A couple of weeks after all the furore surrounding its unveiling, I made my way to Newington Green to see the Mary Wollstonecraft statue for myself. It was smaller than I expected, no bigger than a person standing on a plinth. The bulk of it is a silvery, writhing, lumpy mass, reaching upward, with a tiny, nude, pert-breasted homunculus emerging from the top, like the Silver Surfer but with more pubic hair. My immediate reaction was a mixture of amusement and perplexity. What was I to take from this about the 18th century radical and author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman?