The heading, translated by the author from the German, says “Drawing of the motif of a gold ring from Mycenae depicting a goddess with three poppy capsules, in the background a labrys (double axe), Greece.” Source: Wikimedia Commons.
Mary Daly’s work first saved my life decades ago, when I was teaching at a Catholic university entirely clueless about justice for women faculty, staff, and students. I was suffering without the conceptual wherewithal to make sense of this problem, still without resources to think my way through it. I was already a lapsed Catholic, already a feminist but not widely read in feminist conceptual work. Pure Lust, my first encounter with Daly, gave me hope, energy, strength, and laughter. It focused my rage. I was in the middle of life’s journey, like Dante wandering in a dark wood, and Daly didn’t exactly lead me through hell, purgatory, and paradise; rather she smashed that cosmos all to pieces, with rage, comedy, generativity, and sheer brains. Then she created new worlds welcoming of the realms of mythic life forms—nymphs, Amazons, Norns, Nymphs, and all the rest. She understood from the get-go that myth is good to think with. (More on this below.)
I had been feeling, during my years in that dark wood, that all expectations, hopes, projects, efforts had turned to ashes around me. I had come to a sort of grim acceptance of that, in the conviction that the truth is always better to live with than fantasies, no matter how bleak the truth. This is still my conviction. But Daly came along with not only with rage and suffering, but also with high spirits and creativity.
While reading Pure Lust, I had two of the very few dreams I’ve had that could be called archetypal. In one, I was standing on the edge of a tropical pool, and dove in (though in waking life I don’t like watery depths), and startlingly emerged on the other side as a very large tiger. I still talk to that tiger in my contemplation times. In the second, I was in my little red Prius, when a vigorous woman with blue spiky hair, glasses, pedal pushers, and one eye came running up to the car, hijacked it with me in it, and drove wildly through city streets. She took me to a place like an underground parking structure, filled with water, and with great sleeping, breathing creatures whose heads looked round, as if they were all dolphins. It was very peaceful. That woman, I came to think, is Sophia—the Wisdom of the biblical books—and she is now my constant companion. Sometimes she’s in her form as Isis, sometimes as the Greek Sophia figure, sometimes Baba Yaga, sometimes the one-eyed woman in pedal pushers: a whole panoply of Wisdom figures, avatars of the Great Goddess. I think Mary Daly knew all of them.
I want to go back to myth, understood here as the vast multiplicity of gods and spirits and daemons… the personages in Greek, Roman, Celtic, continental European and north-African traditions (i.e., those most central to my research and writing in the last 40 years, and central to Daly’s too). Myth in this sense poses multiplicity itself as an issue, and as a gift. They allow the peoples who live with them to think about cosmos, perception, temporality, space, earth, air, fire, and water, psyche and soma, physics. The subtitle of Pure Lust, Elemental Feminist Philosophy, marks Daly’s brilliant innovations on the elements and elementals of ancient mythologies, and on its physics as that study’s love of kinesis: motion, energy, rest, rhythm, owning one’s own limbs and embodied life. Daly both embraces and extends these interwoven strands, and furthers the relevance of their thought, their thinking process, for women and feminism. After Daly, Irigaray and new generations of philosophers and writers also elaborate the importance of thinking, and the worldly circumstances for thinking one’s own thoughts, through these same figures. Daly, Irigaray, and so many mythopoeic poets and protagonists long to know, and to fly, and to traverse the weave of the cosmos.
This can happen in mythopoeic poetry because myth and physics work together from their earliest surviving tales and poems—which won’t surprise anyone who knows Neil Gaiman’s Sandman or (for the elders among us) the great Winsor McCay’s Little Nemo in Slumberland. Ancient mythic works identify so many of their deities with heavenly bodies, alike freely ranging among multiple regions and tiers of an imagined cosmos, mediating relations between heaven and earth, bringing the amplitude and dimensionality of the world. Daly is so strong and freeing on these histories, in her push away from the exclusions of theology. For Daly as for Irigaray following her, and then for myself, the nexus of mythic beings and movement within a commitment to feminism makes new senses of freedom and thinking for oneself—and with the great intellectual disciplines—in an airy or watery space.
I’m retired now, but I never tire of Wisdom goddesses in their rage and their sense of humor (pedal pushers? one-eyed? Really?), their love of epistemology and phenomenology and flight and intimacy within the elements, of philosophical-cum-mythological poetry, of feminist studies in religion and theology. Myth is good to think with because it bespeaks aliveness itself, both as a felt state of vitality and as a process of genesis or generation, and as the order of spirits and daemons as models for women in their own vital forces.
It’s such a gift to be able to find one’s most formative intellectual, professional, ethical, aesthetic, and spiritual ancestors woven into specific, fiery souls like Daly or Irigaray. I’m so lucky to have had the profession and the opportunities to think that come with being a scholar and teacher. (I say this in spite of my many experiences of rage at the incoherencies and injustices of institutions, by the way.) It’s such a gift to invoke the spirit of Mary Daly, or of the still-with-us Luce Irigaray, and still to love, at my ripe age, the Wisdom traditions of manifold biblical, polytheist, or panentheist traditions. It’s so lucky to be able to give thanks to the beauties of these people, divinities, and traditions each night and each new dawn. It’s so weird—at least for myself, an intense, earnest, autistic, aging scholar who takes poetry as sacred, and takes umbrage at those who don’t take it so—to find myself laughing so hard on every page of Pure Lust.