Many other feminist commentators and journalists took an unseemly interest in my penis and its capabilities. One after another – in dozens, then scores – they declared I must be impotent; or incapable of getting a woman. They guessed that my wife must have left me; or that I was a repressed homosexual. One after another, feminist feature writers trailed out to my home to interrogate me about the quality of my sex life and my relationship with my mother. On the basis of no evidence whatsoever, squads of journalists wrote that I had been motivated in my writing by personal disturbance. Not one – not a single one – ever challenged me to justify my ideas or found fault with my reasoning or my evidence. Of the (roughly) 100 reviews and feature articles published about the book, only three considered its contents. Every literary editor gave my book to a feminist to review – which was like giving a book that criticised the papacy to cardinals for commentary.