Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.
Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride (via monkeyknifefight)
Shit. Too many feelings about this.
Too many feelings about Margaret Atwood, tbh.
An hour ago I was holding this book in my hands and wondering if I should finally start to read it.
I will take this is a sign. That book is about to get read.
(Source: courcel, via stfuhatemongers)