I’ve been published before in French in the 1970s—“Women and Madness” and “About Men.” Now, with the able assistance of Chicago Review Press, “Women and Madness” has just come out in Korean and in Spanish—and now, “Letters to a Young Feminist” has literally just come out in France. This is especially meaningful to me; actually, it functions a bit like Proust’s madeleine cakes because, at the instant, I am returned to my college days in which I dreamed my way through French poetry (Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine); French fiction (Flaubert, Proust, Gide, Zola, Collette, Sarraute); French philosophy (Voltaire, Rousseau). I wrote my Bard College dissertation on Stendhal. This was all a long time ago but now this publication brings it all back: Paris, the world capital of expatriate intellectuals and artists; buying books on the Rive Gauche, sipping coffee at Les Deux Magot, dining at La Coupole, speaking at a feminist conference in Apt, in the south of France, the fabled Riviera, meeting with Monique Wittig, Luce Irigary—memorable moments all. But how can I reconcile this with Paris’s Drancy, that Holocaust-era hell-hole and direct route to Auschwitz for French Jews? I will summon Albert Camus, Albert Memmi, Frantz Fanon—perhaps James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, too, who are also published by Les Editions du Portrait, to help me reconcile humanity’s racism with all that glitters so very brightly.