a última vaga feminista traz me muita apreensão. o tom agressivo e acusatório, às vezes meramente provocativo, a escarrar manifestos para marcar presença e manter financiamento. exigem o empoderamento com uma barra de metal nas mãos. discursam com violência e barulho, em monólogo gritado.
para quem tenha tempo e curiosidade, há um excelente documentário, The Red Pill (2016), de Cassie Jaye, e, muito interessante também, este TEDx, posterior, também de Cassie Jaye.
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Mieko Kawakami, também ela escritora, mais suave do que as jovens do documentário acima, a determinada altura, na sua entrevista a Haruki Murakami (que, a propósito, já começou a ser referenciado como sexista), faz-lhe a seguinte observação:
A common reading is that your male characters are fighting their battles unconsciously, on the inside, leaving the women to do the fighting in the real world. For example, in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, it’s Kumiko who pulls the plug on the life support system, kills Noboru Wataya, and ultimately pays the price. And in 1Q84, the Leader is killed by Aomame. Granted, it isn’t necessary to apply a feminist critique to every single novel, and a pursuit of rectitude is not why any writer turns to fiction, but reading these books from a feminist perspective, the common reaction would likely be: “Okay, here’s another woman whose blood has been shed for the sake of a man’s self-realization.”
Most women in the real world have had experiences where being a woman made life unlivable. Like victims of sexual assault, who are accused of asking for it. It comes down to the fact that making a woman feel guilty for having a woman’s body is equivalent to negating her existence. There are probably some women out there who have never thought this way, but there’s an argument to be made that they’ve been pressured by society into stifling their feelings. Which is why it can be so exhausting to see this pattern show up in fiction, a reminder of how women are sacrificed for the sake of men’s self-realization or sexual desire.
e Haruki Murakami, temeroso da guilhotina social, lá se vai tentando justificar das interpretações feministas, leituras forçadas, porque os tempos assim o obrigam.
I think that any pattern is probably coincidental. At a minimum, I never set things up like that on purpose. I guess it’s possible for a story to work out that way, on a purely unconscious level. Not to sound dismissive, but my writing doesn’t follow any kind of clear-cut scheme. Take Norwegian Wood, where Naoko and Midori are respectively grappling with their subconscious and conscious existences. The first-person male narrator is captivated by them both. And it threatens to split his world in two. Then there’s After Dark. The story is propelled almost exclusively by the will of the female characters. So I can’t agree that women are always stuck playing the supporting role of sexual oracles or anything along those lines. Even once I’ve forgotten the storylines, these women stay with me. Like Reiko or Hatsumi in Norwegian Wood. Even now, thinking about them makes me emotional. These women aren’t just novelistic instruments for me. Each individual work calls for its own circumstances. I’m not making excuses. I’m speaking from feeling and experience.
entrevista in Literary Hub
que pobreza de luta, caras (e caros) senhoras.