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Moving Men

AS A MS IN SEARCH of her neglected anima, I closed my eyes to dream. A figure seemed to approach: lacy, flowing, yet stern. A voice as old as the ages called to me, the voice of Kali, Aphrodite, Demeter. My wounded spirit thirsted for the dour yet dulcet tones of the Great Mother, the Hairy Magdalene. She spoke:

“It would be futile for Miss Manners to pretend to know nothing of the wicked joy of correcting others. There is that pleasant bubble in the throat, a suppressed giggle at another person’s ignorance; that flush of generosity accompanying the resolve to set the poor soul straight: that fever of human kindness when one proclaims, for the benefit of others, one’s superior knowledge.”1

The sibyl paused, then spake the object of her revelation: that heresy known as the men’s movement. Not that Miss Manners is totally opposed. As a woman (forgive me, we are dreaming—as WOMAN), she is unable

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