ComineiitnThe feminitie novel, a well-establishednfixture of Western literature, has developedninto a peculiar phenomenon during thenseventies. Today, this kind of novel hasnsucceeded in being identified with women’snliterary output — a blatant abuse of realitynand an insult to women.nThrough centuries, outstanding femalenwriters duly honored the precondition ofnserious writing: to see the world and life innterms of variety and complexity. Amongnthose writers were masterful practitionersnof reflection and analysis, superbnstorytellers, giants of sentimentality andnmelodrama. They dissected societies,npondered civilizations, influenced moralsnand preferences, created tastes and archetypesnagainst which generationsnmeasured themselves. In America, HarrietnBeecher Stowe — her simplisms notwithstandingn— helped structure thenprocess of historical justice; EdithnWharton, Willa Gather, Pearl Buck probednthe human experience; Gertrude Steinnexamined the intellectual tissue of art;nEdna Ferber and Margaret Mitchellnelevated storytelling from entertainment tona dispenser of emotions and penchants.nPresently, Eudora Welty, Mary McCarthy,nor Joyce Carol Gates seem to continue thentradition of literary womanhood as a highlynrefined sense of detecting truths andnmeanings for mankind’s sake.nThe champions of the feminine novel ofnthe seventies, however, spurn this kind ofnsensitivity. The novels they produce arenbent on taking femininity out of thenuniversal context and substituting it fornhumanness —formerly the first allegiancenof a writer, regardless of gender.nThis does not make the feminine novelninto a strictly feminist vehicle, though itndrowns it in feminist contradictions. Thenpremise of the current femihine novel isnthat the differences between man andnwoman —sexual, mental, emotional — areneither nonexistent or just a matter ofnsuperstition. However, the inherentnsuperiority of femaleness over maleness isna non-negotiable tenet and the hub ofnfeminine creativity. Yet,, despite theirnextolled and professed superiority, womennalways were and still are wronged andnoppressed by men, or by the fact of men’snmere existence.nA- Chronicles of CulturennnThe unprejudiced student of a literaturenbased on such incongruence quicklyndiscovers its two substantive characteristics.nFirst — it is a body of writing rooted not innlife, empiricism or the workings of the intellect,nbut in the contemporary culturalnsoil, richly manured with irrationality,nfaddishness and quasi-scientific versions ofnreality. The hysterical fermentation ofnsocial and psychological pseudo-discoveriesnand half – truths provides anheady rationale for any departure fromngood sense and human dignity. Thanks tonthe complicated interplay between thenfinancial profitability and culturalnfecklessness, such literary output thrives onnthe impressionability of the new socialnstratum — the middle-class intelligentsia.nThis is a group which absorbs most of thisncultural production, enacts its suggei^tions,nspreading them throughout the nation bynmeans of its own visibility, aggressivenessnand affluence; it is a group that rejectsnmiddle-class moral and behavioral values,nnever having acquired any sense ofnresponsibility within the inheritedncivilization. To women in this group, JoannDidion appears as a prophet, easy andncomfortable in her rejection of all constantsn; Didion’s catatonic universe justifiesnany inertia and absolves all transgressions.nFriendly reviewers, who share Didion’snperspective, are eager to call her torpidnhollowness profundity — and that euphemismnpronounced by liberal pundits isnenough to make her hit the bestseller list andnrecruit admirers. Didion is both a master ofnthe current feminine novel and an incomparablendesigner of shoddy, purposelessnlives —but Time magazine, whosenrecommendation sells novels, equated hernwith Faulkner in a review.nSecond — regardless of its occasionalnsophistication, the feminine novel of thenseventies is a lobotomized literature, unablento reflect the world as a whole. Half of thenportrayed human reality —the male half —nis of comic strip quality, paper or plasticnbeings. The feminine writers’ ineptitude tonconceive, outline and flesh out a masculinencharacter astonishes. In the four novelsnreviewed here, innovative statements aboutnwomen can be found now and then; yet,nnone of the men can command simplencredibility, let alone sympathy or approval,n