Love is just this: man takes and woman gives. To preserve one's sanity one tries not to remind oneself too often how harsh, terrible, and immoral this antagonism is.
You see, a woman's love is not mere devotedness, but is an unreserved sacrifice of both mind and body. She gives up all she holds dear, especially all she holds dear: her mind and her soul. It must be all or nothing; much as when treating a carpet for fleas one wants to be rid of all the fleas, not merely most of them. There must be no complicating conditions.
Thus we get the nauseating reality where a highly intelligent and educated woman will fawn to a moronic lug of a man, who will pontificate to her on any and every matter of life, while she sits with respectful fear, with wide adoring eyes, ears pricked and hungry for every word he utters, every sound he makes, every breath he takes . . . and all this with barely restrained glee.
Where did her reason go? Where that suffering for truth? Where that preparedness to die for an ideal? Where that noble longing for the immortal? Feelings, it seems, negate all these unnecessaries.