[...] It really feels like things might be changing, like we might actually have a chance at changing the law. (The more he sits there, rigid, the angrier I get. It seems to me, with Henry sitting beside me, still angry that I dared to buy a paper he doesn’t like, that it is men like him who might actually be the problem: officially supportive, but inwardly seething.) I also haven’t forgotten the jokes he made about the three hundred and forty-three women who signed the manifesto saying they’d had abortions but no doubt about it if I got pregnant he’d waste no time finding out what we’d have to do to get rid of it. There is so much he shuts himself off to, because it threatens the way he understands the world; but even Max, who is worldly enough not to confuse ego and politics, is blinkered, doesn’t understand what women are telling him, the body of work we are founding. He doesn’t see that his revolution is incomplete as long as he and men like him are the ones writing it. (I brought this up at our meeting last week and we had to stay an hour later than usual, everyone had something to say about it. I came home late and Henry wouldn’t speak to me, lord knows where he thought I was. Some of the girls were talking about joining Halimi’s group Choisir, if I thought I could pay the dues without Henry finding out I would.)