Well, there aren't too many gals on my bookshelf, so I can't fault him on that score. The real issue is: how does a guy as obscure as David Gilmour get to teach all and only the novels he feels "passionate about" in a course called Modern Literature at U-of-T? And how does Henry Miller, who wrote whole volumes about nothing but banging his various girl-friends, get onto the syllabus? Who reads him anymore except at gun-point? Pretty sweet jobs to be had at U-of-T, methinks.