‘On the issues of pornography and prostitution, she is a genius.’ Colin McPherson/Corbis/Getty Images


February 25, 2025   7 mins

If I were Andrea Dworkin, I’d be glad that I was dead. When the radical feminist writer succumbed to heart disease aged 58, it seemed tragically young — but at least she avoided the undignified spectacle of the fourth-wave feminists of 2025 wincing over a body of work with which they are just too chicken to engage.

In a bonanza for publishers, Dworkin is back in vogue. Three of her best books — Woman Hating, Pornography, and Right-Wing Women — are being re-released as Penguin Modern Classics today, giving her a gold plaque in the pantheon of essential feminist writers. Dworkin’s life story is almost as strange and striking as her writing: a Jewish self-describing lesbian from New Jersey who ended up marrying two men, she cut her teeth at uber-liberal Bennington College where she made national news with testimony of an invasive internal examination by police following a protest. She moved to the Netherlands, where she met and married an anarchist activist who beat her and burned her with cigarettes; a spell of poverty after their relationship collapsed forced her to sell sex. She returned to America, made her name as a feminist writer in the anti-pornography and anti-prostitution movement and married the gay activist John Stoltenberg, with whom she remained until she died.

In revisiting her, Penguin is shrewd: Dworkin is having a moment among young women tired of the half-arsed, commercial and cowardly endstage of Twenties feminism. Young feminists who have realised it is not, in fact, empowering to sell ass pics have taken up Dworkin with both zeal and relief. On X, a viral tweet recently responded to a post by a pornographic model posing as Joan of Arc, saying “I know a writer who may have had a relevant thing or two to say” about the unironic sexualisation of a celibate, androgynous teenager. One black-and-white picture of our anti-porn patron saint has become a stock meme response to hypersexual nonsense on that website. It has become so prolific that there is now even a Batman spotlight variation.

Yet Dworkin’s hardcore approach to the topics of pornography and prostitution is still a bit spicy for some, as I discovered recently while listening to one podcast in which Dworkin was praised for her “bravery” — but chastised for her apparently incidental anti-“sex work” position. The host was careful to let us know that sex work is work and that women should have the freedom to sell their flesh, presumably because she had spent approximately two minutes considering the implications of such a statement, decided it was not worth the risk of being cancelled and did not realise, or care, that this cowardice put her in absolute opposition to anything Dworkin ever said or wrote.

Dworkin, after all, is not a “fun feminist”; the main thing most people know about her is that she was hated by many, many men in her lifetime. Dworkin knew what every writer who questions men’s inviolable right to purchase women’s bodies or masturbate over images of them knows: that the first epithet to be slung their way is, ironically, “whore”. Even while receiving abuse, often violently sexual in its nature, from both the pornography lobby (Hustler and Playboy, among other porn rags, continually ridiculed and harassed her) and its furious, horny readers, Dworkin was unbothered. “When a woman expresses an opinion — about anything — and the response is to undermine perceptions of or question her sexuality … the response can be identified without further analysis as implicitly antifeminist and woman-hating,” she says, and she is right. She won the argument.

But then, articulate, well-read and serious women will always win the argument against those motivated only by a jealous defence of their own erections, for whom the biggest crime of feminism is calling attention to the real lives of the women of their masturbatory fantasy. These lives are a hideous inconvenience, a boner-killer. As one woman interviewed by Dworkin, who knew the physical consequences of having a partner obsessed with porn, attests, “pornography is not a fantasy. It was my life, reality.”

Then, as now, it was not always easy to sort male allies from cynical opportunists. Dworkin knew that the soi-disant progressive men who despised her, among them Norman Mailer and Hugh Hefner, would only fight for women when it came to their right to debase themselves. The heirs of the “flower boys” of the Sexual Revolution — who were all for women engaging with free love in the Sixties but made themselves scarce as soon as feminism began “taking away the easy fuck” — are today the ones refusing to engage with the battlelines of gender, body image or the pay gap. Whether they are pleading the ethical right to choke women without asking, or defending a woman’s freedom of expression only when she is expressing herself by being naked, they only pop up when the debate gets sexy, and so their opinions can be, I think, safely discounted.

It’s a shame that Dworkin’s porn-sick detractors, who never bothered reading her anyway, have come to unfairly dominate assessments of her life. Dworkin deserves to be considered on her own terms, head-on, as what she calls a “serious woman”. Her writing, she promises, “takes power, sadism, and dehumanisation seriously” — on this, she delivers. After all, she has earned her place alongside contemporaries Germaine Greer, Gloria Steinem and Shulamith Firestone not by being hated but by being read. So let’s read her.

Dworkin’s genius is for spotting the hypocrisy of Left-wing men, and the shrewdness of Right-wing women in despising them. She understands the “selective blindness” of the Left when it comes to arousal: “Profit is not wicked or cruel when the alienated worker is a female piece of meat … the Left cannot have its whores and its politics too.” She acknowledges, without the politically polarised doltishness we see today, the sagacity of Right-wing women — despite not being among their number — in knowing that “the Right offers them the best deal: the highest reproductive value; the best protection against sexual aggression … the most reliable protection against battery; the most respect”. This realism, this practical empathy, is completely alien to liberal feminist discourse now, which sees any glimmer of conservatism as irrational and evil. For this, she must be welcomed back.

“Dworkin’s genius is for spotting the hypocrisy of Left-wing men, and the shrewdness of Right-wing women in despising them.”

Dworkin is well known for taking literally and seriously the meaning of pornography — that it makes of all women porneia, the lowest class of prostitutes in ancient Greece, and that “we are the women in it”. She understands that “the boys are betting on our compliance, our ignorance, our fear”; here, she prophesies the kinksters on dating apps who want to hurt their “liberated” partners. All these strikes are delivered with devastating clarity.

On prostitution, she is just as unyielding: “The model exists to entice counterfeit female sexual revolutionaries, gullible liberated girls, and to serve the men who enjoy them,” she savages. The reality of the brothel, something we are now scorned for acknowledging, is that prostitutes “absorb, endure, or get indifferent toward an enormous amount of male aggression, hostility, and contempt”. Dworkin shows us that questions of “expressions of will”, the defence of naive women and gleeful men, are pointless — society creates the oppressive conditions in which a woman feels compelled to sell her consent, meaning her will is never truly free; it then only bats for her side when she is making a decision which titillates men. Progressives who ignore the realities of prostitution are, we are told with a straightforward, punk disdain, “profoundly immoral”. “Sexual freedom is when women do the things men think are sexy,” Dworkin writes, auguring the era of OnlyFans.

On free love, she is similarly contemptuous: “Its purpose — it turned out — was to free men to use women without bourgeois constraints, and in that it was successful; freedom for women existed in being fucked more often by more men.” Dworkin is talking about the Sixties here — she describes the women writhing with long-haired comrades at Woodstock and Altamont, being told they must abandon their “sexual repression” when they became “tired” or “cross”, then, a few short years later, schlepping round communes barefoot with the resultant children and no support. How different is this state of affairs from the casualised dating culture we live in today, from which women emerge feeling used, wounded and disrespected (if less commonly pregnant)? I sorely wish I had encountered Right-Wing Women as a teenager. For any future daughters of my own, it will be required reading.

Most of all, Dworkin is an antidote to fake, self-serving liberal middle-class feminisms, of the kind posited by Florence Given, for whom praxis means selling phone cases which say “dump him”. Why? Because “feminism is not a lifestyle or an attitude or a feeling of vague sympathy with women or an assertion of modernity”. It is about being unpopular and vocal and careful and consistent, and ignoring fashionable, distracting nonsense. Steinem said of Dworkin that she had a quality of “Old Testament” doom to her, and as such was often “misunderstood”. Her voice booms with the prophetic weirdness and unforgiving directness of such a god; now that we are used to politically correct pop feminists of the kumbaya, New Testament mode, this can feel unsettling.

Dworkin is not perfect. She at times writes total codswallop. Her most offensive transgressions come at the end of Woman Hating, where she slips in a few short but emetic passages on incest, bestiality and paedophilia. Her vision of a post-patriarchal society is one which magics away the world’s other power dynamics so that, in a utopian state of “androgyny”, anything goes. This is the bizarre context for this egregious statement: “Needless to say, in androgynous community, human and other-animal relationships would become more explicitly erotic, and that eroticism would not degenerate into abuse.” Never has the phrase “needless to say” been so cynically deployed. The taboo around incest is “a particularised form of repression”; children “too are erotic beings”, she argues, with no small whiff of Peter Tatchell. It is difficult to decipher precisely what she means here — this is, after all, a writer who said of the Californian woman who shot her son’s abuser in court: “I loved that woman… I have no problem with killing paedophiles.” The benefit of the doubt suggests she ended her life (this was five years before her death) with the latter view.

These are moments where Dworkin’s context in the wacky world of Seventies radical feminism completely defeats her; at times, she approaches unreadability. She is at points juvenile, writing an extended passage about the patriarchal nature of capital letters: “My publisher, in his corporate wisdom, filled the pages with garbage: standard punctuation.” She is positively neurotic about the always-oppressive act of heterosexual “fucking”, and her solution, for that state of “androgyny”, makes little practical sense given the pesky problem of physical reality. And in her first book, she takes literally the Freudian psychoanalytical dream theory which can only reasonably be understood to be metaphorical, and so ends up suggesting that “men have deep-rooted castration fears which are expressed as a horror of the womb”. This literalism is, it goes without saying, off-putting. Thankfully, it abates in her later work.

These are, I suspect, not passages that Penguin will use in their marketing for this Modern Classics edition. They warn us not to treat people as prophets — just like Greer, Dworkin’s corpus is a body of general brilliance pockmarked by instances of bizarre transgression, probably the result of being stuck in antagonistic theoretical worlds for too long. When Greer used a column in Suck magazine as an apology for rape, framing it as a radical Marxist act of the stealing of assets, she did a disservice to her broader work. Some years later, she retracted her view. Dworkin never did.

Penguin’s hot new old-school feminist sometimes got it wrong — a fact which is likely to perturb initiates into this collection. But on the issues of pornography and prostitution, she is a genius: her words leap from the page into 2025 and demand we expect more. On these ever more relevant twin poles of misogyny, Andrea Dworkin, this flawed, abhorred, ruthless woman bellows down the decades to shock us out of our stupor; you’d be a fool not to listen.


Poppy Sowerby is an UnHerd columnist

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