Хохот медузы

Мы скороспелые, мы подавленные культурой, наши прекрасные рты заткнуты пыльцой, из нас выбили ветер, мы лабиринты, лестницы, истоптанные пространства, стадо женщин – мы черные и мы прекрасные.

Мужчины совершили страшнейшее преступление против женщин. Жестоко и предательски они приучили нас ненавидеть женщин, быть своими собственными врагами, мобилизовать свои силы против самих себя, быть исполнителями их мужской потребности. Они создали антинарциссизм для женщин! То есть нарциссизм, который любит себя за то, чего нет в женщине! Они сконструировали позорную логику антилюбви.

You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing.

I am spacious, singing flesh, on which is grafted no one knows which I, more or less human, but alive because of transformation.

A feminine text cannot fail to be more than subversive. It is volcanic; as it is written it brings about an upheaval of the old property crust, carrier of masculine investments; there's no other way. There's no room for her if she's not a he. If she's a her-she, it's in order to smash everything, to shatter the framework of institutions, to blow up the law, to break up the "truth" with laughter.

Men say that there are two unrepresentable things: death and the feminine sex. That's because they need femininity to be associated with death;

A woman without a body, dumb, blind, can't possibly be a good fighter. She is reduced to being the servant of the militant male, his shadow. We must kill the false woman who is preventing the live one from breathing. Inscribe the breath of the whole woman.

By writing her self, woman will return to the body which has been more than confiscated from her, which has been turned into the uncanny stranger on display—the ailing or dead figure, which so often turns out to be the nasty companion, the cause and location of inhibitions. Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time.

Almost everything is yet to be written by women about femininity: about their sexuality, that is, its infinite and mobile complexity; about their eroticization, sudden turn-ons of a certain minuscule-immense area of their bodies; not about destiny, but about the adventure of such and such a drive, about trips, crossings, trudges, abrupt and gradual awakenings, discoveries of a zone at once timorous and soon to be forthright.

Men have committed the greatest crime against women. Insidiously, violently, they have led them to hate women, to be their own enemies, to mobilize their immense strength against themselves, to be the executants of their virile needs. They have made for women an antinarcissism! A narcissism which loves itself only to be loved for what women haven't got! They have contsructed the infamous logic of antilove.

But what strikes me is the infinite richness of their [women's] individual constitutions: you can talk about a female sexuality, uniform, homogenuous, classifiable into codes—any more than you can talk about one unconscious resembling another. Women's imaginary is inexhaustible, like music, painting, writing: their stream of phantasms is incredible.

Woman must write her self: must write about women and bring women to writing, from which they have been driven away as violently as from their bodies - for the same reasons, by the same law, with the same fatal goal. Woman must put herself into the text - as into the world and into history - by her own movement.

Let the priests tremble, we're going to show them our sexts!