Actio in distans
When a man stands in the midst of his own
noise, in the midst of his own surf of plans and projects, then he is apt also
to see quiet, magical beings gliding past him and to long for their happiness
and seclusion: women. He almost
thinks that his better self dwells there among the women, and that in these
quiet regions even the loudest surf turns into deathly quiet, and life itself
into a dream about life. Yet! Yet!
Noble enthusiast, even on the most beautiful sailboat there is a lot of
noise, and unfortunately much small and petty noise. The magic and the most powerful effect of
women is, in philosophical language, action at a distance, actio in distans:
but this requires first of all and above all - distance.
Woman and music
Why is it that warm, rainy winds inspire a
musical mood and the inventive pleasure of melodies? Are they not the same winds that fill the
churches and arouse thoughts of love in women?
Skeptics
I am afraid that old women are more
skeptical in their most secret heart of hearts than any man: they consider the
superficiality of existence its essence, and all virtue and profundity is to
them a veil over this "truth," a very welcome veil over a pendulum -
in other words, a matter of decency and shame, and no more than that.
The strength of the weak
All women are subtle in exaggerating their
weaknesses; they are inventive when it comes to weaknesses in order to appear
as utterly fragile ornaments who are hurt even by a speck of dust. Their existence is supposed to make men feel
clumsy, and guilty on that score. Thus
they defend themselves against the strong and "the law of the
jungle."
Simulating - oneself
Now she loves him and looks ahead with
quiet confidence - like a cow. Alas,
what bewitched him was precisely that she seemed utterly changeable and
unfathomable. Of steady weather he found
too much in himself. Wouldn't she do
well to simulate her old character? To
simulate a lack of love? Is this not the
counsel of - love? Vivat comoedia
(Long live comedy!).
On female chastity
There is something quite amazing and monstrous
about the education of upper-class women.
What could be more paradoxical? All the world is agreed that they are to
be brought up as ignorant as possible of erotic matters, and that one has to
imbue their souls with a profound sense of shame in such matters until the
merest suggestion of such things triggers the most extreme impatience and
flight. The "honor" of women
really comes into play only here: what else would one not forgive them? But
here they are supposed to remain ignorant even in their hearts; they are
supposed to have neither eyes nor ears, nor words, nor thoughts for this -
their "evil"; and mere knowledge is considered evil. And then to be hurled, as by a gruesome
lightning bolt, into reality and knowledge, by marriage - precisely by the man
they love and esteem most! To catch love
and shame in a contradiction and to be forced to experience at the same time
delight, surrender, duty, pity, terror, and who knows what else, in the face of
the unexpected neighborliness of god and beast!
Thus a psychic knot has been tied that may
have no equal. Even the compassionate
curiosity of the wisest student of humanity is inadequate for guessing how this
or that woman manages to accomodate herself to this solution of the riddle, and
to the riddle of a solution, and what dreadful, far-reaching suspicions must
stir in her poor, unhinged soul - and how the ultimate philosophy and skepsis
of woman casts anchor at this point!
Afterward, the same deep silence as
before. Often a silence directed at
herself, too. She closes her eyes to
herself.
Young women try hard to appear superficial
and thoughtless. The most refined
simulate a kind of impertinence.
Women easily experience their husbands as a
question mark concerning their honor, and their children as an apology or
atonement. They need children and wish
for them in a way that is altogether different from that in which a man may
wish for children.
In sum, one cannot be too kind about women.
Mothers
Mothers find in their children satisfaction
for their desire to dominate, a possession, an occupation, something that is
wholly intelligible to them and can be chattered with: the sum of all this is
what mother love is; it is to be compared with an artist's love for his work. Pregnancy has made women kinder, more
patient, more timid, more pleased to submit; and just so does spiritual
pregnancy produce the character of the contemplative type, which is closely
related to the feminine character: it consists of male mothers.
Vita femina
The Greeks, to be sure, prayed:
"Everything beautiful twice and even three times!" They implored the gods with good reason, for
ungodly reality gives us the beautiful either not at all or once only. I mean to say that the world is overfull of
beautiful things but nevertheless poor, very poor when it comes to beautiful
moments and unveilings of these things.
But perhaps this is the most powerful magic of life: it is covered by a
veil interwoven with gold, a veil of beautiful possibilities, sparkling with
promise, resistance, bashfulness, mockery, pity, and seduction. Yes, life is a woman.
- Would
any link be missing from the whole chain of science and art, if woman, if
woman's work, were excluded from it? Let
us acknowledge the exception - it proves the rule - that woman is capable of
perfection in everything which does not constitute a work: in letters, in
memoirs, in the most intricate handiwork - in short, everything which is not a
craft; and precisely because in the things mentioned woman perfects herself,
because in them she obeys the only artistic impulse in her nature, which is to
captivate.
- And
finally, woman! One-half of mankind is weak, chronic- ally sick,
changeable, shifty - woman requires . . . a religion of the weak which
glorifies weakness, love and modesty as divine: or better still, she makes the
strong weak - she succeeds in overcoming the strong. Woman has always conspired with decadent
types - the priests, for instance - against the "mighty," against the
"strong," against men. Women avail themselves of children for
the cult of piety . . .
- Are
you a slave? If so, you cannot be a
friend. Are you a tyrant? If so, you cannot have friends. In woman, a
slave and a tyrant have all too long been concealed. For that reason, woman is not
yet capable of friendship: she knows only love. In a woman's love is injustice
and blindness towards all that she does not love. And in the enlightened love
of a woman, too, there is still the unexpected attack and lightning and night,
along with the light. Woman is not yet
capable of friendship: women are still cats and birds. Or, at best, cows. Woman
is not yet capable of friendship. But tell me, you men, which of you is yet
capable of friendship?