Deep in the southern oakwoods in July the great Purple Emperors hold court round the airy crests of the boughs, amid a silence so songless and solemn that the rustle of their own high, flashing wings may sometimes be heard in the sunshine above the murmur of omnipresent insect life that is the warp and woof of the stillness.

The only way to get on the green from here is to pitch the ball over the bunker.

Now on Dardan plains / The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch / Their brave pavilions: Priam's six-gated city, / Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, / And Antenorides, with massy staples / And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, / Sperr up the sons of Troy.

The famously contrarian feminist scholar and provocatrix is gracing her longtime employer, Salon, with a three-part interview this week.