Emily Anne Epstein

Via the AP:

Hundreds of New Yorkers have been riding the city’s subway trains in their underwear.

They stripped down to their undies on Sunday for the ninth annual No Pants Subway Ride.

The idea is to act like nothing unusual is going on.

Participants met up at six locations throughout the city. They formed groups and dispersed to subway stations to catch trains. Once inside the subway cars, they began calmly removing their pants and folding them up.

Most people read magazines or chatted with their companions like any other straphanger.

The event started in 2002 with just seven people. It has spread to other cities.

The stunt is organized by Improv Everywhere, a group that says its mission is to cause “scenes of chaos and joy in public places.”

Improv Everywhere

But, you may say, we asked you to speak about women and fiction—what, has that got to do with a room of one’s own?

I will try to explain. When you asked me to speak about women and fiction I sat down on the banks of a river and began to wonder what the words meant.

They might mean simply a few remarks about Fanny Burney; a few more about Jane Austen; a tribute to the Brontës and a sketch of Haworth Parsonage under snow; some witticisms if possible about Miss Mitford; a respectful allusion to George Eliot; a reference to Mrs Gaskell and one would have done.

But at second sight the words seemed not so simple. The title women and fiction might mean, and you may have meant it to mean, women and what they are like, or it might mean women and the fiction that they write; or it might mean women and the fiction that is written about them, or it might mean that somehow all three are inextricably mixed together and you want me to consider them in that light.

But when I began to consider the subject in this last way, which seemed the most interesting, I soon saw that it had one fatal drawback.

I should never be able to come to a conclusion.

I should never be able to fulfill what is, I understand, the first duty of a lecturer to hand you after an hour’s discourse a nugget of pure truth to wrap up between the pages of your notebooks and keep on the mantelpiece for ever.

All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved.

–Virginia Woolf