'There seems to a misunderstanding about feminism for some people. Feminism is not about one way of think, believing and acting. Most people, when the word feminist is brought up, thinks about equal pay for equal work and shared child rearing and household responsibilities. To the right extreme of feminism is the Lesbian movement, which is not about sex per se but women becoming a driving, socio-political, socio-economic power by banding together in numbers. Of course, you will find the "biological" lesbian also. Just saw "Something Blue" for first time today. When Riley jokes that he was a Lesbian, he might not have been joking (but being Riley, he probably way joking). Some men are "lesbian." To the extreme left are the women and men who believe that gender roles are very specific, with appropriate behavior and duties (i.e. staying home and raising the kids). A feminist statement could include a wide range of endings.'

-Deb, earlier this week

'Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning- fresh as if issued to children on a beach.

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, 'Musing among the vegetables?'-was that it?- 'I prefer men to cauliflowers'- was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace- Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished- how strange it was!- a few sayings like this about cabbages.

-The marvellous opening of Virginia Woolf's 'Mrs Dalloway', currently one of the foundations for the acclaimed film 'The Hours'.

White Writing

No vows written to wed you,
I write them white,
my lips on yours,
light in the soft hours of our married years.
No prayers written to bless you,
I write them white,
your soul a flame,
bright in the window of your maiden mane.
No laws written to guard you,
I write them white,
your hand in my,
palm against palm, lifeline, hearttline.
No rules written to guide you,
I write them white
, words on the wind,
traced with a stick where we walk on the sand.
No news written to tell you,
I write it white
foam on a wave
as we lift up our skirts in the seas, wade,
see last gold sun behind clouds,
inked water in moonlight.
No poems written to praise you,
I write them white

-Carol Ann Duffy, taken from her latest collection 'Feminine Gospels'.

TCH: Lazy Sunday afternoon, nothing to do, and England have already won the cricket.

TCH's alter-ego, (let's call him Estragon), replies Estragon: Well, you know those oddly esoteric posts you used to write, where Buffy came in right at the end as an apology? You know: Wittgenstein? Snow?

TCH: Yes

Estragon: Do one of those

TCH: OK

Estragon: Oh, and by the way, I don't appreciate the entire reason for my existence being a way to introduce your essay- particularly as I'm just a cheap rip-off on OnM's Evil Clone.

TCH: Sorry

So here I am. I had one of those Saturday evenings where nothing much happens. On top of my inactivity in real life, the board was quiet, and nobody was in the chat room. I knew that this afternoon I'd have nothing to do. How, I thought to myself, can I jumble together various thoughts I've been having recently? Thoughts about empowerment, about feminism, about poetry, about prose poems, and inevitably about Buffy. This is my best attempt.

I don't know all that much about the specifics of feminism. Deb's paragraph above made me think very carefully again about just what it means to be feminist. There is a legacy of women writers, writing in English over the last two hundred years or so. Jane Austen, the Brontes, Christina Rosetti, Emily Dickinson, Virgina Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Margaret Attwood and Carol Ann Duffy, to rather ungraciously cull a few from a host of wonderful wordsmiths. Does their writing while female, (with, particularly in the earlier writers' cases, the whole canon of male fiction glaring distrustfully at them), immediately make them feminist? How exactly can we exclude certain women from being feminist? And exactly how do men become feminists? Does it involve a rather smug self-effacement? Where only words and texts are concerned, it is complex to go on the idea that a feminist 'empowers women'. It is a blunt difficult statement.

During thinking this, I have also had the pleasure of reading two female authors for whom I have as much respect as perhaps any other authors I have ever read. These two writers are Virginia Woolf and Carol Ann Duffy. Both of these writers give me an immense amount of joy. Somtimes it has to do with it being an explicit expression of women's rights that lightens my heart, making me think that the continued ignored debasement of women by aspects of the British media is being most wonderfully counteracted. Sometimes it has to do with the fact that I am getting an avowedly female persepctive on a situation usually commented upon by men. Duffy's previous collection 'The World's Wife', was a caustic, amusing, tragic and baeutiful selection of poems about the wives of various famous men, (Mrs Midas, Mrs Noah, Mrs Darwin etc). But sometimes it has to do with something apparently unrelated. In both Duffy and Woolf's work, there is an understanding of what it is to be human that is rarely matched elsewhere. What it is like to be alive, to be alone, to be aged, to be thrown into the rapids of existence of life in a canoe with a small hole and a paddle the size of a matchstick. How hard it is, and yet, we manage to find moments of wholeness, of truth and of joy that perhaps make it all worthwhile, for an hour or so at least. This is not really about them being female writers. It is about them being top-class human writers. Of hitting 180 with three darts more often in their sinuous symbols than most other contenders. About them not being feminist writers, but writers first, female second, feminist third. It's a puzzle to me.

Let me expand a little further on each writer individually, before drawing some threads together at the end.

'Mrs Dalloway' will rise (or possibly has risen), up the book charts like an opposite thunderbolt. This is because of the release of 'The Hours', a film I have yet to see. It has won multiple Oscar nominations, and has the director Stephen Daldry, (of 'Billy Elliot'), and actors Julianne Moore, Meryl Streep and Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf herself. I read an interesting comparison yesterday between the novel 'Mrs Dalloway' and the novel 'The Hours', from which the film is adapted. 'The Hours' follows three women, one Woolf herself, one living in the immediate aftermath of the Seacond World War, and one living in 'the present'. The lives of the three women are drawn together mesmerisingly. The 2001 woman, Clarissa Vaughn, finds herself becoming, in a sense, Clarissa Dalloway. Now I don't wish to go deep into this novel, because this essay will be long enough anywa, but what I take from this is that people still very much relate to Woolf's writing today. I certainly do.

I have read three of Woolf's novels; 'To The Lighthouse', 'The Waves' and 'Mrs Dalloway'. Each has what was in the 1920's a profoundly surprising style. Drawing a little on Joyce's colossal 'Ulysses', Woolf polished and perfected the use of the interior monologue, and helped to breakdown the Victorian conventions which were stricturing to a revolutionary age in writing. Why, she wrote in a letter once, must I be so careful to fill the hours between lunch and dinner correctly? Life isn't like that. Nobody experiences life as an immaculately plotted quasi-mathematical puzzle with a tidy resolution. She also much admired Chekov, whose work her publishers helped to bring to a wider audience, and who once cliamed that after finishing a story, he would habitually cut the first and last paragraphs. Make the reader feel like it was a snatch of life; untidy, free- not a chapter, opened with uncomfortable exposition, ended with cheery insincere resolution.

This kind of writing entrances me. Woolf has the most magnificent prose style. Rather in the way that Austen can spin a whole story out of a minimally plotted soap opera by acute observations and a sense of being intrigued, so Woolf can make the most hastily conceived scene shimmer with an odd lighting, with weird similes that somehow work perfectly. It has a lot to do with her style, and, perhaps most importantly, the reasons behind the style. Woolf's interior monologue was important because it is, perhaps, more like how people really experience life. It doesn't really need to involve an intricate plot. It's about how the disconnected fragments of present beauty, of present company, of the spectre of the past, and of the distant hinterland of the future combine into one consciousness of 'nowness'. But it also has a quality which makes it, to me at least, the most powerful expression of self. In 'The Waves', we see how six people, three male, three female, live their lives, from early childhood to old age. Neville, Louis, Bernard, Susan, Jinny and Rhoda are all initially great friends, and yet, in each of the six of them, there is a profound feeling of growing apart, of being unable to express what exactly they are feeling, of being alone with only themselves. This theme is used somewhat more implicitly in 'Mrs Dalloway'. Peter Walsh, Clarissa's one-time lover who was refused marriage, can never express to her exactly how wondeful it is to see her again. Septimus Smith, the doomed shell-shocked soldier, cannot make the esteemed doctor, or tragically his wife, understand just what it was to be in the War, and to lose his friend Evans. His visions send him mad, and it's all down to the inability to communicate what is inside his head.

All these aspects of Woolf's work I admire. But they are all about general human perception, about what it is to be simply alive as a person. The problems and the heartache. Was Woolf a feminist at all? How does the answer affect the views we should take on her work?

Woolf was certainly a campaigner for women's liberation. She was also a startlingly skilled writer, and made herself an important and respected figure in the London circles of the '20's and '30's. Furthermore, reading some of Woolf's correspondences and essays makes one realise just what she was still up against in the writing fraternity, (as it was). She had a protracted correspondence with a chauvinist in one London magazine, who contended that women were just not as good at writing as men. How many famous women novellists have there been in the last 2000 years compared with men?, he asked ridiculously. Woolf responded with great patience that not only were there many that he had overlooked, but that to claim that the previous 2000 years was a level playing field for women who were usually much less educated than the corresponding men was ridiculous. The argument continued, with both sides garnering considerable support.

Writing freely in the 21st Century world, it is easy to be complacent, and somehow bury the fact that women did not have the vote 90 years ago in my country, and 75 years ago in apparently intellectual circles, women were routinely considered generally intellectually and creatively inferior to men. Woolf's writing may perhaps contain a rather implicit feminism that her non-fiction writings help to highlight. Firstly, in each of the novels I have read, Woolf has a strong female character who is somehow powerfully attractive (in the broadest sense) to both men and women due to her intelligence, vivacity and force of character. In 'Mrs Dalloway', the eponymous 'wife of a Member of Parliament' [as it says, seriously and therefore hilariously, on the blurb of my copy], is the most powerful character in the book. This is partly due to the solipsistic aspect that the interior monolgue necessarily suggests- simply, we are in her point of view most, like Buffy in BtVS. In 'To The Lighthouse', Mrs Ramsay has a power of cohesion that the other characters lack. The women here are shown to have a power over others, but a very human one. It's not the mystical fluttering elves Arwen and Galadriel in 'The Lord of the Rings'- mystical creatures 'we' will never quite understand. It's normal humanity.

So in equating men and women's thoughts, (and thereby implicity asserting there is no female inferiority), in allowing us to see primarily from the woman's point of view, (and thereby suggesting that there view is as important), and in writing powerful yet human characters, Woolf's work is certainly feminist, even if not in the somewhat evangelical way of a work such as 'The Female Eunuch'. Woolf's suicide was a tragic end to the life and work of a writer of genius.

Carol Ann Duffy is one of my little obsessions, and, you'll be glad to here, I mean only her writing. Britain's current Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion, writes very occasionally tidy but usually dull and uninspired poetry. He recently caused a minor storm by coming out against war in Iraq. But Duffy's poetry is routinely unorthodox, challenging, visceral and intelligent, playful yet emotionally honest. When Andrew Motion took the laurels after the death of the magnificent Ted Hughes, many insiders claimed that Duffy was not considered for the role because she was a lesbian. It is sickeningly moronic of the powers that be in Britain, if, even covertly, she was blocked from the title because of her orientation. Of course, it may all be a vicious rumour, in which case only their ability to judge poetry is at risk. Duffy is the greatest living British poet.

Having made it quite clear why I think everyone who's got this far through the essay should buy 'Mean Time and Feminine Gospels', (so that's two or three then ;-)), let me comment on her new collection of poems. She starts by using a bizarre style of fable to try to elucidate some of the problems that women, (specifically) face in modern life. So we have a poem called 'Beautiful', effortlessly linking the lives of Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana. We have poems called 'Tall', 'Loud', 'The Woman Who Shopped' and 'The Diet', about women who grow miles high, can speak across continents, turn into a shopping mall and become so anorexic that she disappears entirely into the air, only for her essence to be eaten by a fat woman, and her to dwell with disgust in the stomach of said eater: literally a thin woman in a fat woman's body. There's something wondeful and disconcerting about the fables: they don't offer answers or even an emotion: just a story. And these stories are rarely allegories, but rather just stories to be taken how it pleases you. They are challenging, but they certainly are about modern life, and particularly modern life as a woman. They are, just as titled 'Feminine Gospels'. Testimonies of what happenned to some women. Testimonies of joy and power. So much so that, like the actual Gospels, it doesn't even matter whether they are true or not. There is something to be learnt from them. [NB: Of course, many people believe the actual Gospels are true, and I respect and admire that, but as many find them powerful even if not factually true].

The latter poems in the collection move away from these testimonies, towards a more general type of poetry. There is a most beautiful sonnet about Liverpool, where Duffy grew up. She re-visits it with a ferry ride across the Mersey, where the chosts of her childhood haunt her. The poem finishes with the atmospheric lines:

'Above our heads the gulls cry yeah yeah yeah
Frets of light on the river. Tearful air.'

The evocative aspect is not smudged by the allusion to the Beatles but enhanced, a rare feat. Also among these poems is one called 'The Light Gatherer' about the collection of knowledge, and the most elegant exploration of dying in 'Death in the Moon', the last poem of the collection and, to me, as moving as anything I've ever read. Once again, we have the dichotomy. The woman who can write top-rate poetry, and who offers the female perspective on a sometimes too male-influenced world. And then the self-styled feminist writer, exploring precisely the woman's journey, how they try to fit in, how they can become empowered.

Nestled in among the two is the poem I have put at the top of the essay, 'White Writing'. This is the most delicate balance of the two in the collection, I believe. There's also the not specifically related theme of what Deb calls '"biological" lesbianism'. Duffy has rarely alluded to it in her poems, but here it is certainly a part of the inexpressible beauty of love. The first line 'No vows written to wed you', is literally about the fact that lesbians cannot marry in Britain. The ages of tradition and heritage have not catered for her feeling. Duffy then goes on to generalise. The mantra, 'I write them white' has mulitple layers of meaning. In her actions, she expresses her love without the need for the traditions for writing. In her poetry, she can express what it is to love without the need to be explicit about orientation. In her life, she can forge new traditions which can be reflected in how she sees the world, in her poetry. And, perhaps most powerfully of all, the love can transcend rules and restrictions. In the very essence of being outside the weight of tradition and heritage, it is new and fresh, and can be expressed without the need for orthodoxy so valued by the 'black writing' of the Church or the Council or of society. The apparently invisible white writing is the more powerful writing.

This poem is about feminism and lesbianism and human love. The three are intertwined meticulously and deliberately. Which is most important is almost a redundant question. All are part of one to Duffy, and her poetry reflects both an exploration of universal themes, and thoughts about her own specifics, be they Liverpool, Stafford, teaching or lesbianism. Of course, the specifics are beautiful and add depth and honesty to the vision. But the universal themes of life come bustling through, even when Duffy is at her most idiosyncratic and personal. Perhaps this is the sign of a great writer.

Joss Whedon has one major disadvantage from Woolf and Duffy in his creativity- his maleness. Sometimes, perhaps, we search for feminist leanings in Woolf that are not there, (maybe I've just done that. Oh well). And it feels very easy to tell when Duffy is relating a feminist subtext through her poetry. Whedon is not female. So when he says he is setting out to create a feminist show, one about empowering women, (hilariously subverted by Andrew recently though), we must judge him entirely on the product, without lazily falling back on real life.

In a sense, this makes Whedon's achievement as great as Woolf's and Duffy's. I would be wary to equate his writing prowess: although anyone who has read my posts in general will realise how highly I rate Whedon, I personally love Woolf and Duffy even more. But in terms of creating an explicitly feminist message? I believe he has done a quite staggering job. Why?

Because, as I have written, he is a man, who has invented a show about a physically strong and attractive woman. But it would be all too easy to fall back on the argument that he merely puts Buffy up there as a physically attractive character who is therefore not a role model for strong women. As she has inherited a mystical power, she has somehow been endowed, in a rather male sense, with power that is not really hers. It is only through creating a character who is actually intelligent, powerful, emotionally realistic, and as importantly somewhat flawed, that he can ward off arguments that the show is really about 'hot chicks kicking ass' [I find it difficult to type that. My Giles-ish prudishness and love of the show's complexities coming out]. This is a feat different and yet as powerful as Woolf and Duffy's achievements.

And of course, like Woolf and Duffy, Whedon is able to transcend the feminist aspect of the show often enough when he wants too. It is not a prescriptive or restrictive feminism. Cordelia can be mocked. Giles can be strong and right. Xander can be empowered, and so men don't have to be useless just so the women can be strong.

Perhaps the most generous thing which can be said about Whedon's first creation is this. We may have trouble restricting or defining feminism. Feminism is a difficult, complex, broad umbrella, as Deb describes. But like Duffy and Woolf, we know that Whedon's writings are certainly feminist. The idea that they are empowering women is too simple a reason why. It is a reason why. But it will never fully satisfy all the definitions and connotations that we may wish to give to the vast movement which uses that one word nowadays. Sometimes, BtVS might appropriate feminism for it's own uses. But much more often, without being explicit about just what it is out to prove, and without being heavy-handed about the metaphors given, it just seems feminist. Like Woolf and Duffy, Buffy is somehow an iconic text for the movement itself. It might just transcend simple arguments about the definition of 'feminism', in helping culture to define the very idea itself.

This means, of course, that Joss Whedon will take his seats among the feminists, (and lesbians?) of the past and present. And one thing you can be sure of, is that he'll make them all laugh.

TCH- who notes with pleasure the concealed gender of the author of this essay.