“Every time I see a woman in public reading a book by a man (usually dead, usually white),” writes Danielle Lazarin, “I fantasize about offering her a book by a woman instead, replacing the male voices in her head with female ones one book at a time.”
That’s funny. Every time I see a woman in public reading a book by a man (usually dead, usually white), I think, Yay! Somebody’s reading! And then I imagine that, as a grownup, she’s probably capable of making her own decisions—since she probably knows better than some stranger with an axe to grind exactly what she likes to read, and most likely isn’t making that decision based on the author’s sex, race, or current state of existence.
But then, I’m a man. What the hell do I know about lady readers?