Newspaper columnists accusing each other of elitism and attention-seeking is a game that will always end in stalemate. Ideally, women who define themselves as feminists should want the same thing; more of everything for women — money, orgasms, sweeties, books about vaginas. If Naomi Wolf wants to write a love letter to her vagina, or earlobe, or knee, I will applaud her. Wolf is a hot, rich feminist with great boobs, and her cares are those of the hot, rich feminist with great boobs. Better orgasms are not a terrible thing to want, even if there is more to want; of course Vagina is niche.
Feminists love to fight, because many of us are writers, neurotics, professional screamers and builders of straw men. Good columns are rarely fair; I doubt Naomi Wolf daydreams she is our leader, as Janice Turner wrote, and I doubt Wolf ‘won’t be able to rest easy until all of womankind has heard her gospel and has started having sex that is not just pleasurable, but worthwhile’, as Zoe Heller wrote, with a murderous italic, in the New York Review of Books. But oblivious malice, it seems, is the way we debate. Laurie Penny once wrote she wanted to slap me with a wet fish because we disagree about the inherent health of prostitution as a career choice, even though I made her risotto, and it was delicious.
How dirty we get! The Wolf Affair, although riveting, pales next to the great Susan Sontag/Camille Paglia match of 1993, which is still, if I may type the word, the daddy.