All 6 entries tagged Preventing Rape

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March 02, 2010

Rape Prosecution and the Bolton Case

Wendy Larcombe’s paper, ‘The “Ideal” Victim V Successful Rape Complainants: Not What You Might Expect’, opens by pointing out that in Australia attrition rates for rape convictions are as high as 90% (essay published in 2002) and, referencing Susan Estrich, Larcombe highlights that debate as to what is “real rape” is legitimized by the criminal justice process. Sue Lees seems to support this idea in her book Carnal Knowledge, when she considers changes in what is perceived as rape.

One explanation for the drop in conviction rate seems to lie in the fact that a steadily increasing proportion of reported rapes do not conform to the stereotypical rape scenario of the psychopathological stranger rapist, seizing women in dark streets. A far higher proportion of the women reporting nowadays are, by contrast, raped by men they know, others in their own homes, and these are precisely the cases where it is more difficult to secure a conviction. (Lees 2002: xii)

We are much aware today of forms of rape closer to home, such as date rape, marital rape, drug-assisted rape and acquaintance rape (where the rapist is a friend or co-worker); and Lees points out that the rapists in these cases sometimes have a ‘distorted belief system’ as they still believe that the women wanted the rape even as they are going to prison (2002: xii). It is these types of rape that are usually difficult to prosecute, as can be seen in the British case of the Black Cab Rapist, John Worboys who managed to assault up to 100 women before he was caught. At this link on the Guardian website , you can see the testimony of one of his victims who was laughed at by police when she reported that he had raped her; the officers dropped their investigation when the taxi driver told them the woman had been drunk. Worboys wasn’t actually caught until roughly a year later when he committed more crimes, and he was eventually convicted.

The Worboys case was unusual though, because rape cases are much more likely to be prosecuted where the rapist is a stranger to the rape survivor. [1] There are other factors that improve chances of a rape being prosecuted such as cases where a weapon is used and where there is strong evidence of overt resistance e.g. the rape survivor being injured. Such criteria play on stereotypes of vulnerable females, while prosecuting lawyers construct the rape survivor as a feminine ideal: chaste, sensible, responsible, cautious and dependent. This ideal is not a woman who takes risks, but perhaps simply a woman who is in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Defence teams have a number of strategies that they use to dislodge this feminine ideal. Sometimes this means reframing the rape as a site of pleasure, what Larcombe calls a ‘pornographic scenario’; the rape survivor is portrayed as a willing participant who helps to bring the sexual act about, not a victim. Defence lawyers also create doubt as to whether the rape survivor is really a woman living in the boundaries of ‘normal’ society. If the rape survivor has a history of drug or alcohol abuse, criminality, mental illness, incest or even mere sexual adventurousness, the lawyers will drag it into court to discredit her (or him) and suggest that there is another more sinister identity behind the “mask” of the rape survivor.

In court, these strategies manifest themselves in a technique called “whacking”, which involves persistent bullying in questioning the witness. The ultimate aim of course is to make her (or him) drop the charge. What makes this ordeal particularly horrifying is the fact that what is being debated is the right of the rape survivor to have justice, with the defence teams often suggesting that the crime that took place is the fault of the survivor herself (or himself), because she has supposedly failed to protect herself.

It is though possible, according to Larcombe, for cases to succeed even where the rape survivor does not fit the prosecution’s preferred ideal of womanhood, but the key is the rape survivor’s testimony. After studying a number of real cases where unconventional women won their rape cases, Larcombe has found that the success is based mainly on the ability of the rape survivor to make her story convincing. In the cases studied, the defence teams did try to construct the women as sexualized, contradictory or unreliable, but the women’s refusal to consent to this version of themselves made the juries believe that they had not consented to the sexual act being debated either.

Of course, the problem with this news is that it puts the onus on women to have to fight, to have to force the jury to believe their testimony, and some women after this kind of ordeal are simply not psychologically strong enough. In The Female Fear, Margaret T. Gordon and Stephanie Riger point out that fear of rape ‘is worse than fear of other crimes because women know they are held responsible for avoiding rape, and should they be victimized, they know they are likely to be blamed’ (Gordon and Riger 1989: 2).

It is interesting to consider Larcombe’s analysis of legal discourse in rape trials in relation to a recent case in the UK. In Bolton in the north of England, the prosecution of a case of gang rape was thrown out by the judge, because the rape survivor in this case had fantasized about group sex online. Peter Tachell explains the ridiculous and bizarre implications of this act on The Guardian Online :

Watch out. If you have ever had fantasies about group sex and shared them with another person, you have forfeited your right to say no to sex and can be lawfully raped.

The rape survivor’s discussion of group sex online immediately removed her from the category of the pure, chaste, sensible woman, and instead put her in the category of the oversexed and the prostitute, women who in the current status quo can be used and abused to any extent. [2] What is particularly awful about this prejudice though, is that the woman’s testimony which might have been fundamental to the trying of the crime was never able to be considered by the jury, because the judge threw out the entire case. Cases like this one conform the conclusions of Joan McGregor in her study Is it Rape?:

The impotence of the legal response to the epidemic of rape reinforces societal acceptance of the message. The rapist aims, whether consciously or not, to establish his mastery of men over women and the law unwittingly may be supporting him. (McGrgeor 2005: 231)


[1] On the other hand, taxi drivers are thought of in London as being the friendly, average “bloke”, and the findings on an internal police investigation suggest that the police officers involved were in a mindset where they simply could not believe that a taxi driver could be guilty.

[2] This is not unique to Western legal discourse. In Sexual Violence and the Law in Japan, Catherine Burns discusses how in more ambiguous cases ‘the demonstration of utmost force-resistance becomes central to the judicial interpretation of rape’; hence the defence lawyers use ‘a construction of rape as extreme sex, motivated by the same natural uncontrollable urges that drive sukebei sexuality’ and rape survivors are reframed as ‘prostitute “Others”’ (Burns 2005: 160). But what if the rape survivor is a prostitute? At the beginning of her book, Burns begins with the 1980s Ikebukuro murder trial which involved the rape of a prostitute: ‘For one hour and twenty minutes he [the client] filmed and photographed while he ripped and cut off her clothing, harassed and humiliated her, and coerced her into what the court described as ‘abnormal’ sexual acts’ (2005: 25). Yet when the case came to trial, much of the debate focussed on the fact that the woman, in trying to escape, stabbed and killed her client.


Burns, Catherine (2005) Sexual Violence and the Law in Japan. New York/London: Routledge.

Gordon, Margaret T. and Stephanie Riger (1989) The Female Fear. New York and London: The Free Press/Macmillan.

Larcombe, Wendy (2002) ‘The “Ideal” Victim V Successful Rape Complainants: Not What You Might Expect’. Feminist Legal Studies 10.2: 131-.

Laville, Sandra (2009) ‘Taxi rapist may have attacked more than 100’. The Guardian. Available online (accessed 2nd March 2009).

Laville, Sandra and Vikram Dodd (2009) ‘Police errors left rapist John Worboys free to strike – but no officers sacked’. The Guardian. Available online (accessed 2nd March 2009).

Lees, Sue (2002) Carnal Knowledge: Rape on Trial. London: The Women’s Press.

McGregor, Joan (2005) Is it Rape? On acquaintance rape and taking women’s consent seriously. Aldershot and Burlington: Ashgate.

Tachell, Peter (2010) ‘Throwback to a moralistic age’. The Guardian. Available online (accessed 2nd March 2010).

December 03, 2009

'Why not choose a happier subject?'

Writing about web page


This week’s Times Higher Education Supplement features an article by Sorcha Gunne and I that anticipates the launch of our edited collection Feminism, Literature and Rape Narratives: Violence and Violation. The essays in this volume discuss narrative strategies employed by international writers when dealing with rape and sexual violence, whether in fiction, poetry, memoir, or drama. In developing these new feminist readings of rape narratives, the contributors aim to incorporate arguments about trauma and resistance in order to establish new dimensions of healing. In this article, however, titled ‘Why not choose a happier subject?’, Sorcha and I talk about the problematic nature of researching rape narratives and we consider the attitudes of other academics as well as friends and family to our work.

Facebook group for the book:
Details on the Routledge website:

September 30, 2009

Polanski, Tess and the Phenomenon of the Rapist

How to solve the problem of Roman Polanski and his recent arrest for the rape of a thirteen year old girl? A director of numerous wonderful films: Rosemary’s Baby, The Pianist, Chinatown, Macbeth , and Death and the Maiden, Polanski also directed and co-wrote the script for a film that has rape at its heart: his exquisite adaptation of Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. There are many sets of debates raging, questioning whether Polanski is guilty, whether the testimony of the thirteen year old girl involved can be trusted, whether the corrupt dealings in the US legal system mean that Polanski should be acquitted, what it means that the 13 year old girl (now mother and wife) can’t bear to have the case re-opened etc. For my own part, whilst I can see that Polanski’s court case was not exactly fair and that the judge was rather suspect, a fair punishment does not seem to have been meted out for what appears from the evidence to have been the rape and anal rape of a minor. But this is not what I want to discuss here.[1] What I would like to do is rethink how Polanski’s case is narrativised using, as a point of comparison, Thomas Hardy’s novel Tess of the D’Urbervilles, and Polanski’s film version of it: Tess. [1]

The great irony is that Polanski so carefully portrayed the agony of Tess, a woman convinced that her true lover, Angel Clare, would reject her when he knows that she is soiled by a rape in her early life. In the script for Polanski’s Tess, she writes to Angel how “My youth, my simplicity and the strangeness of my situation may perhaps lessen my fault. But since I committed it, I am guilty”, words that now seem eerily prescient:

Hardy never actually tells us what Tess writes in her letter; instead when she does confess to Angel after their marriage she tells him, “I was a child—a child when it happened! I knew nothing of men”, words that are repeated in Polanski’s script. This is no defence in Angel’s view, and is also no defence in the eyes of many commentators offering their take on Polanski’s act of rape and the thirteen year old girl, whose testimony makes shocking reading. There are in fact sinister parallels between that testimony and Hardy’s representation of Tess’ rape by the rich and powerful Alec D’Urberville.

Q. What did you do when he said, ‘Let’s go into the other room’?
A. I was going ‘No, I think I better go home’, because I was afraid. So I just went and I sat down on the couch.
Q. What were you afraid of?
A. Him…. He sat down beside me and asked if I was OK. I said ‘No’.
Q. What did he say?
A. He goes ‘Well, you’ll be better’. And I go, ‘No I won’t. I have to go home. He said ‘I’ll take you home soon’.
Q. Then what happened?
A. Then he went down and he started performing cuddliness… I was kind of dizzy, you know, like things were kind of blurry sometimes. I was having trouble with my coordination… I wasn’t fighting really because I, you know, there was no one else there and I had no place to go.”
Q. Did he ask you about being on the pill?
A. He asked, he goes, ‘Are you on the pill?’ and I went, ‘No’ and he goes ‘When did you have your period?’ and I said, ‘I don’t know. A week or two. I’m not sure’... He goes, ‘Come on. You have to remember’. And I told him I didn’t…. and right after I said I was not on the pill… and he goes… and then he put me – wait. Then he lifted my legs up farther and he went in through my anus.
Q. Did you resist at that time?
A. A little bit, but not really, because…
Q. Because what?
A. Because I was afraid of him.

(Source: Dominic Lawson’s article ‘Let’s not forget what Polanski did’:

There is even the fact that, as in the case of Tess who was sent to the D’Urberville household by her ambitious mother, it is claimed that this 13 year old girl was given to Polanski by her own mother as a delicacy, as if that lessens the criminality of the act committed. Of course, Polanski is like Alec too, in that he is accused of raping (and anally-raping) a teenage girl from a position of power and money and with little regard for the consequences. [3]

There is a difference, however, between Alec and Polanski; while Alec remains a shadowy figure [4], we know a great deal about Polanski’s life: especially about his tragic early life in Poland during World War Two and the death of his wife, Sharon Tate. Many commentators use Polanski’s past to argue that his terrible life experiences explain the act of raping a 13 year old girl. The French minister Frédéric Mitterrand recently said he was ‘dumbfounded’ by Polanski’s arrest, adding that he ‘strongly regrets that a new ordeal is being inflicted on someone who has already experienced so many of them’. But does Polanski’s past really explain his actions?

Shouldn’t the real question be, why did Polanski still have sex and anal sex with a thirteen year old girl despite his intimate knowledge of pain, suffering and humiliation? Prof. Joanna Bourke’s commentary at the end of Rape: A history from 1860 to the present is particularly relevant to this kind of questioning, because she concludes that rape must be reframed as a male political issue rather than a female one. Following Bourke’s recommendation, the painful hounding of the 13-year-old-girl-now-mother should cease and instead we should be asking what made Polanski rape in the first place. Does violence create violence? Do we honestly believe that all rapists are totally evil like the “baddies” from some children’s TV show?
Do we really think that rape is a glitch in society, that it is just an unaccountable phenomenon committed by evil outcasts who were never part of our community to begin with? Or is there, as Bourke contends, something brutal and sinister in certain modes or parts of modern masculinity? [5]

Even great directors like Polanski rape, hence Whoopi Goldberg’s desperately lame comment ‘It wasn’t rape-rape. It was something else but I don’t believe it was rape-rape.’ (Source: Goldberg finds it hard to reconcile the Polanski she knows with Polanski the rapist, just as anyone would find it difficult to believe that a friend or colleague had committed an act of rape. What I am really saying here, to use Bourke’s words, is that understanding rape ‘exclusively through rape victims is wrong: it lets men off the hook’ (Rape, p. 116) [6]. Why a man like Polanski committed this crime is a crucial question and one from which cultural commentary is too easily diverted. As Hardy would put it, ‘The woman pays’.

[1] Polanski’s Tess was in fact made only two years after Polanski was tried for rape, posing a few questions about his intentions in making the film.
[2] I would direct you to Kate Smurthwaite’s blog for a great piece of writing that deflates some of the more ridiculous arguments for Polanski’s release: Also see Amanda Hess’ blog:
[3] Polanski’s “position of power and money” is not sufficient to explain this case of rape. Money is related to power though (see Bourke’s comments in Rape about the sexual exploitation of working class women), but obviously it is not the main factor in every case and it is not only wealthy men who rape.
[4] We know that Alec D’Urberville has an invalid mother, that his family bought the D’Urberville name with their new money and later in the book, we see him working as a lay preacher to try to atone for his sins. Otherwise he is merely seductive, dangerous, brutal, sensuous and self-serving.
[5] I am far from saying that these issues surrounding masculinity are a new or modern phenomenon, but merely want to suggest that we need to look at masculinity in its modern context. Bourke’s study Rape, however, does cover the period from 1860 to the present day, so there certainly are lessons to be learned from history.
[6] I want to highlight that when Bourke calls for a focus on masculinity, she is not saying like Marilyn French that “All men are rapists.” Rapists, however, are not always male. She explains her argument in ‘Women, men and rape’, when she explains that

sexual aggression is not innate to masculine identity. There is nothing “natural” about men’s violence. Sexually aggressive men in modern western societies don’t bolster manliness but actually enervate male power regimes. Rapists are not patriarchy’s “stormtroopers”, but its inadequate spawn. Rape is a crisis of manliness; its eradication is a matter for men – for a radically different conception of agency and masculinity. (

Bourke suggests that rape is not innate to masculinity, but is characteristic of a particular type of masculinity, and I would argue prevalent in a specific masculine mode.

July 01, 2008

Frances Ferguson on ‘Rape and the Rise of the Novel’

ReaderIn ‘Rape and the Rise of the Novel,’ Frances Ferguson has some interesting things to say about the discourses of ‘truth’ and ‘fiction’ especially in cases where the testimony of the rapist is pitted against that of the one (often the woman) who was raped. The demands of the courtroom create a conundrum, a catch-22 that disenfranchises women forcing them to remain in a rape script that renders them powerless.

Even as the political and fictional logic establishes the woman’s truthfulness, the link between her truthfulness and her powerlessness itself comes to function as an inevitably self contradictory formula. It thus imposes a limiting term on the very capacity for subversion or compensation that political reform and visionary fiction might hope to provide. Were a woman to become powerful, she would lose the weakness that is the very condition of the strength of her testimony. That is, her very lack of power guarantees her truthfulness; her not counting makes her words count. The question of authentic testimony about rape thus approaches something of a paradox of statutory rape in which the possibility of radical self-contradiction is defined as the easiest case, the most determinate and determinable reality (Ferguson 1989 :97).

Ferguson concludes that there have been three treatments of the history of rape:
1. there has been the determination of truthteller by gender – man or woman;
2. there has been a fictitious certainty defining rape in formal terms that involve possibility of self-contradiction;
3. and there has been competition between the story and the narrator, reality and the telling of it.

Ferguson suggests that the questions raised above appear in some of the pioneering examples of the novel form. She mentions Pamela (1740) by Samuel Richardson, but mainly focuses on Richardson’s Clarissa comparing the novel with Ovid’s tale of Philomela. [For more info on Richardson see: ].

While the metamorphic account of rape (Philomela) gives the shape of a memory to the story of an unspeakable act (the story of the rape of the Levite’s wife), Richardson rewrites the rape story to create the psychological novel. The novel is psychological, moreover, not because it is about the plausibility of its characters but because it insists upon the importance of psychology as the ongoing possibility of the contradiction between what one must mean and what one wants to mean. […] Clarissa becomes a psychological novel, then, not just in representing the ambiguity of forms and the struggles inherent in interpretation. In adapting the spirit of Lovelacean stipulation that nonconsent can be consent, Clarissa answers Lovelace not just by refusing her retroactive consent to the act of rape but by living the stipulated contradiction that his act and his construction of it have made it visible. Stipulation, trying to put a limit to ambiguity by defining the understanding of a term or a situation, is potentially infinite. (Ferguson 1989: 109)

Ferguson, Frances. 1989. ‘Rape and the Rise of the Novel.’ Misogyny, Misandry and Misanthropy. Ed. R. Howard Bloch and Frances Ferguson. Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. 88 – 112.

Tanya Modleski on Representing Rape in Harlequin Romances

The novels [Harlequin Romances] perpetuate ideological confusion about male sexuality and male violence, while insisting that there is no problem (they are very “different”). The rapist mentality – the intention to dominate, “humiliate and degrade,” which as Susan Brownmiller shows, is often disguised as sexual desire – is turned into its opposite- sexual desire disguised as the intention to dominate and hurt. The message is the same one parents sometimes give to girls who are singled out for mistreatment by a bully: “he really has a crush on you.” This belief is of course an enormously difficult one to sustain in real life, and romantic literature performs a crucial function in assuring us that although some men may actually enjoy inflicting pain on women, there are also “bullies” whose meanness is nothing more than the overflow of their love or the measure of their resistance to our extraordinary charms. (Modleski 1982: 34-35)

Modleski, Tanya. 2008 (1982). Loving with a Vengeance: Mass Produced Fantasies for Women. London: Routledge.

‘Introduction: Rereading Rape’ by Lynn A. Higgins and Brenda R. Silver (p. 1–11)

Higgins and Silver begin their introduction by recalling Beckett’s question, ‘What does it matter who is speaking?,’ a question imbedded in postmodern questioning of identity. However, for Higgins and Silver the question of who is speaking is very important when one is speaking about sexual violence and its representations in literature, since as they state, ‘the politics and aesthetics of rape are one’ (1).

Higgins and Silver are adamant that their project is not only in the imagination, but in the world: a world where ‘rape cultures’ are accepted and remain unquestioned. What Higgins and Silver find most worrying and intriguing is the ‘obsessive inscription – and an obsessive erasure – of sexual violence against women’ (2). In opposition to this erasure, ‘[f]eminist modes of “reading” rape and its cultural manifestations, displacements, and transformations of what amounts to an insidious cultural myth’ (2).

Part of this feminist project involves highlighting the fact that representations of rape in art and literature often contain the same assumptions and prejudices that are seen all too often in the courtroom. Higgins and Silver suggest that ‘representations of rape after the event are almost always framed by a masculine perspective premised on men’s fantasies about female sexuality and their fears about false accusation, as well as their codified access top and possession of women’s bodies’ (2). The onus is on the woman to prove her own innocence in the courtroom and often in literature.

Unsurprisingly then, rape often appears in literature as ‘an absence or a gap that is both product and source of textual anxiety, contradiction, or censorship’ (3). Higgins and Silver add that it can also be represented via a kind of ventriloquism where accepted platitudes surrounding rape are repeated, rather than more authentic and thoughtful explanations being offered. This needs to be challenged, because what is at stake is the very nature of gender relations. As Higgins and Silver intimate, ‘rape and rapability are central to the very construction of gender identity and […] our subjectivity and sense of ourselves as sexual beings are inextricably enmeshed in representations’ (3).

It is obvious then that the project is significant and admirable, but how are Higgins and Silver to go about creating it? The critics reply that there must be an ‘unravelling’ of ‘cultural texts that have obsessively made rape so pervasive and so invisible a theme – made it “unreadable”’ (3). To combat this, one must adopt a tactic of ‘listening not only to who speaks and in what circumstances, but who does not speak and why’ (3). Theirs is a strategy of recuperation as they ‘listen for stories that differ from the master(’s) story’, as they ‘recuperate what has too often been left out; the physical violation and the women who find ways to speak it’ (3).

To sum up, Higgens and Silver endorse the following tenets in creating the collection, Rape and Representation:
1. that the essays will focus on women representing themselves searching for ‘breakthroughs’ whereby ‘rape gets represented in spite of its suppression’ (4);
2. and that in the essays, it will be recognised that rape is a bodily violation contradicting its reframing as ‘a metaphor or a symbol or represented rhetorically as titillation, persuasion, ravishment, seduction, or desire (poetic, narrative, courtly, military)’ (4).
There are a number of other challenges recognised by Higgens and Silver in the list of questions below:

Do women who write of rape – and until recently, especially among white women in the Anglo-American tradition recently, these have been few in number – find a way out of the representational double binds confronting those women who attempt to escape their entrapment in the patriarchal story? Do women of colour within the United States or “third world” women, who have addressed the taboo subject more often and more openly, offer subversive perspectives? It is also necessary to recognize the disturbing fault lines that appear within men’s texts and to ask what role male authors play in uncovering the structures that brutalize women’s bodies and erase their subjectivity. Do these texts reveal traces of masculine sexual anxiety or guilt? And are even male authors who recognize their complicity in the violence of the gender system ultimately caught in its powerful meshes? (4-5)

Higgens and Silver don’t answer these questions now, but they outline the five sections of the book in detail.
1. Prior Violence. This section goes back to some the earliest stories about rape in Western culture and it studies the legacy left by such tales in our culture.
2. The Rhetoric of Elision. Here the focus is ‘the scene of elision in male texts about rape’ and there is discussion of male authors’ (von Kleist, Hardy, Forster) ambivalence about the violence in the text (5).
3. Writing the Victim. This section questions to what extent literary texts (Shakespeare’s Lucrece, Yambo Ouloguem’s Le Devoir de violence, Soni Labou Tansi’s La Vie et demie, various novels by Clarice Lispector) contribute to ‘social and narrative acts of victimization’ (6).
4. Framing Institutions. The analysis here ‘shifts the emphasis from writing the victim to the institutional discourses in which rape occurs’ e.g. ‘Medieval legal codes and judicial practice […]; Renaissance political structures and the heroic ethos of courtly love […]; slavery and its legacy – racism – including their enactment in lynching’ (6). The critics seek to undermine each frame in which sexual violence is naturalised.
5. Unthinking the Metaphor. To conclude, the final essays focus on ‘aesthetic categories’ whether that be the Western lyric tradition or the multiple narratives of postmodernism.

Higgens, Lynn A. and Brenda R. Silver. 1991.‘Introduction: Rereading Rape’. Rape and Representation. Ed. Lynn A. Higgens and Brenda R. Silver. New York: Columbia University Press. 1-11.

Further Reading
Armstrong, Nancy and Leonard Tennenhouse eds. 1989. The Violence of Representation: Literature and the History of Violence. New York: Routledge.
Castle, Terry. 1982. Clarissa’s Ciphers: Meaning and Disruption in Richardson’s “Clarissa”. Ithica: Cornell University Press.
de Lauretis, Teresa. 1987. ‘The Violence of Rhetoric: Considerations on Representation and Gender’. 1987. Technologies and Gender: Essays on Theory, Film and Fiction. Bloomington and Indianopolis: Indiana University Press. 31-50.
Estrich, Susan. 1987. Real Rape. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Ferguson, Frances. 1987. ‘Rape and the Rise of the Novel.’ Representations 20: 88-112.
Froula, Christine. 1986. ‘The Daughter’s Seduction: Sexual Violence and Literary History.’ Signs 11: 621-644.
Herman, Dianne. 1984. ‘The Rape Culture.’ Women: a Feminist Perspective. Ed. Jo Freeman. Palo Alto, Calif.: Mayfield. (no page numbers given).
Herrera-Sobek, Maria. 1987. ‘The Politics of Rape; Sexual Transgression in Chicana Fiction.’ Americas Review 15: 171-181.
Kappeler, Susan. 1986. The Pornography of Representation. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Mackinnon, Cathrine. 1983. ‘Feminism Marxism and the State: Towards Feminist Jurisprudence.’ Signs 8: 635-658.
Modleski, Tania. ‘Rape versus Mans/ laughter: Blackmail.’ The Women who Knew Too Much: Hitchcock and Feminist Theory. New York: Menthuen, 1988. (no page numbers given).
Reeves Sanday, Peggy. 1986. ‘Rape and the Silencing of the Feminine.’ Rape. Ed. Sylvana Tomaselli and Roy Porter. Oxford: Blackwell.


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