We watched him, in the second debate, prowling behind his opponent, back and forth with lowered head, belligerent and looming, while she moved within her legitimate space, returning to her lectern after each response: tightly smiling, trying to be reasonable, trying to be impervious. It was an indecent mimicry of what has happened at some point to almost every woman. She becomes aware of something brutal hovering, on the periphery of her vision: if she is alone in the street, what should she do? I willed Mrs. Clinton to turn and give a name to what we could all see. I willed Mrs. Clinton to raise an arm like a goddess, and point to the place her rival came from, and send him back there, into his own space, like a whimpering dog.
November 19, 2016
Hyperdramatic post-election prose, visualizing Hillary as a goddess and Trump as a "whimpering dog."
I was listening to the audio version of a New Yorker piece called "The Rights of Women Under President Trump," by Hilary Mantel. Subtitle: "The state should not stalk her. The priest should seal his lips. The law should not interfere." I had to laugh out loud at this over-the-top paragraph: