SF students pointed out today we’ve read at least three books in which a woman slits a man’s throat—The Man in the High Castle, The Female Man, and now Parable of the Sower.
I didn’t choose them on purpose, I swear. They laughed. We laughed. We joked about possibilities for a scholarly paper on this motif. (Perhaps invoking Helene Cixous’s Castration or Decapitation? )
I hope they don’t castigate me on the evaluations as a wild woman with a steak knife. Though I’d be in some good company.
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Her face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, she sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of her feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm . . . . irresistibly propels her into the future to which her back is turned, while the pile of debris before her grows skyward. (Walter Benjamin, revised)
