“She was gracious if oddly shy with his friends when they came to visit; she listened eagerly as women spoke to her of their pregnancy and childbirth experiences, of which they were happy to speak, and at length; the Playwright heard his wife tell one of these women that her own mother had once told her she'd loved being pregnant, it's the only time a woman truly feels at home in her body, and in the world - "Is that true?" The Playwright hadn't lingered to hear the answer; he wondered what such a revelation meant, for a man. Are we never at home in our bodies? In the world? Except in the act of sexual intercourse, transmitting our seed to the female?”
Book:Blonde
