After this came the dodgy statistics, the one out of every four women said to have been raped in her lifetime, the alleged upsurge in domestic violence reports after the Super Bowl, and other mediagenic numbers. If these "facts" later turned out to be wobbly (or, in the case of the Super Bowl story, an outright hoax), many women's advocates rarely seemed to grasp the damage they'd done. After all, they were only calling attention to real, pervasive problems, which rape and domestic violence unquestionably are.

But here's the rub: If you get sloppy with the truth, then anyone who doesn't feel like dealing with those problems can happily devote himself to quibbling with your numbers instead. Does it really matter that much whether it's one women in four who will be raped, or one woman in 10? Or 20? It's still too many, and it needs to be stopped. Good luck getting that done while everyone's busy arguing about your stats.

The ravaged, bruised and mutilated women who parade through Dworkin's writings can seem as insubstantial as these numbers. As described by her, they're like the characters in an urban legend or campfire story, like the girl who finds the bloodied hook hanging from the car door handle. She tells their stories with an unseemly relish, and they're portrayed as completely and utterly helpless and abject, with no one to turn to but their equally brutalized yet indomitable champion. "Heartbreak" professes to be the testament of someone who has devoted herself to abused women, but the only three-dimensional human being who emerges from the book's Sturm und Drang is Dworkin herself. It's a mistake to equate a writer's work with how she lives her life, so let us hope that, in person, Dworkin managed to treat these women as more than rescue objects.

Perhaps in recent years Dworkin was pleased to see support for her own ideas in the theories of evolutionary psychologists who argue for the innate aggression of male sexuality, and even go so far as to suggest that men are born to rape. Probably not, though; she would have likely seen it as an excuse to go on raping. The very opposite of self-reflective, she never reconsidered her position on porn, so she surely never wondered what all the time and energy feminists spent on the "Sex Wars" of the 1980s might have accomplished if it had been redirected toward helping abused women gain the financial and emotional wherewithal to reclaim their lives. Her contribution to the discussion on most issues failed the ultimate litmus test: Even when she was right, she made the public conversation stupider. (Though some of her opponents, who could rarely resist ad hominem remarks about her appearance, surpassed her even in that.)

It's almost impossible to locate a real woman amid the towering phantom images generated by Andrea Dworkin's extraordinary life. It seems clear that she was very talented, and that she also suffered greatly, if exactly how and when is pretty hard to nail down. In recent years, the death of her beloved father and a murky traumatic incident in a European hotel seemed to sap her utterly. Her theories had become even more marginalized and it was getting harder and harder for her to publish in the U.S. Maybe the fight just went out of her. The constitutionally unforgiving (and Dworkin herself was among them) might hope that in the end she realized how much of that fight she'd wasted. The merciful will wish that she left what was for her an earthly house of horrors feeling vindicated somehow and finally free.

Recent Stories