There was only one hope she didn’t and wouldn’t allow herself to hold on to: that if, in almost thirty years, she hadn’t found a man, not a single one, who was exclusively significant for her, who had become inevitable to her, someone who was strong and brought her the mystery she had been waiting for, not a single one who was really a man and not an eccentric, a weakling or one of the needy the world was full of—then the man simply didn’t exist, and as long as this New Man did not exist, one could only be friendly and kind to one another, for a while. There was nothing more to make of it, and it would be best if women and men kept their distance and had nothing to do with each other until both had found their way out of the tangle and confusion, the discrepancy inherent in all relationships. Perhaps one day something else might come along but only then, and it would be strong and mysterious and have real greatness, something to which each could once again submit.

Perhaps one day. But since these words were written, almost a half century ago, in an autobiographical story by Ingeborg Bachmann, men and women have become only more divided.

The tangle is tighter, the confusion deeper, the discrepancies starker. Red states and blue states. And forget friendly and kind.

A construction worker on-site accidentally backs into a woman on the sidewalk and says, Sorry. She snarls something I don’t catch and he responds, I said sorry. She gives him the finger and keeps walking. He calls after her: I said sorry! Without turning around she screams, It’s too fucking late to be sorry. Fine, he screams. I take it back. I’m not fucking sorry.

What a mess.

An argument with a tableful of women, one of whom tells the story of a woman who, in response to catcalling by a pair of men, dug into her pants, pulled out her tampon, and threw it at them.

I was the only one who thought she should not have done that.

She had a right to defend herself, the others said.

According to Bachmann, fascism is the primary element in the relation between a man and a woman.

Overstated.

Like Angela Carter’s assertion that, while behind every great man is a woman dedicated to his greatness, behind every great woman is a man dedicated to bringing her down.

Still.

You write ladies’ novels, correct? said the novelist to his female colleague.

Oh what dark neck of the woods have we entered here.