FOUR WALLS EIGHT WINDOWS
NEW YORK
Copyright © 1990, 1991 by Andrea Dworkin.
A F o u r Wa l l s E ig h t W in d o w s F i r s t E d it io n .
First Printing August, 1991.
First paperback printing September, 1992.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmit ed in any form, by any means, including
mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior writ en permission of the publisher.
Excerpts from this novel have appeared in The Michigan Quarterly
Review, Vol. XXIX, No. 4, Fall 1990 and The American Voice,
No. 21, Winter 1990.
Mercy was first published
in Great Britain by Seeker & Warburg in 1990.
The author and publisher are grateful to the fol owing for
permission to quote from copyright materiaclass="underline" Olwyn Hughes for
“Daddy, ” in Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath, published by Harper
& Row, Publishers, © 1965 1981; Pantheon for Anna Cancogni’s
translation of Sartre: A Life by Annie Cohen-Solal, © 1987
Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dworkin, Andrea.
Mercy: a novel / Andrea Dworkin.
p.
cm.
I. Title.
PS3554. W85M4 1991
813'. 54—dc20
91-18157
(Cloth) ISBN: 0-941423-69-7
CIP
(Paper) ISBN: 0-941423-88-3
Four Wal s Eight Windows
P. O. Box 548, Village Station
New York, N. Y 10014
Printed in the U. S. A.
F o r Judith Malina
For Michael M oorcock
In M em ory o f Ellen Frankfort
D addy, daddy, you bastard, I’ m through.
“ D ad d y, ” Sylvia Plath
For a small moment have I forsaken
thee; but with great mercies will I gather
thee.
In a little wrath I hid my face from
thee for a moment; but with everlasting
kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith
the Lord thy Redeemer.
Isaiah 54: 7-8
Contents
Not Andrea: Prologue
i
o n e In August 1956 (Age 9)
5
t w o In 1961 and 1962 (Age 14, 15, 16)
29
t h r e e In January 1965 (Age 18)
35
f o u r In February 1965 (Age 18)
56
f iv e In June 1966 (Age 19)
74
s ix In June 1967 (Age 20)
100
s e v e n In 1969, 1970, 1971 (Age 22, 23, 24, 25)
134
e i g h t In March 1973 (Age 26)
164
n in e In October 1973 (Age 27)
214
TEN April 30, 1974 (Age 27)
273
e le v e n April 30, 1974 (Age 27)
308
Not Andrea: Epilogue
334
Author’s N ote
343
Not Andrea: Prologue
N o w I’ve come into m y ow n as a wom an o f letters. I am a
committed feminist, o f course. I admit to a cool, elegant
intellect with a clear superiority over the ape-like men who
write. I don’t wear silk, o f course. I am icy and formal even
alone by myself, a discipline o f identity and identification. I do
not wear m yself out with mistaken resistance, denunciation,
foolhardy anguish. I feel, o f course. I feel the pain, the sorrow ,
the lack o f freedom. I feel with a certain hard elegance. I am
admired for it— the control, the reserve, the ability to make
the fine point, the subtle point. I avoid the obvious. I have a
certain intellectual elegance, a certain refinement o f the mind.
There is nothing w rong with civilized thought. It is necessary.
I believe in it and I do have the courage o f m y convictions. One
need not raise one’s voice. I am formal and careful, yes, but
with a real power in m y style i f I do say so myself. I am not, as
a writer or a human being, insipid or bland, and I have not sold
out, even though I have manners and limits, and I am not
poor, o f course, w h y should I be? I don’t have the stink on me
that some o f the others have, I am able to say it, I am not effete.
I am their sister and their friend. I do not disavow them. I am
committed. I write checks and sign petitions. I lend m y name.
I write books with a strong narrative line in clear, detailed,
descriptive prose, in the nineteenth-century tradition o f
storytelling, intellectually coherent, nearly realistic, not
sentimental but yes with sex and romance and wom en w ho do
something, achieve something, strong women. I am
committed, I do care, and I am the one to contend with, if the
truth be told, because m y mind is clear and cool and m y prose
is exceedingly skillful if sometimes a trifle too baroque. Every
style has its dangers. I am not reckless or accusatory. I consider
freedom. I look at it from many angles. I value it. I think about
it. I’ve found this absolutely stunning passage from Sartre that
I want to use and I copy it out slow ly to savor it, because it is
cogent and meaningful, with an intellectual richness, a moral
subtlety. Y ou don’t have to shout to tell the truth. Y ou can
think. Y ou have a responsibility to think. M y wild sisters revel
in being wretched and they do not think. Sartre is writing
about the French under the German Occupation, well, French
intellectuals really, and he says— “ We were never as free as
under the German Occupation. We had lost all our rights, and,
first o f all, the right to speak; we were insulted every day, and
had to keep silent.. . . and everywhere, on the walls, the
papers, the movie screen, we were made to confront the ugly
mug that our oppressor presented to us as our own: but this is
precisely why we were free. As the German poison seeped into
our minds, every just thought we had was a real conquest; as
an omnipotent police kept forcing silence upon us, every word
we uttered had the value o f a declaration o f rights; as we were
constantly watched, every gesture we made was a commitm ent. ” This is moral eloquence, in the mouth o f a man. This
applies to the situation o f women. This is a beautiful truth,
beautifully expressed. Every just thought is a real conquest,
for women under the rule o f men. They don’t know how hard
it is to be kind. Our oppressor puts his version o f us
everywhere, on walls, in the papers, on the movie screens.
Like a poison gas, it seeps in. Every word we utter is a
declaration o f our rights. Every gesture is a commitment. I