Condoleezza Rice was approached by a professor of English and asked to recommend a book by a black woman, to round out the racially and sexually sensitive curriculum. Rice said, “How about my The Soviet Union and the Czechoslovak Army, 1948–1983?”
The other woman was, of course, nonplussed, for (if an explanation is required) she did not want a book by a black woman, but a book by same about being a black woman: that Rice had other interests and excellences was moot; she was to be admired not as a writer, but as a prop.
We have long suffered through the …
This article appears as “Women Writing” in the July 8, 2019, print edition of National Review.