[astrangerhere]

Occasionally, however, a woman writer is told gravely, ‘You write like a man.’ Since this is the highest accolade, presented as a judgment from above and closed to any further discussion, it would be impolite to ask, ‘Which man? Any man? You?...

''Why is your writing so violent?'' The question was asked in Liege, in Hamburg, in London, in Detroit, in New York City. It would be asked in China if I went to China. It would be asked in Moscow. In Hiroshima...

''Would you ask that question of a male writer,'' I responded, the last time it was put to me, not very long ago. After some hesitation, the answer came: ''No.'' ''Why not?'' I asked. Herewith, a long pause ensued. My interrogator knew the answer to the question but declined to answer it. Or perhaps he was thinking. I hope he still is.

Joyce Carol Oates in the New York Times in 1981