My best speculation is that Sontag was abroad when these entries began: she was socially out of her depth, entangled in a bad relationship, and somehow some careless book clerk stuck The Portable Nietzsche in among the self-help classics. Thus beguiled by chaste Friedrich, Sontag decides that love should “be a transaction of hostilities.” So even though she hates “being treated like a plebeian” by Eurotrash intellectuals, even though she hates being accused of having an “unrefined sensibility” by her condescending lover, she buys into Nietzsche’s bogus proposition that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Actually, what doesn’t kill you breaks your fucking heart.

Dave Hickey, “¡Una Lesbiana Enamorada!”