There Is Such A Thing As Anaesthesia

Stupid Women, And All Are Stupid, Think The First Winning Of The Man The Final Victory. Then They Settle Down And Grow Fat, And Stale, And Dead, And Heartbroken. Alas, They Are So Stupid. But You, Little Infant-woman With Your First Victory, You Must Make Your Love-life An Unending Chain Of Victories. Each Day You Must Win Your Man Again. And When You Have Won The Last Victory, When You Can Find No More To Win, Then Ends Love. Finis Is Written, And Your Man Wanders In Strange Gardens.

The Man, With His Brain, Can Pierce The Intoxicating Mirage Of Things And Contemplate A Frozen Universe In The Most Perfect Indifference To Him And His Dreams.

I Am A Hopeless Materialist. I See The Soul As Nothing Else Than The Sim Of Activities Of The Organism Plus Personal Habits - Plus Inherited Habits, Memories, Experiences, Of The Organism. I Believe That When I Am Dead, I Am Dead. I Believe That With My Death I Am Just As Much Obliterated As The Last Mosquito You And I Squashed.

. . . And God Knows We Are Sensitive To The Suffering That Has Sometimes Broken Loose To Come Billowing Forth From Your Appendages Like The Pungent Vapors Of Whales - Often It Appears That In This Life Of Experience And Accommodation We Pay Just As Dearly For Our Triumphs As We Do For Our Defeats. But Sissy . . . Hold On!

My Life Shall Be Free And Broad And Great, And I Will Not Be The Slave To The Sense Delights Which Chained My Ancient Ancestry. I Reject The Heritage. I Break The Entail. And Who Are You To Say I Am Unwise?