"L. Timmel Duchamp - De Secretis Mulierum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duchamp L Timmel)

history is all about men being virile, dynamic and getting their rocks off
(whether literally, metaphorically or symbolically), and that every event and
conceptualization thereof is best expressed in the terms of a phallic
metaphor.
I, on the contrary, believe that history is the story of struggle and
resistance
against and sadly often a submission to domination, oppression and the
constant
pressure of stupidity, greed and inertia. Ideally, I'd like it to be a record
of
a few brave souls fighting the status quo. Teddy had always been a declared
"social" historian. But when push came to shove -- as it had with these
revelations of gender-disguise -- Teddy like most males in the discipline
proved
to be more Catholic than the pope. He'd spent years putting down the Old
Guard's
Great Men/diplomatic approach to history. But that night of Thomas Aquinas's
unmasking it became obvious that Great Men were Teddy Warner's bottom line.

"That was a producer at CNN," Teddy said when he'd finished the call. "They
wanted a comment on the report that another prominent historical figure had
been
revealed by the PSD as a woman passing as a man." His mouth twisted into its
most sardonic version of a smile. "I wonder who thought that up -- 'passing.'
And they wanted to send somebody to interview me, and requested some tape --
though when I asked which part they wanted, a shot of the tits or the bloody
rags and crotch, they couldn't back down fast enough." He cackled. "It
apparently hadn't occurred to them that showing definitive proof wouldn't fly
on
a family-oriented station like CNN."

I handed him the bowl of pasta to carry into the living room. "How did they
find
out? Somebody must have been busy. Did they say who called them?" Though the
first scan had been jammed with media reps, the only journalist I had noticed
present for Thomas's unveiling had been a stringer for Science.

Teddy grimaced. "The News-Gazette put it out on the wire." I followed him into
the living room with my glass and the bottle and settled onto my knees across
the low round table from him. "I forgot they were even there. One hardly
thinks
of the local rag as a representative of the media at large."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like some wine?" I said, only half to needle him.
Too
busy chewing to speak, he shook his head. "So when's the interview? Tomorrow?"

He raised his eyebrows at me. "I declined," he said haughtily. And lofted
another mess of pasta into his mouth.