For a man to write about feminism, he must be half-crazy, or stupid, or both. For one thing he will be courting criticism from feminists. But more importantly, he will likely find himself a transgressor — wandering, hopelessly lost in regions of thought that far overshoot the boundaries of firsthand knowledge. Be that as it may. I intend to offer a few thoughts, based on four decades' consideration, this being the length of time I've counted myself a supporter of women in their struggles against the patriarchy. 

That feminism is, in fact, necessary — is a truth revealed with some eloquence, the minute one uses the word 'patriarchy' and notices, in oneself, the resistance it provokes. Does such a thing as patriarchy exist at all? Or is it a mere rhetorical device, designed to whip up hatred and division? I ask these questions out of an honest desire to give voice to my own doubts. And yet at the same time, at a purely rational level, I see the patriarchy with absolute clarity, as a factual thing staring me in the face.  

So if nevertheless I find myself tempted to cynicism, it's mainly because of despair; I feel as though, given the world so badly needs changing, it will probably never happen. And easier than facing up to that despair, in all its implications, is to succumb perhaps a fraction to my inner chauvinist, whispering in my ear that feminists are tiresome, deluded, men-hating pests.  

Needless to say, I know this voice for what it is: an expression of terror, a reflex. As a man, I have to reckon with the possibility that the oppression of women is something for which I — as a man — am responsible. And because this is being intuited at a subliminal level, the distinction between personal and collective guilt seems to count for very little. Reflex denial and irritation kick in, regardless of how absurd it might be for any individual male to shoulder personal blame for the atrocities (psychological as well as physical) committed by men against women over the duration of recorded history. 

‘Atrocities’ is a strong word. But it's a faithful reflection of the passions that can be aroused, in both men and women, by gender politics. Not that patriarchy, when it oppresses women, always does so with violence. For the patriarchal mindset is woven into our everyday lives so tightly that many people, I am sure, simply fail to notice it; it never acquires salience and so neither does feminism.  

An example would be the convention whereby wives take the surname of their husbands, a practice we've been taking for granted for centuries if not millennia. These days of course it’s rather different. Anyone with the slightest imagination must occasionally have wondered — why not the other way round? Why do we never see men taking their wife’s name? Indeed, why share a surname at all? Or if the couple do need a marker of shared identity, why not an entirely new surname, chosen specially? On what moral basis do we expect of a woman that she subordinate (or lose) her identity to that of the man and his male forebears? I'm framing it as a moral issue because I do, in fact, experience something like moral outrage when contemplating the many ways women are routinely treated as subservient — which leads naturally to a desire for equal rights and I've no wish to downplay the central importance of gender equality in any struggle for a better world. But the case for feminism does not necessarily stand or fall by whether it is morally just.  

The way I see it, there are certain dynamic energies informing the feminist movement which, being altogether irrational, cannot be described as ‘moral’ at all. Indeed the Latin word ‘mores’ (from which ‘moral’ is derived) would, in Ancient Rome, have decisively and explicitly excluded women from demanding equal rights. Morality, in the sense of deciding between right and wrong on behalf of society, has been the domain of men for such a very long time indeed, it's perhaps inevitable that women have come to symbolise — to men and perhaps to themselves — a type of power that either transcends morality (e.g. the unconditional love of a mother for her child) or else actively undermines it (the temptress).  

Such a rich legacy of associations cannot just simply be somehow dropped or bypassed. On the contrary, it seems to me that this — the evolutionary history of women's collective identity — deserves to be put to good use in whatever way, and by whatever means, the creative imagination of a woman can concoct.  

Philosophers of antiquity such as Lao Tzu and Heraclitus (and, more recently, Friedrich Hegel and Carl Jung) have all tried to suggest that the mystery of existence might be solved — or at any rate rendered more comprehensible — by grasping one fundamental principle, namely, that life is generated from the tension between opposites. ‘The Battle of the Sexes’ is, no doubt, a tired trope. And yet in some sense at least, men and women can still be reckoned a pair of opposites, a polarity where each of the two poles is defined by its contrast with the other.  

Therefore, a feminism which seeks merely to transfer to women the same rights as men — without allowing for a significant depth and scope of possible contrast between the two genders — must risk diminishing women instead of freeing them. After all, what a sadly impoverished, monochrome world it would be, if the only measure of progress in women's rights were the right to equal pay, for example — rather than, say, the right to subvert every masculine or male idea of what it means to live as a human being!  

As I pointed out earlier, feminism is a subject that arouses strong passion on both sides. But I hope, in this brief excursion, I have at least provided food for thought. 

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