It is all very well to expose the fallacies of “gender critical” (GC) feminism — to show that its “reasonable concerns” are fanciful cauchemars with little or no basis in actual experience, to challenge the veracity of its “well-known facts”, to show that its “sex-based rights” are merely another incarnation…
I am not me Rather, a short walk to the edge of a pond overhung with drooping branches of willows A reflection in the still water of a hot summer day A face looks up from the water Transformed by the inquisition of nature I look back
There is no certitude but the certainty of death No rectitude but the righteousness of truth No animal instinct that justifies our howling torments, our prejudice, our self-inflicted pain No natural law but the law that guides me to this pond and makes the sunlight reproduce my face in the still water
This evening, for no particular reason that I can think of, I took a look, for the first time, at J.K. Rowling’s Twitter. I see she has been gushing a bit about the release of The Ickabog — and why wouldn’t any proud author do the same?
There is a creaking noise In the house of God, As if some heavy-footed demon Is striding slowly on attic timbers That have begun to lose their nails.
There is a yellow exudate Lying on the altar; Perhaps some dyspeptic minor imp Has vomited here, nauseated By the residual scent of virtue Infusing the altar’s wood.
No matter: the master of this house is gone. His scent remains, of course; And sometimes you can hear, If you linger long enough — Quietly sitting in the nave, Or pressing your ear to a pew — An echo of his votive prayer.
But no more revelations will come here, No salvations. Do not stay too long: Soon, the heady scent of godhead, The echo of ecstatic prayer Are overborne by Silence filled with creaking in The walls and ceiling.
This is the moment the climbing caterpillar reaches the end of the branch; where, casting about in a near-sighted search for a path upon which to continue its accustomed peregrination, it turns at last to the other side of the branch, and returns the way it came, through territory all familiar, but at the same time estranged by its reversed perspective, so that nothing is certain but a vague yet unignorable unease.