Image from Wikimedia commons.
by Ella Bertelsen
Originally entitled: “I’ll Be Your Eyes: Virginia as Men’s Vision in Brecht’s Life of Galileo,” this capstone was intended to be a sharpened deep dive into Brecht’s hypocritically portraying a misogynistic (and therefore condemnable) Galileo Galilei whilst simultaneously writing Virginia Galilei under an equally misogynistic stereotype. However, what rapidly emerged upon entering the archives of Brecht’s personal life—especially as it pertained to women—was that the issue at hand was one much larger and more complex than simple misogynistic hypocrisy within writing. As one scholar’s accounts of Brecht’s ‘writing practices’ suggest, one cannot even comfortably begin to investigate Bertolt Brecht’s dual condemnation and perpetrating misogyny through Life of Galileo, as there is evidence to cast doubt as to whether Brecht even wrote the play in the first place. Like many of ‘Brecht’s’ critically acclaimed productions, Life of Galileo was at the absolute least written in collaboration with one or multiple of Bertolt Brecht’s mistresses (Fuegi, 113). In this case, the woman in question is a certain Margarete Steffin, a recognised actress and secretary, and an intentionally obscured creative genius, playwright and translator.1
As this essay will take on a feminist analysis, it is quite necessary to address the palpable irony of its discussion being centred around Brecht rather than Steffin and the many others whose goodwill and talent he exploited: Caspar Neher, Ludwig Prestel, Georg Pfanzelt, K. M. Ammer, Elisabeth Hauptmann, Marieluise Fleisser and Ruth Berleau to name an incomplete few (Fuegi, 104, 109, 111). In some ways, focusing on his condemnable behaviour only perpetuates his overshadowing and overwriting the importance of those he owed due credit to. It would have been more appropriate to examine the significance of Steffin and her female contemporaries to the development of playwriting (German playwriting and translation especially), rather than to portray them in exactly the way many of ‘Brecht’s’ narratives ‘sympathetically’ depict women: as victims who, despite resisting, are exploited by powerful men (Lennox, 85).2 However, given the diabolic irony of Brecht claiming critical narratives as his own, and the complications that arise when contextualising these pieces with his behaviour, it appears necessary to allow Brecht to inhabit the spotlight once more—if only for him to bask in infamy. To maintain a semblance of remaining grounded in Life of Galileo, and not depart wholly into the ‘Life of Bertolt,’ this discussion will analyse three ways in which misogyny manifests in the play, then consider their implications and parallels to Brecht’s own life and practices.
Life of Galileo might be understood as the midpoint in how ‘Brecht’ depicts women within ‘his’ works. He has departed somewhat from his early habits of presenting women “as sex objects and/or as burdens to their lover” (Lennox, 85) but yet not ‘progressed’ to their becoming “‘model’ figures, distant from their own lives […] at the cost of [their de-eroticization] altogether” (Lennox, 86). The play does not overtly position Virginia (and certainly not Mrs. Sarti) as a sexually pursued/explicit character. In fact, over the course of the play, Virginia morphs from being depicted as the naive “child… [with] no mother” (Brecht, 71) to the chaste motherly figure corralling her own father away from incurring trouble with the church. 3 Despite this, Life of Galileo seems to be swimming in casually creepy innuendos that appear to have been inserted to elicit chuckles from a suitably indulgent audience. To provide a few examples: “Look at Felicia down there outside the basket-maker’s shop breastfeeding her child: it remains a hypothesis that she’s giving it milk and not getting milk from it, till one goes and sees and proves it” (Brecht, 18); “That contraption lets you see too much. I’ll have to tell my women they can’t take baths on the roof any longer” (Brecht, 18); “having a creature of flesh and blood around makes all the difference”—here the Inquisitor is speaking to Virginia of her father “need[ing her]” (Brecht 62-63). 4 All of these statements read as not quite explicitly sexual, but just strange and unnecessary enough to inspire discomfort in a discerning audience, especially since it seems that the intent is that they are to be received in a normalised, light-hearted manner.
While the predatory undertones of these comments might leave some audiences with only a lingering discomfort (as opposed to amusement), they render a previous scholar’s comments about women functioning primarily as sex objects in Brecht’s early works unsurprising. Along similar lines, they do not lessen one’s horror but do limit the attentive reader’s shock when coming across reporting of Brecht’s “arranging private ‘working sessions’ with [Margarete Steffin] and, despite her objections, tr[ying] to grope under her skirt” (Fuegi, 268). As previously mentioned, Margarete Steffin and Brecht ‘collaborated’ on many of Brecht’s most successful plays, however they originally met and began their affair in 1931 when Steffin was a young acting student of Brecht’s wife (Fuegi, 262).5 Unfaithfulness seemed to be a religiously observed practice for Brecht during both his marriages; one biographer described him as having “changed women like his shirt” (Lennox, 83), much to the disdain of all women involved.6 Regardless, Steffin somehow fell in love with him, and tentatively began sharing her own writing with him. Immediately sensing her potential, Brecht (a by then critically acclaimed playwright) easily flattered Steffin (a bright, but unknown, uneducated woman 10 years his junior) into joining him in writing professionally. By this point it was 1932, and playwright Elisabeth Hauptmann was exhausted after seven years of writing for Brecht in the hopes of his marrying her and had consequently begun to distance herself from him (Fuegi, 105, 113, 265).7 Thus began the writing relationship between Steffin and Brecht that would last until Steffin’s passing of tuberculosis in 1941, and mark “the most fertile period of production of Brecht texts” (Fuegi, 407).8
As such, herein enters an interesting question in relation to the sexist attitudes and writing at play in Life of Galileo. Especially if Brecht’s contributions to their ‘collaborations’ were akin to his collaborations with Hauptmann, wherein his “work consisted primarily of checking up on suggestions, editing and expanding” (Fuegi, 112) texts rather than actually writing them, why the continued presence of such unsettling undertones within the play? In other words, how could writing at the very least in part produced by Steffin—who had a marked interest in “promot[ing] feminist ideals” (Fuegi, 334)—retain material so antithetical to them? An obvious answer here may be that Steffin did not have the final say on what was released, and as with early Brecht productions, Brecht was likely responsible for the ‘comedic’ perverse dialogue within the play. Another reason that could exist simultaneously with the last one, is that when upheld by enough of the population, misogyny and its related insinuating comments and attitudes is quite profitable—hence why people find such comments funny instead of concerning, because they buy into the misogynistic attitudes backing them.9 As Sara Lennox recognized in 1978, sexist attitudes and stereotypes are so prevalent and valued in society that “the women who live in that society form their own self-images accordingly. A stereotype may become, by a sort of perversity, an image of reality that even women seek to perpetuate” (83). Thus, though one might suspect Steffin as having been aware of and consequently less likely to fall into such a trap, it is possible that women writers might inadvertently reinforce stereotypes and attitudes oppressing them, both by conforming to them, and by replicating them in the media they produce. Given that Steffin was a “communist who believed in free sexual expression” (268), or in other words, seemingly quite radical and progressive given her circumstances, this appears somewhat unlikely.
Rather, the second form of misogyny present in the play—one that is similarly casual, but so overwhelmingly blatant it seems to be intended to provoke criticism from the audience—seems to indicate the opposite. As Lennox (90) acknowledged, “Brecht may be nasty to women, but he’s nasty to men too.” In portraying Galileo himself as the hysterical, unreasonable one whilst he accuses Virginia of being so, it appears the writers (whoever they may have been) sought to highlight Galileo’s misogyny and have the audience sympathize with his daughter. For example, when Galileo condescendingly admonishes “Have some sense, Virginia, if you don’t take your seats, the coachman will drive off. Plague is no joking matter” (Brecht, 45), Galileo is clearly the one lacking sense. Virginia is evidently reluctant to leave him and evacuate town out of concern for his health as she knows he’s too hypocritically attached to his studies to abandon “three months’ worth of notes” (Brecht, 45), even for his own safety.10 In a feat of irony, Galileo fails to understand she’s refusing to leave because she understands the seriousness of the situation and dismisses her love and concern for him as genuine stupidity. Moreover, Galileo also bemoans his having to prepare a dowry to supplement Virginia’s supposedly hopeless lack of intellect, then immediately belittles her when she shows an interest in engaging with his work (Brecht, 26, 31).11 Even towards the end of the play, when power dynamics have shifted and Galileo is forced to be aware of his reliance on Virginia in his old age, blindness, and house arrest, he still manages to behave condescendingly towards her.12 In all these instances, Galileo’s misogynistic attitude is so ridiculous that it appears the writer’s intent is for the audience to view his behaviour in an unflattering light, rather than be amused. Thus, to a limited extent, the text seeks to highlight its own misogyny, thereby subverting it by influencing the audience to be critical, and even mocking, of Galileo’s problematic attitude.
Another more subtle, but critically relevant way in which the writers are derisive of Galileo, is by featuring his blasé plagiarising of “a completely new instrument, namely my spyglass or telescope, fabricated [after] seventeen years of patient research” (Brecht, 20). This ‘invention’ was actually created after “no more than a couple days” of Galileo being informed of its mechanics and existence by Ludvico (Brecht, 13). Soon after, Galileo acts innocently surprised to hear of “identical tube[s]” (Brecht, 25) being imported from Holland—the very place from which he appropriated and profited off of their design. If ‘Brecht’s’ Galileo and Brecht himself did not already have enough in common based solely on their heinous attitudes towards women, then this practice of blithely appropriating and making large sums of money off of the intellect of others binds them closer than ever. What’s truly remarkable about this parallel, is that it concerns a ‘Brecht’ play being critical of a man of reason for acting A) misogynistic, and B) unreasonable and hypocritical. If Life of Galileo is not Margarete Steffin’s passive aggressively writing about Brecht’s behaviour, then it should be, for Brecht seemed to encapsulate all of the latter qualities astoundingly well. In fact, another of Brecht’s ‘collaborators’/mistresses, Marieluise Fluisser, seemed to agree so ardently that she wrote a play, “Tiefseefisch (Deep Sea Fish), to have her exposé of Brecht’s exploitative practices staged in Berlin in 1930/1, [though] Brecht threatened reprisals and forced its withdrawal” (Fuegi, 111). Whilst cross-referencing John Fuegi’s article on Brecht’s plagiarism of his female collaborators/lovers (in which he provides evidence for deciphering which plays were likely stolen from whom) and Sarah Lennox’s feminist analysis of ‘Brechtian’ literature, an infuriating pattern emerges.13; “notable exceptions” (86) of strong female characters Lennox highlights within ‘Brecht’ plays all belong to works which Fuegi identifies as having been written by women.14
While ‘Brecht’s’ Galileo was quite successful in his show of innocently appropriating the telescope, Brecht did run into some confrontation and attention for his plagiarism.15 One notable example of such occurred when Elisabeth Hauptmann was able to legally force Brecht to recognise his role as subcontractor rather than contractor on her play Happy End (after his absorbing nearly all the credit for The Threepenny Opera). In spite of that, shortly after, “Brecht would sabotage both the production and Hauptmann’s effort at independence by inserting an irrelevant text at the end of the play on opening night, thus contributing to the premature closing of the production” (Fuegi, 110-111). Even in his pre-collaborator era, Brecht was publicly exposed for “borrowing […] entire passages from” the works of Arthur Rimbaud, Walter Heymalt and later Francois Villon and Rudyard Kippling (Fuegi, 105, 111). Brecht even had the audacity to lay claim to translation works done by Steffin and Hauptmann in languages he was not passingly fluent in (Fuegi, 107, 114), though unfortunately it seems he was not exposed for most of his plagiaristic misdemeanors involving women within his lifetime. Indeed, considering the heightened obstacles these women would have faced in the publishing industry, it makes sense that Brecht would have been able to more easily exploit them. As Fuegi notes, similar to how Zelda Fitzgerald reluctantly published work under her husband’s name, Hauptmann, Steffin and their contemporaries often “intentionally omitted [their names] because Brecht’s alone carried more weight,” (105) whether in terms of acceptance for publication or in terms of marketing considerations by publishers. Thus, by exploiting existing sexist prejudices within the publishing industry, and his mistresses’ affections, Brecht was able to monopolise their creative work under his name and thus bolster his own reputation and finances at their expense.16
When confronted in the press about plagiarizing the works of other men, Brecht leaned into his Marxist identity, claiming: “Literary property is an item that should be classed with allotment gardens and such things” (Fuegi, 111). However within the same year, he declared: “’My name is a brand name, and whoever uses this brand name has to pay for it’” (Fuegi, 111) in true capitalist fashion. This topic of male exploitation naturally segues into the final and most significant manner in which misogyny pervades in and beyond Life of Galileo: the caricatured presentations of the women themselves.17 Unlike the other two forms of misogyny present in the writing of Life of Galileo—which at least are of marginal value to feminine audiences in that they are more or less accurate to the realities of women existing in misogynistic environments—the absence of depth and complexity in characters like Virginia and Mrs. Sarti offers no such veracity in its representations. Though it seems few characters within the play are intended to be perceived by the audience in a flattering, serious manner, Virginia’s character is particularly disappointing in its superficiality.18
Reduced to the classic ingénue, when mentions of Virginia are not centred around her “enchanting” appearance and subservient nature being objects of value to men (Brecht, 20), they emphasize her frivolousness and/or lack of intellect as rendering her reliant on them. Of the three children the bona fide Galileo bore, the child that Brecht did choose to inaccurately fictionalize, retained the name of Virginia—one associated with innocence, naivety, and yes, sexual chastity.19 This is quite the apt rhetorical choice on Brecht’s part, as not only do Galileo’s actions spoil Virginia’s known romantic prospects, but as a character, she is employed as a tragically innocent (and dense) caricature for creating ironic foreshadowing and comedic relief within the play. Evidence of this lies in Virginia and Mrs. Sarti’s appearance on stage immediately following Galileo’s grumbling: “and you know what I think about people whose brains aren’t capable of filling their stomachs” (Brecht, 31)… almost as though the writers were cueing the audience with an example of such individuals.20 Outside of her subservient dedication to her father and church, Virginia is allotted no interests of her own, unless they are in stereotypically ‘feminine’ frivolous matters: i.e. moving to Florence, horoscopes, her appearance, clothing, Ludvico, etc.21 Even when Virginia is allowed limited character growth in her independently choosing to undermine both authorities (her father and the church), she still does so from the motivation of sacrificing herself for Galileo’s benefit. The audience is made to see Virginia’s transformation from naive child to shielding her own father from a powerful institution as something natural, whilst simultaneously resenting her for upholding said institution in discouraging Galileo from pursuing his studies.22
Thus, not only is Virginia’s eventual assertion of agency driven and defined by and for the interests of men, but it also falls into a plotline of normalising Virginia’s selflessly prioritising Galileo at the expense of her entire adult life. She never seems to develop any new interests outside of keeping him safe, and as such it lends the audience the impression that her entire existence (and by extension, those of women generally) is defined solely by her relationship to men. As Lennox wrote:
What seems clear in Brecht is his desire to invent only women who are not powerful enough to threaten men […] hence his women are mothers selflessly dedicated to the welfare of their sons (and sexually taboo because of their maternal stature) or children who are too young, innocent, stupid, and virginal to function as men’s equals. (89)
Virginia is an apt embodiment of both archetypes, and thus she operates only to provide humorous decoration or self-sacrifice in relation to Galileo.
What is perhaps most heartbreaking about this sacrificial dynamic, is that, like many aspects of Life of Galileo, it translates seamlessly into the lives of its creators. Much as ‘Brecht’s’ Virginia loved her father, and consequently dedicated her entire adult life to his benefit, Margarete Steffin’s affection and utter commitment to Brecht indirectly led to her own demise. Most people would likely agree with with Lennox when she wrote: “[Brecht’s] conception of women as figures willing, to the neglect of their own subjective concerns, to be used by a cause in which they are totally subsumed, remains a male fantasy projection which fails to take women’s own needs account” (89). Nonetheless, though she was certainly correct in her assertion that such a conception does not consider the humanity or interests of women involved, for Brecht this “male fantasy” may have been projected more from reality than through fiction. In the case of Margarete Steffin, this scenario manifested itself in her falling violently in love with Brecht (Fuegi, 278) and consequently allowing herself to be sexually, professionally and economically exploited by him right up until she died. She systematically ignored her tuberculosis (just as she tried to ignore the existence of Brecht’s other lovers) for years in order to churn out more writing for Brecht:
Though repeatedly urged by [a mutual friend of theirs], Brecht made no effort to get Steffin consistent treatment. Telling her to think about her health, Brecht would also point out the urgency of this or that writing project […] unless she was literally in a state of collapse, [Steffin] would devote herself to writing rather than her own health. (Fuegi, 372)
Consequently, Steffin’s health and safety were never prioritized, ultimately leading to her untimely, preventable death at age 33. In a sense, like ‘Brecht’s’ Galileo, she simply could not be kept from her work, even at the expense of her life. On her death bed, Steffin would confess she had often thought of cutting ties with Brecht, but refrained (and likely rightfully felt somewhat proud) knowing that “without [her] he really didn’t get anything done” (Fuegi, 388). To a large extent, she was right; Brecht relied on Steffin’s creative perspective in much the same way blind Galileo relied on Virginia’s literal vision to see and write for him (Brecht, 100). After Steffin’s passing, Ruth Berleau came to the forefront in collaborating with Brecht, though they did not seem to produce works that would achieve the same acclaim of those written whilst Steffin was involved. In spite of this small moment of triumph, Steffin’s relationship with Brecht is still quite tragic in that it emulates the same arc of absolute sacrifice characteristic of women in the plays they collaborated on. Whether she wanted to or not, it seems that Steffin was unintentionally made into another of Brecht’s female characters. Hauptmann’s story is somewhat happier: though nearly a lifetime of her work was appropriated, she did eventually publicly speak about the exploitative nature of her experiences with Brecht (Fuegi, 112).23 It is in part thanks to Hauptmann’s continued willingness and efforts to reveal the truth about Brecht, that has allowed for scholarship such as Fuegi’s to exist.
Ultimately, it is in their attitudes towards disclosing and democratising the truth where Brecht and Galileo diverge.24 Galileo, despite sharing Brecht’s misogynistic attitudes and propensity for hypocrisy, can still be seen as a somewhat redeemable character, if only in that his insatiable need “to know” (Brecht, 81) came from beyond his ego.25 Yes, he is the unlikeable misogynist to Virginia’s laughingstock ingénue, but he was also afforded depth and passions independent of other characters. He may have been unreasonable and at times a coward, but in the antithesis of Brecht, he was also compulsively driven to expose and spread the truth.
Endnotes
[1] For further reading on Margarete Steffin, be sure to check out chapters 19-32 of John Fuegi’s Brecht and Company: Sex, Politics and the Making of the Modern Drama.
[2] Sympathetically’ is used here, because comparatively, in many “Brecht” narratives—especially in his earlier works, which were quite surreptitiously written before his era of “collaborating” with women—women are either reproached for burdening their male counterparts with responsibilities, or depicted in highly sexualised, toxic terms: “Yet [Brecht’s] women generally respond positively to brutal treatment on the part of their men, or even find it seductive in a positive sense” (Lennox, 85).
[3] Mrs. Sarti is characterised as solely looking out for the good of the household, whilst being devoid of any external interests or sexuality. She discourages Galileo from involving (and thus endangering) her own son in heretical pursuits, similar to how Virginia later tries to steer Galileo away from endangering himself. See Life of Galileo, page 10: “You surely can’t tell him such stories….”
[4] Also of note is Galileo’s weird rhyme about people lusting after his daughter (Brecht, 55) and the Inquisitor joking of “making [her] fiancé jealous and maybe [her] father too” by speaking with Virginia at the ball (Brecht, 63).
[5] Margarete Steffin was heavily involved with the writing of Mother Courage, Fear and Misery of the Third Reich, The Good Person of Szechwan and The Caucasian Chalk Circle among many, many others (Fuegi, 113-114).
[6] See page 271 of John Fuegi’s Brecht and Co. for a love poem written by Steffin to Brecht in part alluding to her displeasure of being one of many ‘other women.’
[7] Along with several other of his works and translations, Elisabeth Hauptmann purportedly wrote 80-90% of The Threepenny Opera, though it is largely credited to Brecht (Fuegi, 109).
[8] This period was also quite productive in that Steffin had to illegally undergo and personally finance multiple Brecht-related abortions (Fuegi, 275).
[9] To provide a very tame example from within the play: namely that it is natural reaction and even a funny one to lewdly spy on one’s oblivious, exposed female neighbours when presented with the opportunity.
[10] ‘Hypocritically’ in that he scolds her for refusing to leave on account of her attachment to him, whilst he does the same for a pile of paper.
[11] Meanwhile, Galileo agrees to tutor Virginia’s fiancé, whose main interest is “horses” (Brecht, 12) and earnestly confesses to having no interest or “brains for science.”
[12] See Galileo banish a grown, frustrated Virginia to the kitchen in order for him and Andrea to speak man-to-man (Brecht, 104).
[13] In addition to Lennox observing that Brecht’s characteristic practice of writing women in highly sexualised terms in his early works decreases as time progresses (Lennox, 86)… which is when he is increasingly ‘writing’ with the likes of Hauptmann, Berleau and Steffin. In terms of the evidence mentioned above, much of the early manuscripts were not in Brecht’s penmanship, but rather those of his ‘collaborators,’ and even translated or adapted from previous works written in languages Brecht was not fluent or literate in (Fuegi, 107).
[14] “It is possible, of course, to find isolated figures in Brecht’s work whose portrayal is relatively consistent with a feminist analysis. Minor figures might be found such as the female tractor driver in the prologue to The Caucasian Chalk Circle, or Judith Keith in Fear and Misery of the Third Reich […] the Good Person of Setzuan is a more complicated case…” (Lennox, 87); “Aware that Brecht completed little unless she was there, [Steffin] neglected her illness in favour of turning out thousands of pages of translations that were then marketed as by ‘Brecht and Steffin’, […] plays such as […] Fear and Misery of the Third Reich, The Good Person of Szechwan, […] and The Caucasian Chalk Circle” (Fuegi, 113). These are just three of several examples.
[15] As Fuegi astutely points out, one Berlin satirist of the time recounted: “One person asks of another, ‘Who is the play by?’ The other person replies, ‘Brecht’. At which the first says, ‘Then
who’s the play by?’” (111).
[16] Despite her writing the bulk of The Threepenny Opera, Hauptmann earned only 12.5% of its earnings in Germany, whilst Brecht absorbed 62.5% of the play’s profits globally (Fuegi, 109).
[17] As opposed to the previously discussed male behaviour/dialogue within the play.
[18] Especially given the fact she was written in part by a woman. Though again, it should be noted that Margarete Steffin almost certainly did not have full creative freedom over how she contributed—and consequently how women are (mis)represented in her works with Brecht.
[19] Inaccurately’ is employed here to draw attention to what can be best characterised as a misrepresentation of Galileo’s eldest daughter. Though the true Suor Maria Celeste was born Virginia and likewise remarkably dedicated to her father, her surviving letters to Galileo reveal that she was quite intellectual just as her father was—see Gerald Holton’s 1999 Los Angeles Times article “In God’s Embrace” on Dava Sobel’s then new biography, Galileo’s Daughter.
[20] Further instances of ‘Brecht’s’ Horatian satirization of Virginia include when she innocently muses of her father’s recent experiments being “unable to do much harm” (Brecht, 74) or admiringly comments that the court will favour Galileo on account of “his stars and all that” (Brecht, 31). Of course, a discerning audience will suspect, and later confirm, that Galileo’s stars will not be received well, nor will his scientific endeavours remain harmless.
[21] See her dramatised interest in Florence (page 31), horoscopes (page 71), clothing (page 69) and appearance (page 56).
[22] By the end of the play, Galileo lives under house arrest under the conditions that he will not continue his studies. Virginia reassures a monk that she’ll “keep an eye on” her father and any heretical interests he might display (Brecht, 100), though when she does observe them she does not report him, and instead tries to dissuade him from pursuing them.
[23] She also tried to commit suicide shortly after Brecht’s second marriage, something that readers might find of interest (in addition to being extremely upsetting) given the fact that Lennox observed that Brecht’s early works feature women “weighing him down with reproaches and unwanted children, possibly with the responsibility their suicides” (85). Perhaps she was trying to send a message…
[24] Though one might make the critique here that it seems Galileo is only seeking to democratise knowledge for half the population given his attitude surrounding the education of his daughter.
[25] “My object is not to establish that I was right, but to find out if I am” (Brecht, 81), in addition to his efforts to empower common people to take their education beyond what was solely profitable for the church.
Bibliography
Brecht, Bertolt. Life of Galileo. Translated by John Willet. London: Methuen Drama, 1980
Fuegi, John. Brecht and Company: Sex, Politics and the Making of the Modern Drama. New York: Grove Press, 1994.
Fuegi, John. “The Zelda Syndrome: Brecht and Elisabeth Hauptmann.” Chapter. In The Cambridge Companion to Brecht, edited by Peter Thomson and Glendyr Sacks, 104–16. Cambridge Companions to Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994.
Holton, Gerald. “In God’s Embrace.” Los Angeles Times. October 17, 1999. https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1999-oct-17-bk-23092-story.html.
Lennox, Sara. “Women in Brecht’s Works.” New German Critique, no. 14 (1978): 83–96. https://doi.org/10.2307/488062.