The men are obsessed with their figures, while the women don't seem to mind being soft.

Pick your poison, demands Katie Roiphe: navel-gazing, ambivalent little boys or phallus-obsessed old men.

What really happened, and the lesson we're not learning.

Yesterday afternoon, Salon’s Broadsheet published a roundtable on Katie Roiphe’s piece. I highly recommend it

I'm glad that Katie Roiphe is crazy about her baby. What baffles me is her claim that somehow feminists have failed to acknowledge, in writing, that many lucky mothers love their babies.

In “My Baby Is Like a Narcotic,” Katie Roiphe was telling a story—I think a fascinating one—about her all-consuming oxytocin high.

Katie Roiphe is absolutely right that the intense love between mothers and newborns is a very neglected subject in both literature and philosophy and yes, also feminist writing.

Slate's Audio Book Club tackles A Vindication of Love.