I am waiting impatiently for the day when beleaguered, like-minded academics can order James Wolcott's collected essays for their classes.

Women are in league with each other, a secret conspiracy of hearts and pheromones

There are no female geniuses because there are no female Jack-the-Rippers.

What I see is not a world of male oppression and female victimization, but an internation conspiracy by women to keep from men the knowledge of men's own frailty. A strange maternal protectiveness is at work.

They do not understand the fragility of civilization and the constant nearness of savage nature.

All objects, all phases of culture are alive. They have voices. They speak of their history and interrelatedness. And they are all talking at once!

Art is something out of the ordinary commenting on the ordinary.