The Second Stage, by Betty Friedan (Summit, 344 pp., $14.95)
The women’s movement is having a grand climacteric all over us. Male and female are at breakpoint: children have been given up for a player to be named later. Just one decade of she-consciousness, give or take ten years, and here we find Betty Friedan writing about the “feminist mystique” and “female machismo.” Writing with compassion, too, about real human loss. Mrs. Friedan has always been the most sensible and non-doctrinaire libbist. Some anti-Reagan soreheadedness aside, she doesn’t see much profit in recrimination. The Second Stage is honest enough: better still, accurate. “I think, in fact, that the women’s movement has come just about as far as it can in terms of women alone.” Me, I’m grateful for this book. Not so grateful, though, that I had to read it. Why must good be turgid? Her prose absolutely squats on the page. You might eat a wet shower clog with more appetite.




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