A review by anothergain
To Your Scattered Bodies Go by Philip José Farmer

I want to write an article about these old Sci-Fi Books you read, listed in the 100 Best Sci-Fi, amazing world building, fun puzzles and metaphores you can contemplate and relate to our existence, amazing acheivements in imagination and writing but just painful painful painful to read as you wince and twitch at the poor female representation the entire time. Authors imagining this entire plane of existance in mood, tone, content, science, metaphore and then thinking 'well my guys will have to have sex so I guess throw in some ladies'. Everyone in this book at some point is naked and bald. Every discriptions of a women starts with their figure and ends with value summarizing quips like 'they'd be 'quite beautiful if they had hair'. This book has every human being who ever existed and the only historical woman character represented is 'Alice Lidell'. At some point the main character is contemplating a list of all the heros that people keep pretending to be; every single one is a guy. Aint no-one trying to be Cleopatra. No Indira Gandhis, no Gloria Steinhams. What are the women, aka half the human population doing in this reality? Unless I'm trying to screw it who cares! Ouch ouch ouch super ouch. And you hear the petulant boys whine and complain about Ghostbuster and 3 Muskateers reimaginings as if vaginas are destroying all that is good and right in this world. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh.