THE OSCHOLARS: Special Teleny issue




Dangerous desires: the uses of women in Teleny

Christopher Wellings


Teleny[1] (1893) enjoys a reputation as a groundbreaking account of sex and love between men. Less has been said, however, about the novels many female characters. As contemporary readers, we might feel some surprise that women feature so prominently in what is ostensibly the story of a homosexual love affair. The broad purpose of this essay is to account for that prominence. Through analysis of key characters and scenes, I will argue that the novel uses women in a number of complex and problematic ways. In preparation for my reading, I want to say something about Teleny as a historical document. The late nineteenth-century is a significant moment for theorists of homosexuality. Foucault argues that the homosexual’, as sexual category and identity, crystallised during the period, through a proliferation of discourses on the subject[2]. Teleny is one such discourse. It participates in the social construction of homosexuality, by proposing a particular model of sex between men. John McRae has described Teleny as a voyage of discovery, which: ‘takes narrator and reader through a series of sexual episodes, all presented in a negative way, until the final celebration of homosexual love’[3]. The novel represents Camille Des Grieux’s search for an ideal of expression of his love for men, in which he navigates and rejects a range of erotic possibilities. I will therefore also be interested in the resulting model of homosexuality, particularly as this relates to women and, as my title suggests, to the novels critique of dangerous desire.


It is also important to find a way of reading Teleny as a work of pornography. While the novel is certainly pornographic, it is not a work of pure sexual fantasy. Steven Marcuss concept of pornotopia is useful in explaining what I mean by this:

Pornotopia is literally a world of grace abounding to the chief of sinners. All men in it are always and infinitely potent; all women fecundate with lust and flow inexorably with sap or juice or both…It is always summer time in pornotopia, and it is a summertime of the emotions as well – no one is ever jealous, possessive, or really angry[4].


Teleny absolutely does not fit this model. Rather, an intense atmosphere of anxiety and intrigue pervades the text. In this respect, Teleny is comparable to another icon of nineteenth-century pornography. My Secret Life is the eleven volume diary of an anonymous Victorian gentleman. Marcus discusses My Secret Life at length[5], basing his observations on the premise that the diary is authentic in several ways. There is, Marcus notes, a certain realism in the diarist’s voice, as he worries about the size of his penis and his relationships with women. The same is true of Teleny, where sex is frequently mitigated by feelings of guilt and jealousy, as well as by fear of discovery. There is a further similarity between the two texts in respect of their responses to aberrant sexuality. When the diarist in My Secret Life witnesses a prostitute flogging a man in a brothel, he describes the scene not with the alluring gloss of pornography, but with the aloof detachment of someone who is turned off by what he sees. As I will show, Teleny also adopts a strangely equivocal attitude to sex, frequently displaying a decidedly unpornographic disgust with it. 


The issue of pornography has caused some anxiety for critics of Teleny. Brian Reade suggests the novel is ‘redeemed from being pornography by being the only English novel until…[its publication]…where the main story is concerned with homosexuality’[6]. For me, Teleny is not problematic because it is pornographic. But the novel does present some serious difficulties when we read pornography in a particular way. Judith Butler has described pornography as ‘social text‘ - a literature we may read for information on the social organisation of sexuality[7]. Read in this way, Teleny raises several questions which it will be my purpose to address. What is the significance of the particular sexual fantasies about women that the novel articulates? What uses are made of female subjectivity and the female body? Can we celebrate the novel’s vision of homosexuality as egalitarian and healthy, or does it actually emphasise apology, elitism and fear of sex? 



Marguerite, the old maid and the cantinière


Having situated Teleny within a Foucauldian history of sexuality, we might imagine that the novel reflects a moment when sexuality was more flexible than our rigidly-imposed labels of gay and straight allow. Jonathan Dollimore has noted that gay identity ‘far from being the direct counterpart of our desires, may in part be a protection against their complexity[8].’ Is it possible, then, that Teleny is a brave acknowledgement of this complexity? Is the novel’s recognition of a role for women in the sexual lives of men who have sex with men a good thing?


Two early female figures appear in an anecdote Camille tells about his first romantic attachment during adolescence - to a girl of his own age named Marguerite. When he encounters her whilst travelling in Europe, his attempts to pursue his suit are frustrated by the presence of a ‘wandering English old maid.’ (52). The old maid continually harries and harangues the bumbling and naïve Camille, having him thrown out of the ladies’ carriage on the train, then bumping into him at a series of inopportune moments. The episode culminates with Camille chancing upon Marguerite in a garden, where she is squatting to urinate in the belief that she is alone. The old maid simultaneously appears, mistakenly concludes that Camille is spying on the young girl, and is duly outraged.


In one sense, this farcical vignette underlines how Camille is innately unsuited for the perils and pitfalls of heterosexual courtship. Yet, in another, the episode establishes the principle by which women are treated throughout the text. Marguerite and the old maid are not individuals, but archetypes of the female, defined solely in relation to male perceptions of their sexualities, or lack thereof.  Marguerite, Camille concludes, is ‘just what an ideal Dulcinea ought to be’ (52), in other words the type of young and virtuous woman that he ought to have. The spectacle of her urinating undermines this appeal, and is an early instance of the kind of disgust with the female body that characterises subsequent portrayals of women. In contrast to Marguerite’s sexual potential, we find in the old maid a stark warning of what all women become, an aged and sexless harridan who dampens the male’s ardour and chases away his erection.


If Marguerite and the old maid suggest the official Victorian woman, we find next in Camille’s formative years a figure who equally preoccupied nineteenth-century society – the prostitute. Camille is persuaded by a group of University friends to visit a brothel, which he depicts as a nightmare realm populated by women who exist as mythological monsters, ‘harpies’ and ‘painted-up Jezebels’ (62). The portrayal of the prostitute known as the cantinière is particularly misogynistic. She is described as: ‘old, short, squat and obese; quite a bladder of fat’ (62). Her smell is of: ‘musk, patchouli, stale fish and perspiration,’ but as Camille comes into closer contact with her vagina ‘the smell of stale fish’ (63) predominates. Camille reflects that her clitoris: ‘in its erection was of such a size, that in my ignorance I concluded this woman to be an hermaphrodite’ (66). The problem with the cantinière, then, is her lack of femininity, expressed in the grotesqueness of her body and the proportions of her clitoris. Further, as she engages in a series of sex acts with the other prostitutes, we see the cantinière aggressively demanding pleasure. The horrible culmination of the brothel scene comes when the cantinière is having sex with a consumptive prostitute, who dies at the point of climax so that: ‘the death-rattle of the one mixed itself up with the panting and gurgling of the other’. (67)


Any attempt to claim that women play a radical role in Teleny is immediately frustrated by these more or less horrifying warnings against women and female sexuality. Marguerite and the cantinière are nothing more sophisticated than the familiar tropes of the good woman and the bad, which some Victorian social commentators used in an attempt to specify the parameters of correct womanhood. Yopie Prins has noted that some commentators in the 1890s warned of the dangerous and wanton wild woman who ‘embodies too much sexuality, undomesticated and dangerously out of control’[9]. The wild woman in Teleny is surely the cantinière, so sexually dangerous that she pursues her orgasm even as her lover dies beneath her. Finally, these early female figures are significant because they highlight a problem we encounter repeatedly in Teleny. Instead of attempting a critique of dominant ways of thinking about gender and sex, the novel reinforces them.



The Countess and Catherine


Perhaps Marguerite and the cantinière appear where we would expect to find them in the kind of narrative that Teleny is. The novel is analogous with the coming out story. Camille moves from a position of isolation and a perception of difference, towards the discovery of a subculture that embraces and negates that difference. We might expect narratives of this kind to include failed, socially-motivated attempts at heterosexuality in early life. Yet both Camille and René Teleny are much more deeply involved with women than this. Both engage in, and derive pleasure from, sex with women, well before they have sex with each other. We have to ask whether this is simply because of the linear form of the narrative, or whether there is in fact something about women that needs to be got out of the way before the main business of the novel can proceed. Alan Sinfield suggests that Teleny ‘anticipates a reader interested equally in cross-sex activity[10].’ With reference to the novel’s two key cross-sex scenes, I will now consider what the nature of this interest in straight sex is.


Teleny’s lover is the Countess, a beautiful married lady of ‘unblemished reputation’ (73), who has ‘hardly yet reached the bloom of ripe womanhood’ (78). The narrative structure of her scenes provides a clue to her function in the novel. At the time of the affair, Camille has taken to following Teleny about in secret, after each of the pianist’s performances. One night he sees Teleny entering his house with the Countess, and waits outside in a cab in a state of erotic and obsessive intensity. Camille experiences a hallucinogenic vision of the lovers which, Teleny later reveals, coincides precisely with what takes place inside the house. In one way, this device relates to the idea that runs throughout the novel, that the two men are somehow psychically connected. But Camille’s position as mental voyeur also creates a complexity of perception around Teleny and the Countess. Camille observes:

With lips pressed together, she remained for sometime inhaling his breath, and – almost frightened at her boldness – she touched his lips with the tip of her tongue…she was so convulsed with lust by the kiss that she had to clasp herself to him not to fall, for the blood was rushing to her head, and her knees were almost giving way beneath her…the pleasure she felt was so great that she was swooning away for joy. (74)


There are three people involved here. Camille identifies with the Countess in that he wants to be her and have sex with Teleny himself. He revels in his perception of her swooning feminine joy at being ravished by her man. There is an appropriation of the feminine as a means of experiencing desire for men. This pattern is further developed as the scene continues. After the Countess and Teleny have had sex twice, we get these reflections from him on her slumbering body:

He looked at her with the scorn which a man has for the woman who has just ministered to his pleasure, and who has degraded herself and him. Moreover, as he felt unjust towards her, he hated her, and not himself. (80)


Such is Teleny’s revulsion with the Countess that it is only by penetrating her from behind, and imagining that she is really Camille, that he is able to accomplish sex for a third time. The appropriation of the Countess is now complete. The two men use her body, and a perception of her subjectivity, as a proxy for sex with each other. The above quotation is the kind of explicit statement of hatred for sex and women that places Teleny firmly outside Marcus’s pornotopia model. The concept of woman as whore and man as her victim is one of the most conventional weapons of misogyny. These scenes therefore re-emphasise the novel’s complicity with dominant and oppressive gender frameworks. And this problem is even more pressing in Camille’s cross-sex scenes, which I will now consider.


Camille’s lover is Catherine, a chambermaid in his mother’s service, a ‘country wench of sixteen or thereabout’ (86). The portrait of Catherine is drawn upon lines of class, with the idea of the maid as a rustic peasant expressed in her animalistic quality; she is ‘as pert as a sparrow…as graceful as a kitten…[and has]…the savage grace of a young roe standing under leafy boughs’ (87). From the outset, the affair is Camille’s attempt to rid himself of his ‘horrible infatuation’ (86) with Teleny. He points out that, while he is completely indifferent to Catherine because she is a woman, he is pleased by her ‘cat-like grace…which gave her the appearance of a Ganymede’ (87). However, the main site of Catherine’s appeal is her virginity. Patrick Kearney has noted that English erotica, and particularly Victorian erotica, is characterised by a mania for deflowering virgins[11]. This is Camille’s preoccupation with Catherine. For both partners, the taking of Catherine’s virginity is equated with her ruin. Camille reflects:


‘And yet which was the greater evil of the two, the one of seducing a poor girl to ruin her, and making her the mother of a poor unhappy child, or that of yielding to the passion which was shattering my body and my mind?

‘Our honourable society winks at the first peccadillo, and shudders with horror at the second, and as our society is composed of honourable men, I suppose the honourable men which make up our virtuous society are right.’ (88)


Camille is able to identify the parallel between the oppression of women and the oppression of homosexuals. He knows that the position is doubly-degrading for women because the perpetrators of crimes against them are not worth punishing, only winking at. However, there is no attempt by Camille to break out of this pattern of inequality. Instead, in his sex with Catherine and in the scene’s shocking conclusion, he aligns himself with patriarchy, with the ‘honourable men‘. The sex scenes between Camille and Catherine are couched in terms of a fight or rape, through a perception of the female as quarry. Having decided upon Catherine as a suitable way of getting rid of his feelings for Teleny, Camille immediately pounces upon her because, he tells us: ‘a nature like hers had to be mastered all of a sudden rather than tamed by degrees.’(88). When Catherine cries out for Camille to stop, which she does repeatedly, he does not heed her, but rather concludes that the struggle ‘excited her as much as it did me.’ (89).


When Catherine finally submits to Camille’s violent advances she says: 

‘I am in your power. You can do with me what you like. I can’t help myself any longer. Only remember, if you ruin me, I shall kill myself.’ (91)


Camille then attempts to penetrate her but finds that his ‘battering ram’ (92) is arrested in its progress by her hymen. He then ejaculates prematurely and falls senseless at her side, after which she escapes. The whole struggle is repeated the next time they meet. This time, on the point of penetration, Camille asks Catherine if he may have her. She replies that he can if he loves her, but repeats her threat to kill herself if he ruins her. In order to absolve himself of all responsibility for raping and ruining her, Camille now ceases and lets her go. But Catherine is not to be allowed to get away so easily. Camille’s coachman ‘a young, stalwart, broad-shouldered and brawny fellow’ (95), who desires Catherine, has heard about her liaison with Camille and is maddened with jealousy. The coachman hides in her room one night, then assaults her:

It was hardly a question with him now of pleasure given or received, it was the wild overpowering eagerness which the male brute displays in possessing the female, for you might have killed him, but he would not have left go his hold. He thrust at her with all the mighty heaviness of a bull; with another effort, the glans was lodged between the lips…it was stopped by the as yet unperforated but highly dilated vaginal membrane. Feeling himself thus stopped at the outer orifice of the vagina he felt a moment of exaltation.

He kissed her head with rapture.

‘You are mine,’ he cried with joy; ‘mine for life and death, mine for ever and ever.’ (98)


Following the rape, Catherine, true to her word, commits suicide by jumping out of the window.


How should we interpret these violent cross-sex scenes in a narrative about sex between men? Andrea Dworkin’s discussion of the uses of women in pornography is useful here. Dworkin expresses the relation between women and homosexuality in these uncompromising terms:

Mother, whore, beauty, abomination, nature or ornament, she is the thing in contradistinction to which the male is human. Without her as fetish – the charmed object – the male, including the homosexual male, would be unable to experience his own selfhood, his own power, his own penile presence and sexual superiority. Male homosexual culture consistently uses the symbolic female…as a touchstone against which masculinity can be experienced as meaningful and sublime[12].


It is absolutely apparent that the Countess and Catherine function to signify masculinity in this way. Teleny may not want to have sex with the Countess, the point is that he is man enough to do it. When she bears him a child, which she passes off as her husband’s, this is a further assertion of Teleny’s virility. And, in the case of that stalwart and brawny fellow the coachman, perfect masculinity - the animal power of the male - consists precisely in brutality against women. The rape and destruction of Catherine is served up as erotic spectacle for all men to enjoy, as a celebration of masculinity. When Camille conspires with the Coachman to keep the death quiet, this only underlines the idea that she somehow deserved it anyway. The reason for these straight sex scenes can now be summarised. The Countess and Catherine are there to demonstrate that – even though Camille and Teleny love each other - they are still ‘real’ men.


Catherine’s death can be read as a rejection of women and of effeminacy. However, as we have already seen in relation to the Countess, this disavowal is entirely duplicitous. The novel continually draws on the notion of the feminine to describe homosexual desire. When Camille and Teleny finally have sex, for example, Camille observes that it is much easier for him to penetrate Teleny than the other way around because Teleny has ‘already lost his maidenhood long ago’ (126). Teleny says ‘Sit down there…I’ll ride on you whilst you impale me as if I were a woman.’ (126). Finally, Camille gleefully appropriates a sexual pleasure that he perceives as properly belonging to women, reflecting: ‘I seemed to be a man in front, a woman behind, for the pleasure I felt either way’ (118). Of course, it is problematic to think of any sexual position as being properly ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine’. But nonetheless, Teleny conceives of gender and sex in precisely these problematic terms. This severely limits the potential for a radical model of homosexuality that challenges the status quo. Finally, Teleny offers women a double insult. It feigns to disavow them, sanctioning their destruction to establish the desirability of the male, then proceeds to construct a homosexuality that relies on the ‘feminine’ for its articulation.



Dangerous desires



The man who dies at the symposium is the Spahi. Teleny describes him to Camille as:

…a young man who having spent his fortune in the most unbridled debauchery without any damage to his constitution, has enlisted in the Spahis to see what new pleasures Algiers could afford him. That man is indeed a volcano. (146)


So, like Camille, the Spahi is looking for a particular model of sex between men. Unlike Camille, however, he privileges pleasure above all else. A Spahi was an Algerian horseman serving under the French government and, though the race of the Spahi in Teleny is not specified, he nonetheless becomes the proponent of an eroticism that emphasises racial otherness, and also a very specific mode of sex between men. This is expressed in the concept of sodomy the Spahi recommends to the other men at the orgy:


…what pleasures can be compared with those of the Cities of the Plain? The Arabs are right. They are our masters in this art; for there, if every man is not passive in his manhood, he is always so in early youth and old age, when he cannot be active any longer.’  (153)


The Spahi has travelled to Algiers in search of new pleasures, but it is clear that what he has found there is an older model of homosexuality. The Spahi’s view of sodomy recalls the pederastic model David Halperin draws attention to in an essay on the history of sexuality[13]. Halperin notes that, in ancient Greek society, patterns of sex between men mirrored the organisation of the state. A male citizen was free to approach and penetrate his inferiors, whether these were woman, or men who were inferior in age or social status. Discussing a piece of technical writing by the ancient Roman physician Soranus, Halperin also notes how such a view of sodomy might also see position during sex as a function of male sexual potency. This is also the case in the Spahi’s view, where men are always passive in youth and old age. It is also possible to situate the Spahi’s model of sodomy within the ars erotica tradition Foucault has identified. According to Foucault, the ars erotica establishes pleasure as a secret knowledge about sex, which is transmitted back into erotic practice via a master / disciple relationship[14]. It is in this position of master that the Spahi functions in Teleny, as he guides the other men through a series of exotic sex acts.


Foucault draws an opposition between the ars erotica and the constitution in Western civilisation of a science of sex. With this in mind, we can see how Teleny very explicitly participates in the construction of sexuality Foucault describes. If the Spahi represents ars erotica, then it is also possible to identify Camille, with his need to contain sex within certain terms, with a science of sex. The novel’s rejection of the Spahi’s view of sex between men becomes the reason for his death. The Spahi’s final act of erotic excess provides the novel’s infamous ‘bottlery’ scene (153). The Spahi’s boasts that he can achieve pleasure from having a broad, glass bottle inserted into his anus. At the point of the Spahi’s ejaculation, the bottle breaks inside him. He later shoots himself to avoid the shame of attending hospital. When he dies, so does the dangerous sexuality he represents. Just as the Countess and Catherine were bound up with a rejection of effeminacy, so the death of the Spahi represents a disavowal of older cultural forms of homosexuality, and of the unchecked pursuit of sexual pleasure.


And none of this is a good thing. Homosexuality in Teleny ends up looking rather like heterosexuality. The monogamous, romantic union of Camille and Teleny is privileged as the only acceptable context for sex between men. These are not politically-sound lines along which to defend proscribed sexuality. Inevitably, responding to a dominant and oppressive framework by mimicking it, only reinforces its power. And indeed, as I will now show in my conclusion, Camille and Teleny ultimately become victims of the very normality they aspire to.  



Madame Des Grieux


No account of the role of women in Teleny could be complete without a discussion of Camille’s mother. Madame Des Grieux is the only woman whose reach spans the entire narrative (she appears on the novel’s first page and on its last). I have reserved my discussion of her until this point because of her role in the novel’s conclusion, and because the character is useful in drawing together the strands of my discussion. Madame Des Grieux is unique among the novel’s female characters because she commands power. A young, rich widow, she is a patron of the arts and a woman of taste: ‘a queen of drawing rooms’ (162) and the subject of ‘flattering articles of the fashionable papers’ (162). On account of her many suitors, she is explicitly likened to Penelope. Yet Madame Des Grieux is not waiting for any man; rather she prefers ‘her liberty to the ties of matrimony.’ (163). And one reason why she prizes this freedom is that, beneath her veneer of social respectability, Madame Des Grieux is passionately sexual. Camille continually teases his interlocutor with hints about his mother’s sexual adventures which are ‘well worth hearing’ (188). But, unlike any other woman in the novel, Madame Des Grieux is not condemned as a whore on account of her sexuality. Camille says ’To everybody she was like Juno, an irreproachable woman who might have been either a volcano or an iceberg’ (162). In short, Camille’s mother achieves what appeared impossible in light of earlier portrayals of women in Teleny: she is both completely sexual and completely in control.


Given the problematic treatment of women in the Teleny, what are we to make of the appearance of this radical female figure? Certainly, Madame Des Grieux highlights that, as with so much of the text, the treatment of women is incoherent. Camille is an unreliable, perhaps even a self-deceiving narrator. Towards the end of the novel, he makes a statement that he never likes to ‘treat any woman scornfully’ (161). In light of what has gone before (the cantinière, the Countess, Catherine) this statement seems astonishingly deluded. Perhaps the inconsistent treatment of women also supports the theory that Teleny is the work of several writers. However, for me, Madame Des Grieux makes most sense if we read her as a continuation of the themes of fear and jealousy of women, and of the irresistibility of heterosexuality.


In the novel’s final chapter, Camille and Teleny discuss the possibility of a future together. Both men perceive women as a threat to a long-term union. Teleny says: ‘…you might get tired of this life. You might, like other men, marry just to have a family (164). When Camille expresses his worry that Teleny may have an affair, it is naturally assumed that his lover could just as easily be a woman as another man; Camille says: ‘You would love him – or her, and then my life would be blasted for ever’ (164). And of course these fears are ultimately realised. The novel concludes with Camille discovering Teleny having sex with Madame Des Grieux, who has achieved power over Teleny by paying off his debts. Distraught at losing Camille, Teleny then commits suicide. In one sense this is a suitably dramatic ending to the deliciously scandalous story that Camille tells his interlocutor. Yet in another, it is the dominance of heterosexuality, and a sense of the impossibility of competing with women, that destroys Camille and Teleny’s relationship. Throughout my discussion I have highlighted how Teleny reinforces normative frameworks of gender and sexuality. In the novel’s conclusion, the two men are finally overwhelmed by them.


I feel that I have not had very much good to say about Teleny. After all, what is so wrong with the model of homosexuality the novel proposes? It holds out the possibility that sex between men can be about more than sex: it can also be about art, beauty and love. To an extent the novel is also very honest about sex. Edward Carpenter and John Addington Symonds, for example, produced defences of homosexuality that played down the importance of sex, and particularly of sodomy. In Teleny, by contrast, the love affair is fully-realised emotionally and sexually. And there is undoubtedly a poignancy about the novel’s conclusion. Surely it shows how prevailing hostility to homosexuality must have pressed upon both actual experience, and the literary imagination. But the fact remains that from a political perspective Teleny is a deeply suspect work. The novel is obsessed with conventional femininity and masculinity, with heterosexuality and monogamy, and with disassociating itself from sexual perversion. Teleny never attempts to break free of these dominant frameworks. Instead it emphasises an anxious desire to be normal – and that may be the most dangerous desire of all.



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[1] Teleny, or The Reverse of the Medal McRae, John ed. (London: GMP, 1986). This is the definitive edition of the original 1893 text. Page numbers for quotations appear in parentheses.

[2] Foucault, Michel, The History of Sexuality Volume 1: An Introduction trans. Hurley, Robert (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990 (1978)) p.43

[3] McRae in Teleny, p.21

[4] Marcus, Steven, The Other Victorians: A study of sexuality and pornography in mid-nineteenth-century England (London: Weidenfeld, 1966) p.273

[5] Marcus, p.261

[6] Reade, Brian ed., Sexual heretics: male homosexuality in English literature from 1850-1900 (Routledge, 1970) p.49

[7] Butler, Judith, ‘The Force of Fantasy: Feminism, Mapplethorpe and Discursive Excess’ in Cornell, Drucilla, ed. Feminism and Pornography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) p.497

[8] Dollimore, Jonathan, Sex, Literature and Censorship (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001) p.26

[9] Prins, Yopie, ‘Greek Maenads, Victorian Spinsters’ in Dellamora, Richard, ed. Victorian Sexual Dissidents, (London: University of Chicago Press, 1999) p.48

[10] Sinfield, Alan, The Wilde Century: Effeminacy, Oscar Wilde and Queer Moment (London: Cassell, 1994), p.18

[11] Kearney, Patrick, A History of Erotic Literature (London: Macmillan, 1982),  p.107

[12] Dworkin, Andrea, Pornography: Men Possessing Women (London: Women’s Press, 1981), p.128

[13] Foucault, p.57