends. Boys and

girls alike flocked to her side. They wanted to play with

her, be seen with her. She was invited to all the parties.

Teresa was invited also, but always as an afterthought, the

fulfilling of a social obligation, and Teresa was painfully

aware of it.

"Now, Renee. You can't invite one of the De Fosse children

without the other. It would be bad manners."

Monique was ashamed to have an ugly sister. She felt that

it was somehow a reflection on her.

Their parents behaved properly toward their elder

daughter. They fulfilled their parental duty punctiliously,

but it was obvious that it was Monique they adored. The one

ingredient that Teresa longed for was missing: love.

She was an obedient child, willing and eager to please, a

good student who loved music, history, and foreign languages

and worked hard in school. Her teachers, the servants, and

the townspeople felt sorry for her. As a tradesman said one

day when Teresa left his shop, "God wasn't paying attention

when He made her."

The only place Teresa found love was in the church. The

priest loved her, and Jesus loved her. She went to mass every

morning and made the fourteen stations of the cross. Kneeling

in the cool, vaulted church, she felt God's presence. When

she sang there, Teresa was filled with a sense of hope, and

of expectation. She felt as though something wonderful were

about to happen to her. It was the only thing that made her

life bearable.

Teresa never confided her unhappiness to her parents or

her sister, for she did not want to burden them, and she kept

to herself the secret of how much God loved her and how much

she loved God.

Teresa adored her sister. They played together in the

estate grounds surrounding their chateau, and she let Monique

win the games they played. They went exploring together, down

the steep stone steps cut into the mountain to Èze Village

below, and wandered down the narrow streets of shops to watch

the artists in front selling their wares.

As the girls grew into their teens, the predictions of the

villagers came true. Monique grew more beautiful and the boys

came flocking around her, while Teresa had few friends and

stayed at home sewing or reading or went shopping in the

village.

As Teresa passed the drawing room one day, she heard her

mother and father having a discussion about her.

"She's going to be an old maid. We're going to have her on

our hands all our lives."

"Teresa will find someone. She has a very sweet

disposition."

"That's not what the young men of today are after. They

want someone they can enjoy having in their bed."

Teresa fled.

Teresa still sang in church on Sundays, and because of

that an event occurred that promised to change her life. In

the congregation was a Madame Neff, the aunt of a

radio-station director in Nice.

She stopped to speak to Teresa one Sunday morning.

"You're wasting your life here, my dear. You have an

extraordinary voice. You should be using it."

"I am using it. I—"

"I'm not talking about,"—she looked around the

church—"this. I'm talking about your using your voice

professionally. I pride myself on knowing talent when I hear

it. I want you to sing for my nephew. He can put you on the

radio. Are you interested?"

"I—I don't know." The very thought of it terrified Teresa.

"Talk it over with your family."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Teresa's mother said. "It

could be a good thing for you," her father agreed. It was

Monique who had reservations about it. "You're not a

professional," she said. "You could make a fool of yourself."

Which had nothing to do with Monique's reasons for trying to

discourage her sister. What Monique was afraid of was that

Teresa would succeed. Monique was the one who had always been

in the limelight. It's not fair, she thought, that God should

have given Teresa a voice like that. What if she should

become famous? I would be left out, ignored.

And so Monique tried to persuade her sister not to

audition.

But the following Sunday at church, Madame Neff stopped

Teresa and said, "I've talked to my nephew. He is willing to

give you an audition. He's expecting you on Wednesday at

three o'clock."

And so it was that the following Wednesday a very nervous

Teresa appeared at the radio station in Nice and met the

director.

"I'm Louis Bonnet," he said curtly. "I can give you five

minutes."

Teresa's physical appearance only confirmed his worst

fears. His aunt had sent him talent before.

I should tell her to stick to her kitchen. But he knew

that he would not. The problem was that his aunt was very

rich, and he was her only heir.

Teresa followed Louis Bonnet down a narrow hallway into a

small broadcast studio.

"Have you ever sung professionally?"

"No, sir." Her blouse was soaked with perspiration. Why

did I ever let myself get talked into this? Teresa wondered.

She was in a panic, ready to flee.

Bonnet placed her in front of a microphone. "I don't have

a piano player around today, so you're going to have to sing

a cappella. Do you know what a cappella means?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wonderful." He wondered, not for the first time, if his

aunt was rich enough to make all these stupid auditions

worthwhile.

"I'll be in the control booth. You'll have time for one

song."

"Sir—what shall I—?"

He was gone. Teresa was alone in the room staring at the

microphone in front of her. She had no idea what she was

going to sing. "Just go and meet him," his aunt had said.

"The station has a musical program every Saturday evening

and…"

I've got to get out of here.

Louis's voice came out of nowhere. "I don't have all day."

"I'm sorry. I can't—"

But the director was determined to punish her for wasting

his time.

"Just a few notes," he insisted. Enough so he could report

to his aunt what a fool the girl had made of herself. Perhaps

that would persuade her to stop sending him her proteges.

"I'm waiting," he said.

He leaned back in his chair and lit a Gitane. Four more

hours to go. Yvette would be waiting for him. He would have

time to stop off at her apartment before he went home to his

wife. Maybe there would even be time to—

He heard it then, and he could not believe it. It was a

voice so pure and so sweet that it sent chills down his

spine. It was a voice filled with longing and desire, a voice

that sang of loneliness and despair, of lost loves and dead

dreams, and it brought tears to his eyes. It stirred emotions

in him that he had thought were long since dead. All he could

say to himself was, Jesus Christ! Where has she been?

An engineer had wandered into the control booth, and he

stood there listening, mesmerized. The door was open and

others began to come in, drawn by the voice. They stood there

silently listening to the poignant sound of a heart

desperately crying out for love, and there was not another

sound in the room.

When the song ended, there was a long silence, and one of

the women said, "Whoever she is, don't let her get away."

Louis Bonnet hurried out of the room into the broadcast

studio. Teresa was getting ready to leave.

"I'm sorry I took too long. You see, I've never—"

"Sit down, Maria."

"Teresa."

"Sorry." He took a deep breath. "We do a musical radio

broadcast every Saturday night."

"I know. I listen to it."

"How would you like to be on it?"

She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"You mean—you want to hire me?"

"Beginning this week. We'll start you at the minimum. It

will be a great showcase for you."

It was almost too good to be true. They're going to pay me

to sing.

"Pay you? How much?" Monique asked.

"I don't know. I don't care." The important thing is that

somebody wants me, she almost said, but she stopped herself.

"That's wonderful news. So you're going to be on the

radio!" her father said.

Her mother was already making plans. "We'll see that all

our friends listen, and we'll have them send in letters

saying how good you are."

Teresa looked at Monique, waiting for her to say, "You

don't have to do that. Teresa is good."

But Monique said nothing. It will blow over quickly, was

what she was thinking.

She was wrong.

Saturday night at the broadcast station, Teresa was in a

panic.

"Believe me," Louis Bonnet assured her. "It's perfectly

natural. All artists go through this."

They were seated in the small green room used by

performers.

"You're going to be a sensation."

"I'm going to be sick."

"There's no time. You're on in two minutes."

Teresa had rehearsed that afternoon with the small

orchestra that was going to accompany her. The rehearsal had

been extraordinary. The stage from which they broadcast was

crowded with station personnel who had heard about the young

girl with the incredible voice. They listened in awed silence

as Teresa rehearsed the songs she was going to sing on the

air. There was no question in any of their minds but that

they were witnessing the birth of an important star.

"It's too bad she's not better-looking," a stage manager

commented, "but in radio who can tell the difference?"

Teresa's performance that evening was superb. She was

aware that she had never sung better. And who knew where this

could lead? She might become famous and have men at her feet,

begging her to marry them. As they begged Monique.

As though reading her thoughts, Monique said, "I'm really

happy for you, Sis, but don't let yourself get carried away

by all this. These things never last."

This will, Teresa thought happily. I'm finally a person.

I'm somebody.

Monday morning, there was a long-distance telephone call

for Teresa.

"It's probably somebody's idea of a joke," her father

warned her. "He says he's Jacques Raimu."

The most important stage director in France. Teresa picked

up the telephone, wary. "Hello?"

"Miss De Fosse?"

"Yes."

"Teresa De Fosse?"

"Yes."

"This is Jacques Raimu. I heard your radio program

Saturday night. You're exactly what I'm looking for."

"I—I don't understand."

"I'm staging a play at the Comedie Francaise, a musical. I

start rehearsals next week. I've been searching for someone

with a voice like yours. To tell you the truth, there is no

one with a voice like yours. Who is your agent?"

"Agent? I—I have no agent."

"Then I'll drive down there and we'll work out a deal

between us."

"Monsieur Raimu—I—I'm not very pretty." It was painful for

her to say the words, but she knew that it was necessary. He

mustn't have any false expectations.

He laughed. "You will be when I get through with you.

Theater is make-believe. Stage makeup can do all kinds of

incredible magic."

"But—"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

It was a dream on top of a fantasy. To be starring in a

play by Raimu!

"I'll work out the contract with him," Teresa's father

said. "You must be careful when you deal with theater

people."

"We must get you a new dress," her mother said. "And I'll

invite him to dinner."

Monique said nothing. What was happening was unbearable.

It was unthinkable that her sister was going to become a

star. Perhaps there was a way…

Monique saw to it that she was the first one downstairs

when Jacques Raimu arrived at the De Fosse villa that

afternoon. He was greeted by a young girl so beautiful that

his heart jumped. She was dressed in a simple white afternoon

frock that set off her figure to perfection.

My God, he thought. Those looks and that voice! She's

perfect. She's going to be an enormous star.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to meet you," Raimu said.

Monique smiled warmly. "I'm very happy to meet you. I'm a

big admirer of yours, Monsieur Raimu."

"Good. Then we'll work well together. I brought a script

with me. It's a beautiful love story, and I think—"

At that moment Teresa walked into the room. She was

wearing a new dress, but she looked awkward in it. She

stopped as she saw Jacques Raimu.

"Oh—hello. I didn't know you were here. I mean— you're

early."

He looked at Monique inquiringly.

"This is my sister," Monique said. "Teresa."

They both watched the expression on his face change. It

went from shock to disappointment to disgust.

"You're the singer?"

"Yes."

He turned to Monique. "And you're—"

Monique smiled innocently. "I'm Teresa's sister."

Raimu turned to examine Teresa again, then shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said to Teresa. "You're too—" He fumbled for

a word. "You're too—young. If you'll excuse me, I must get

back to Paris."

And they stood there watching him walk out the door.

It worked, Monique thought jubilantly. It worked.

Teresa never made another broadcast. Louis Bonnet pleaded

with her to come back, but the hurt was too deep.

After looking at my sister, Teresa thought, how could

anyone want me? I'm so ugly.

As long as she lived, she would never forget the look on

Jacques Raimu's face.

It's my fault for having silly dreams, Teresa told

herself. It's God's way of punishing me.

After that, Teresa would sing only in church, and she

became more of a recluse than ever.

During the next ten years the beautiful Monique turned

down more than a dozen marriage proposals. She was proposed

to by the sons of the mayor, the banker, the doctor, the

merchants in the village. Her suitors ranged from young men

fresh out of school to established and successful men in

their forties and fifties. They were rich and poor, handsome

and ugly, educated and uneducated. And to all of them Monique

said non.

"What are you looking for?" her father asked, baffled.

"Papa, everyone here is boring. Èze is such an

unsophisticated place. My dream prince is in Paris."

And so her father dutifully sent her to Paris. As an

afterthought, he sent Teresa with her. The two girls stayed

at a small hotel on the Bois de Boulogne.

Each sister saw a different Paris. Monique attended

charity balls and glamorous dinner parties and had tea with

titled young men. Teresa visited Les Invalides and the

Louvre. Monique went to the races at Longchamp and to galas

at Malmaison. Teresa went to the Cathedral of Notre Dame to

pray, and walked along the tree-shaded path of the Canal St.

Martin. Monique went to Maxim's and the Moulin Rouge, while

Teresa strolled along the quays, browsing among the book

stalls and the flower vendors and stopping at the Basilica of

St. Denis. Teresa enjoyed Paris, but as far as Monique was

concerned, the trip was a failure.

When they returned home, Monique said, "I can't find any

man I want to marry."

"You met no one who interested you?" her father asked.

"Not really. There was a young man who took me to dinner

at Maxim's. His father owns coal mines."

"What was he like?" her mother asked eagerly.

"Oh, he was rich, handsome, polite, and he adored me."

"Did he ask you to marry him?"

"Every ten minutes. Finally I simply refused to see him

again."

Her mother stared at Monique in amazement. "Why?"

"Because all he could talk about was coal: bituminous

coal, lump coal, black coal, gray coal. Boring, boring,

boring."

The following year Monique decided she wanted to return to

Paris again.

"I'll pack my things," Teresa said.

Monique shook her head. "No. This time I think I'll go

alone."

So while Monique went to Paris, Teresa stayed home and

went to church every morning and prayed that her sister would

find a handsome prince. And one day the miracle occurred. A

miracle because it was to Teresa that it happened. His name

was Raoul Giradot.

He had gone to Teresa's church one Sunday and heard her

sing. He had never heard anything like it before. I must meet

her, he vowed.

Early Monday morning, Teresa stopped in at the village

general store to buy fabric for a dress she was making. Raoul

Giradot was working behind the counter.

He looked up as Teresa walked in, and his face lit up.

"The voice!"

She stared at him, flustered. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"I heard you sing in church yesterday. You are

magnificent."

He was handsome and tall, with intelligent, flashing dark

eyes and lovely, sensual lips. He was in his early thirties,

a year or two older than Teresa.

Teresa was so taken aback by his appearance that she could

only stammer. She stared at him, her heart pounding.

"Th—thank you," Teresa said."I—I—I would like three yards of

muslin, please."

Raoul smiled. "It will be my pleasure. This way."

It was suddenly difficult for Teresa to concentrate on her

errand. She was overpoweringly aware of the young man's

presence, his good looks and charm, the masculine aura

surrounding him.

When Teresa had decided on her purchase and Raoul was

wrapping it for her, she dared to say, "You're— you're new

here, aren't you?"

He looked at her and smiled, and it sent shivers through

her.

"Oui. I arrived in Èze a few days ago. My aunt owns this

shop and she needed help, so I thought I would work here for

a while."

How long is a while? Teresa found herself wondering.

"You should be singing professionally," Raoul told her.

She remembered the expression on Raimu's face when he had

seen her. No, she would never risk exposing herself publicly

again. "Thank you," Teresa mumbled.

He was touched by her embarrassment and shyness, and tried

to draw her into conversation.

"I haven't been to Èze before. It's a beautiful little

town."

"Yes," Teresa mumbled.

"Were you born here?"

"Yes."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

Teresa picked up her package and fled.

The following day she found an excuse to go back to the

shop again. She had stayed up half the night preparing what

she was going to say to Raoul.

I'm glad you like Èze…

The monastery was built in the fourteenth century, you

know…

Have you ever visited Saint-Paul-de-Vence? There's a

lovely chapel there…

I enjoy Monte Carlo, don't you? It's wonderful to have it

so close to here. Sometimes my sister and I drive down the

Grande Corniche and go to the Fort Antoine Theatre. Do you

know it? It's the big open-air theater…

Did you know that Nice was once called Nikaia? Oh, you

didn't? Yes, it was. The Greeks were there a long time ago.

There's a museum in Nice with the remains of cavemen who

lived there thousands of years ago. Isn't that interesting?

Teresa was prepared with dozens of such verbal gambits.

Unfortunately, the moment she walked into the shop and saw

Raoul, everything flew out of her head. She simply stared at

him, unable to speak.

"Bonjour," Raoul said cheerfully. "It's nice to see you

again, Mademoiselle De Fosse."

"M—merci." She felt like an idiot. I'm thirty years old,

she told herself, and I'm acting like a silly schoolgirl.

Stop it.

But she could not stop it.

"And what may I do for you today?"

"I—I need more muslin."

Which was the last thing she needed.

She watched Raoul as he went to get the bolt of fabric. He

set it on the counter and started to measure it out.

"How many yards would you like?"

She started to say two, but what came out was, "Are you

married?"

He looked up at her with a warm smile on his face. "No,"

he said. "I haven't been that fortunate yet."

You are going to be, Teresa thought. As soon as Monique

returns from Paris.

Monique was going to adore this man. They were perfect for

each other. The thought of Monique's reaction when she met

Raoul filled Teresa with happiness. It would be lovely to

have Raoul Giradot as her brother-in-law.

The following day as Teresa was passing the shop, Raoul

caught sight of her and hurried outside.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle. I was about to take a

break. If you're free, would you care to join me for tea?"

"I—I—yes, thank you."

She was tongue-tied in his presence, and yet Raoul could

not have been more pleasant. He did everything he could to

put her at ease, and soon Teresa found herself telling this

stranger things she had never told anyone before. They talked

of loneliness.

"Crowds can make one lonely," Teresa said. "I always feel

like an island in a sea of people."

He smiled. "I understand."

"Oh, but you must have so many friends."

"Acquaintances. In the end, does anyone really have many

friends?"

It was as though she were speaking to a mirror image. The

hour melted away quickly, and soon it was time for him to go

back to work.

As they rose, Raoui asked, "Will you join me for lunch

tomorrow?"

He was being kind, of course. Teresa knew that no man

could ever be attracted to her. Especially someone as

wonderful as Raoul Giradot. She was sure that he was kind to

everyone.

"I would enjoy that," Teresa said.

When she went to meet Raoul the following day, he said

boyishly, "I've been given the afternoon off. If you're not

too busy, why can't we drive down to Nice?"

They drove along the Moyenne Corniche with his car top

down, the city spread out like a magic carpet below them.

Teresa leaned back in her seat and thought: I've never been

so happy. And then, filled with guilt: I'm being happy for

Monique.

Monique was to return from Paris the following day. Raoul

would be Teresa's gift to her sister. She was realistic

enough to know that the Raouls of the world were not for her.

Teresa had had enough pain in her life, and she had long

since learned what was real and what was impossible. The

handsome man seated beside her driving the car was an

impossible dream she dared not even let herself think about.

They had lunch at Le Chantecler in the Negresco Hotel in

Nice. It was a superb meal, but afterward Teresa had no

recollection of what she had eaten. It seemed to her that she

and Raoul had not stopped talking. They had so much to say to

each other. He was witty and charming, and he appeared to

find Teresa interesting—really interesting. He asked her

opinion about many things and listened attentively to her

answers. They agreed on almost everything. It was as though

they were soul mates. If Teresa had any regrets about what

was about to happen, she resolutely forced them out of her

mind.

"Would you like to come to dinner at the chateau tomorrow

night? My sister is returning from Paris. I would like you to

meet her."

"I'd be delighted, Teresa."

When Monique returned home the following day, Teresa

hurried to greet her at the door.

In spite of her resolve, she could not help asking, "Did

you meet anyone interesting in Paris?" And she held her

breath, waiting for her sister's answer.

"The same boring men," Monique replied.

So God had made the final decision.

"I've invited someone to dinner tonight," Teresa said. "I

think you're going to like him."

I must never let anyone know how much I care for him,

Teresa thought.

That evening at seven-thirty promptly, the butler ushered

Raoul Giradot into the drawing room, where Teresa, Monique,

and their parents were waiting.

"This is my mother and father. Monsieur Raoul Giradot."

"How do you do?"

Teresa took a deep breath. "And my sister, Monique."

"How do you do?" Monique's expression was polite, nothing

more.

Teresa looked at Raoul, expecting him to be stunned by

Monique's beauty.

"Enchanted." Merely courteous.

Teresa stood there holding her breath, waiting for the

sparks that she knew would start flying between them. But

Raoul was looking at Teresa.

"You look lovely tonight, Teresa."

She blushed and stammered, "Th—thank you."

Everything about that evening was topsy-turvy. Teresa's

plan to bring Monique and Raoul together, to watch them get

married, to have Raoul as a brother-in-law—none of it even

began to happen. Incredibly, Raoul's attention was focused

entirely on Teresa. It was like some impossible dream come

true. She felt like Cinderella, only she was the ugly sister

and the prince had chosen her. It was unreal, but it was

happening, and Teresa found herself struggling to resist

Raoul and his charm because she knew that it was too good to

be true, and she dreaded being hurt again. All these years

she had hidden her emotions, guarding against the pain that

came with rejection. Now, instinctively, she tried to do the

same. But Raoul was irresistible.

"I heard your daughter sing," Raoul said. "She is a

miracle!"

Teresa found herself blushing.

"Everyone loves Teresa's voice," Monique said sweetly.

It was a heady evening. But the best was yet to come.

When dinner was finished, Raoul said to Teresa's parents,

"Your grounds look lovely." Then he turned to Teresa. "Would

you show me the gardens?"

Teresa looked over at Monique, trying to read her sister's

emotions, but Monique seemed completely indifferent.

She must be deaf, dumb, and blind, Teresa thought.

And then she recalled all the times Monique had gone to

Paris and Cannes and St. Tropez looking for her perfect

prince but had never found him.

So it's not the fault of the men. It's the fault of my

sister. She has no idea what she wants.

Teresa turned to Raoul. "I would love to."

Outside, she could not let the subject drop.

"How did you like Monique?"

"She seems very nice," Raoul replied. "Ask me how I like

her sister."

And he took her in his arms and kissed her.

It was like nothing Teresa had ever experienced before.

She trembled in his arms, and she thought: Thank you, God.

Oh, thank you.

"Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?" Raoul

asked.

"Yes," Teresa breathed. "Oh, yes."

When the two sisters were alone, Monique said, "He really

seems to like you."

"I think so," Teresa said shyly.

"Do you like him?"

"Yes."

"Well, be careful, big sister," Monique laughed. "Don't

get in over your head."

Too late, Teresa thought helplessly. Too late.

Teresa and Raoul were together every day after that.

Monique usually chaperoned them. The three of them walked

along the promenades and beaches at Nice and laughed at the

wedding-cake hotels. They lunched at a charming bistro at Cap

d'Antibes, and visited the Matisse chapel in Vence. They

dined at the Chateau de la Chevre d'Or, and at the fabulous

La Ferme St. Michel. One morning at five A.M. the three of

them went to the open farmer's market that rilled the streets

of Monte Carlo and bought fresh breads and vegetables and

fruit.

Sundays, when Teresa sang in church, Raoul and Monique

were there to listen, and afterward Raoul would hug Teresa

and say, "You really are a miracle. I could listen to you

sing for the rest of my life."

Four weeks after they met, Raoul proposed.

"I'm sure you could have any man you want, Teresa," Raoul

said, "but I would be honored if you chose me."

For one terrible moment Teresa thought he was ridiculing

her, but before she could speak, he went on.

"My darling, I must tell you that I have known many women,

but you are the most sensitive, the most talented, the

warmest…"

Each word was music to Teresa's ears. She wanted to laugh;

she wanted to cry. How blessed I am, she thought, to love and

be loved.

"Will you marry me?"

And her look was answer enough.

When Raoul left, Teresa went flying into the library where

her sister, mother, and father were having coffee.

"Raoul asked me to marry him." Her face was glowing, and

there was almost a beauty about her.

Her parents stared at her, stunned. It was Monique who

spoke.

"Teresa, are you sure he's not after the family money?"

It was like a slap in the face.

"I don't mean that unkindly," Monique went on, "but it all

seems to be happening so fast."

Teresa was determined not to let anything spoil her

happiness. "I know you want to protect me," she told her

sister, "but Raoul has money. His father left him a small

inheritance, and he's not afraid to work for a living." She

took her sister's hand in hers and begged, "Please be glad

for me, Monique. I never thought I'd know this feeling. I'm

so happy, I could die."

And then the three of them embraced her and told her how

pleased they were for her, and they began to talk excitedly

about plans for the wedding.

Very early the next morning Teresa went to church and

knelt to pray.

Thank You, Father. Thank You for giving me such happiness.

I will do everything to make myself worthy of Your love and

of Raoul's. Amen.

Teresa walked into the general store, her feet above the

ground, and said, "If you please, sir, I would like to order

some material for a wedding gown."

Raoul laughed and took her in his arms. "You're going to

make a beautiful bride."

And Teresa knew he meant it. That was the miracle.

The wedding was set to take place a month later in the

village church. Monique, of course, was to be the maid of

honor.

At five o'clock Friday afternoon, Teresa spoke to Raoul

for the last time. At twelve-thirty Saturday, standing in the

church vestry waiting for Raoul, who was thirty minutes late,

Teresa was approached by the priest. He took her arm and led

her aside, and she wondered at his agitation. Her heart began

to pound.

"What is it? Is something wrong? Has anything happened to

Raoul?"

"Oh, my dear," the priest said. "My poor, dear Teresa."

She was beginning to panic. "What is it, Father? Tell me!"

"I—I just received word a moment ago. Raoul—"

"Is it an accident? Was he hurt?"

"—Giradot left town early this morning."

"He what? Then some emergency must have come up to make

him—"

"He left with your sister. They were seen taking the train

to Paris."

The room began to whirl. No, Teresa thought. I mustn't

faint. I mustn't embarrass myself in front of God.

She had only a hazy memory of the events that followed.

From a far distance she heard the priest make an announcement

to the wedding party, and she dimly heard the uproar in the

church.

Teresa's mother put her arms around her daughter and said,

"My poor Teresa. That your own sister could be so cruel. I'm

so sorry."

But Teresa was suddenly calm. She knew how to make

everything all right.

"Don't worry, Mama. I don't blame Raoul for falling in

love with Monique. Any man would. I should have known that no

man could ever love me."

"You're wrong," her father cried. "You're worth ten of

Monique."

But his compassion came years too late.

"I would like to go home now, please."

They made their way through the crowd. The guests at the

church moved aside to let them pass, staring silently after

them.

When they returned to the chateau, Teresa said quietly,

"Please don't worry about me. I promise you that everything

is going to be fine."

Then she went up to her father's room, took out his razor,

and slashed her wrists.

NOTE:

  This is a fragment (Chapter Eleven) from the New York Times bestselling novel, 'The Sands of Time' by Sidney Sheldon, perhaps the most popular thriller writer of US. The novel, set in Spain, deals with the lives and adventures of four nuns who suddenly found themselves exposed in a hostile world which they left long ago and became a pawn in the deadly enmity between Colonel Acoca of Spanish Government and Jaime Mero, the leader of the rebel Basques. This fragment tells the early life of Sister Teresa (one of the nuns) and the circumstances that led her to choose her life as a nun. It bears the stamp of a masterly craftsmanship by a favourite story-teller.