I wonder if it’s obvious, reading Between Men now, what reckless pleasure went into its writing: The Osborne computer (“portable” at thirty-five pounds), whose tiny screen evoked the undefrostable windshield of a Volkswagen Beetle; the waxy takeout cartons of double-cooked pork that, far into the night, nourished me in my lit-up cell in the humming beehive of the Bunting Institute. My mantra was “I could be bagging groceries” — inexplicably cheering at a time when jobs were scarce, feminist criticism the most embattled of enterprises, and tenure nowhere on the horizon. I felt confident of nothing, nothing at all, but there was not a day when it didn’t seem an adventure and privilege to be writing this particular book.
– Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Preface to Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire
I wonder if it’s obvious, reading Between Men now, what reckless pleasure went into its writing: The Osborne computer (“portable” at thirty-five pounds), whose tiny screen evoked the undefrostable windshield of a Volkswagen Beetle; the waxy takeout cartons of double-cooked pork that, far into the night, nourished me in my lit-up cell in the humming beehive of the Bunting Institute. My mantra was “I could be bagging groceries” — inexplicably cheering at a time when jobs were scarce, feminist criticism the most embattled of enterprises, and tenure nowhere on the horizon. I felt confident of nothing, nothing at all, but there was not a day when it didn’t seem an adventure and privilege to be writing this particular book.
– Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Preface to Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire
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