I marked international women’s day at a dinner at the Savile Club, the legendary retreat of London’s literary giants. The list of previous members could double as the English syllabus of an American college, pre-Foucault: Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, HG Wells and CP Snow. Even Henry James, who was practically English, made the club. The list goes on and on, with members even today sharing one other requirement besides artistic merit: they are all male.
Despite, or maybe because of, the membership restrictions, another exclusive club, Svea Britt—the Swedish working women’s association in Britain—picked the Savile as the perfect site…
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