true witches

October 23, 2019

The world needs more witches. Women who fly in their dreams, and who have decided to rid themselves of everyday labels and walk free. Woman who can laugh out loud and ignore the people who call them crazy – because they have renounced submission and merged with the natural world around them. Women who have left captivity and risen – now they will stop for no one, they are invincible and without doubt. They are transformed. They are true witches.



October 17, 2019

As a young man I was little more than a piece of flotsam on the sea of life. There were girls, women, some passionate, some not. I remember waking beside one naked young woman after a Friday night party in London. I had the vaguest recollection of leaving the party with her inside a cab. But now I didn’t know where the hell I was. I slipped quickly from her bed, gathered up my clothes and escaped to the bathroom without disturbing her.

Memories are built like this: a simple atlas containing maps of the past. The world that touches you is fact and fiction; a strange mix of truth and lies. Because I had lied to the woman, and she had lied to me: it was the way of the world.

That morning, still half-dark, I walked freezing cold streets completely lost. Eventually I came on a milkman and asked him, Where am I? I’m lost.

And he, smiling, said, Finchely Road. Following his directions, I located the Underground station and passage home. God bless the Tube. But milkmen are no more.

I often became lost in Venice. At night I left the wooden shutters open, and night noises would enter my bedroom uninvited: music, passing voices, the wholeness of the city that shimmered on water like a dream.

Then, an earlier time, in Paris. A girl running, her breasts swinging as she ran, her hips swaying. Like the wine in my glass when a tremor runs through it. Memories are nothing more than recordings of laughter, of tears, of momentary passion: they’re like holiday photographs, or footprints in damp sand. They are like bite marks on my body in a rumpled bed.

The divine feminine

October 10, 2019

Women are magic to me. I’m forever in awe of their power and the ways in which they express their own definitions of femininity — in my experience, it’s the marriage between an unstoppable force and an openness and gentleness of heart. That’s what intrigues me, and that’s where the magic lives for me. Throughout folklore, I can usually find some connection between women in their power and their connectedness to the earth — for instance, the link between the moon, the tides, and so on. The divine feminine offers me a grounding place from which I can begin to explore and reclaim the power and magic in myself — that same connected force that I feel society has always tried to separate from women. I’d love for someone reading this book to find some glimmer of recognition in that, to realize how amazingly strong they are despite everything, how capable they are of living unapologetically.

Tamara Jobe
Interview with H/M


July 30, 2019

I cannot tell you. It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language that is chiefly made by men to express theirs.

Thomas Hardy
Far From The Madding Crowd

When you think of a woman consumed by fury, what do you think of? Is it the classical Greco-Roman representation of a woman scorned: Medea, Electra, and Medusa – tales of anger and revenge; or is it the modern-day stories of hard-bodied feminism and black widows – North Country (2005), If These Walls Could Talk (1996), Gone Girl (2014), or A Woman Scorned (2000)? It seems, historically, that if a man is furious, it is righteous fury, or biblical fury. Its violence is synonymous with justice and honesty, and if not at all times justifiable, it is always forgivable. The story of the angry man is not one of destruction, but one of rebirth. Women’s anger bears an entirely different image: the picture of the screaming woman, her anger neither acceptable nor forgivable. It is not a story of redemption, but a story of self-destruction; a story of women who choose a darker path, and never recover themselves. They, in a way, become less stories about angry women than they do about women stricken by madness – so unspeakable to society was the idea that women could be angry that they found it more acceptable that women simply sink into depression or insanity, such as the stories of Calypso and Ophelia. Today, society’s acceptance of women’s anger is slowly growing, but it is an agonizingly slow process. The image of the Victorian woman is a hard one to break free of, it seems – the soft woman sitting at home, accepting of what is given to her and taken from her, pliable and subservient. This is not a question of individual choice, but of social freedom. Even when accepted by popular society, it is an even smaller margin that accepts ugly female anger – the kind that cannot be fixed by a gentle word, or a man’s touch, the kind of emotion that almost transcends anger and moves to rage, a scream that refuses to be quieted. When we read of anger like this, we find it ugly and unpalatable – which bears the question: why do we accept it out of men, and not out of women? A passage by Ana Božičević, from her poem “Casual Elegy for Luka Skračić,” puts this in clearer words than I ever could with only two lines:

“I want to be the kind of monster you
don’t want to fuck — ”

Isaak Frank
Anger in Female Literature

exaggerated events

July 23, 2019

Gothic narratives pivot upon anxieties about selfhood and entrapment, represented through bizarre or exaggerated events that may or may not be explained as manifestations of the (typically) female central character’s troubled imagination.

Roberta Rubenstein, House Mothers and Haunted Daughters: Shirley Jackson and Female Gothic

We as women are trained to see ourselves as cheap imitations of fashion photographs, rather than seeing fashion photographs as cheap imitations of women.

Naomi Wolf
The Beauty Myth

…the body has been for women in capitalist society what the factory has been for male waged workers: the primary ground of their exploitation and resistance, as the female body has been appropriated by the state and men and forced to function as a means for the reproduction and accumulation of labour…

the body can be for women both a source of identity and at the same time a prison, and why it is so important for feminists and, at the same time, so problematic to valorise it.

Silvia Federici
Caliban and the Witch

It would never work putting women in charge of the world. Can you imagine it? In any conflict, countries would ignore each other, give each other the cold shoulder, the ultimate but very feminine snub – which would be simply terrible! Men have had thousands of years of experience in ending conflicts, usually with the deaths of millions – they are expert at it!


February 2, 2019

Poison is traditionally, though not always, a female mode of attack. Classical lore features many women accused of poisoning their spouses, lovers, or rivals: Medusa, Hecate, Circe, Medea, and Agrippina the Younger, to name a few. In particular, witches of literature and accused witches of real life are often associated with potions and spells that make use of poisonous plants found around the home and garden: oleander, hemlock, castor beans (ricin), foxglove, various kinds of berries, and nightshades. Men, of course, make use of poison as well, like Shakespeare’s Claudius and Romeo. But the subtle and seductive art of poison is often used as a storytelling device to comment upon the nature, and especially the flaws, of women.

Poison is a deceptive weapon, and stories about it play on fascinations with, and anxieties about, what women are hiding. It also offers a violation of proper female domesticity and the same traits that are supposed to make women good botanists. When a woman uses plants or food as poison to subvert rather than maintain the domestic order, she defies her assigned roles of observer, cataloguer, and nurturer. Depending on one’s perspective, poisoning can be used to warn of or promote a woman’s independence.

Afton Lorraine Woodward
Plants, Domesticity, and the Female Poisoner