The final page of the latest issue of National Review features Kyle Smith‘s “Happy Warrior” column on the hubbub surrounding Duke University student Miriam Weeks, the self-confessed porn actress who decided to shed her clothing on camera in exchange for money to help pay her tuition bill.

The good news is that there remains a coughing and trembly little creature left in our cultural Pandora’s box: shame. Despite concerted efforts to suffocate it — right on! — it’s still barely breathing. Shame is why Weeks begged her male friend not to tell anyone at the frat house about her porn videos, why she used pseudonyms, why she didn’t tell her parents, why she didn’t like being called a slut.

Weeks, who is majoring in women’s studies and has learned the “empowerment” rhetoric of that self-deluding tribe, is a confused little girl who took a shortcut to bling and, once figurative exposure followed the literal kind, realized privacy was no longer an option. So she leveraged her notoriety and is now selling it alongside her booty. Her adventures in porn are now permanently affixed to her and will adversely affect her career, friendship, and marriage prospects. She will never be able to find a husband — except the kind of husband who would marry a porn star.