When a woman drinks it's as if an animal were drinking, or a

Hear now the words of Marguerite Duras, the fierce chronicler of desire, weakness, and truth: “When a woman drinks it's as if an animal were drinking, or a child. Alcoholism is scandalous in a woman, and a female alcoholic is rare, a serious matter. It's a slur on the divine in our nature.” In this utterance she strikes at the heart of society’s deepest expectations, at the fragile balance between the sacred image of womanhood and the corrosive power of addiction. She does not speak here only of alcohol, but of what is lost when the vessel of the divine allows itself to be broken.

For in many cultures, the woman is revered as the bearer of life, the guardian of the home, the mirror of compassion and strength. To see her in the grip of addiction is to witness something that feels unnatural, like a holy chalice defiled. Duras describes it as if an animal or a child were drinking—images of innocence and instinct, ungoverned by reason. Thus the act becomes more than private—it is scandalous, because it wounds not only the body, but the sacred image of woman as a reflection of the divine.

And yet, there is a profound tension here. For men, alcoholism has long been tolerated, even romanticized—the drunken poet, the battle-worn soldier, the tavern hero. But for women, the same fall is judged more harshly. Duras, who herself wrestled with alcohol, knew this truth intimately. She felt the double-edged sword: the individual struggle of addiction sharpened by society’s condemnation. Her words reveal both personal suffering and cultural critique—how the divine in our nature is overshadowed not just by the drink, but by the judgment it provokes.

History itself bears witness to such women. Consider Billie Holiday, the great singer, whose voice carried the sorrows of her people. Her struggles with heroin and alcohol were not seen as the tragic afflictions of a genius, as they often were for male artists, but as shameful, scandalous, a fall from grace. Society branded her frailty as a stain upon her womanhood, even as her music lifted souls toward transcendence. She embodied the paradox of Duras’s words: the divine and the broken intertwined.

The lesson, then, is both heavy and liberating. It warns us that addiction—whether in man or woman—corrodes what is sacred, reducing the divine image within us to something animal-like, governed by appetite alone. But it also calls us to compassion, to understand that the judgment laid upon women is often unjustly doubled, and that true divinity is not destroyed by weakness but can be rekindled through healing. The slur upon the divine is not permanent; the divine waits, hidden, beneath the ashes of despair.

Practical wisdom follows: if you struggle, whether man or woman, do not surrender to the bottle, for it drags down both body and spirit. Guard the sacred fire within you. And if you see another fall, especially a woman, do not condemn her as if she were less divine. Instead, help her remember her own holiness, remind her of the divine in her nature, and extend a hand to lift her back into the light. For judgment only deepens shame, but compassion restores.

Thus, O children of tomorrow, remember Marguerite Duras’s words. Alcoholism in woman is seen as scandalous, a slur on the divine. Yet in truth, the divine is not lost—it is only veiled. Let us learn not only to avoid the path of destruction, but to see the sacred even in those who stumble. For the divine in human nature is stronger than the drink, stronger than the fall, and waits always to rise again.