Camille Paglia
Camille Paglia (born April 2, 1947) is a social critic, author and feminist.Paglia is an intellectual of many apparent contradictions: a classicist who champions art both high and low, with a Hobbesian view that human nature is inherently dangerous, and yet who also celebrates dionysian revelry in the wilder, darker sides of human sexuality.
Her significance in the 1990s intellectual world was two-fold:
- The seventies had seen the rise of a particularly rigid, doctrinaire "feminism" that many were finding stifling but only a few were challenging (e.g., the "sex positive" S&M lesbians, perhaps typified by Susie Bright[?]).
- The left was pushing for a change in the traditional focus of western universities on western culture (sometimes derided as the study of "dead white males"). For example, Stanford University was dropping its well-regarded undergraduate requirement of a year-long course in "Western Culture" in favor of a more broadly-focused study of "Cultures Ideas and Values" or CIV.
Against this backdrop, Camille Paglia appeared on the scene as a female intellectual who enjoyed challenging the left-wing position in these areas, but far from being the usual stodgy conservative, she did so by arguing from an unusual, flashy position that also embraced homosexuality, fetish, and prostitution. Her later writings in her column in Salon often use the word "libertarian," as she speaks out in favor of individual freedom, which may help explain the apparent contradiction, and the consternation she causes in crossing back and forth between the dominant political camps.
Books
- Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson
- Sex, Art and American Culture: Essays
- Vamps and Tramps: New Essays
External Links
- Salon Articles by Camille Paglia (http://dir.salon.com/topics/camille_paglia/index.html)
That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear,
And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control)
These hallow'd shades,--these trees that woo the wind,
A hundred passing years, with march sublime,
Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade,
The beauteous Margaret; for her each swain
In secret.html">secret sigh'd, a victim to despair,
No more the Shepherd on the blooming mead
No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck
But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined,
Bemoan'd his hapless love.html">love; or, boldly bent,
O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam,
Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain.
The echoing vault responded to their vows,
Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way.
Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name.html">name;
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie,
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare.
With the fallen honours of the mourning trees,
And waited long beyond the appointed hour,
Howling portentous did the winds career;
The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods;
Paused for a moment--Margaret listen'd pale;
No rustling footstep spoke her lover near.
She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh.
Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past:
Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound;
'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms.
And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among.
And now thou'rt here my fears are fled--yet speak.html">speak,
Say, what is wrong?" Now through a parting cloud
And Bateman's face was seen; 't was deadly white,
"Oh, speak! my love!" again the maid conjured,
.
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