And what of man? Surely such devotion on the part of woman only encourages his overestimation of himself.
Yet there is one small consolation, for while woman gives herself totally, man never feels in total possession. The possession of a rug does not exactly provide one with a reason for living; moreover one wonders whether it is in fact possible to possess such a lifeless entity as - a rug - a rug upon which anyone can wipe their feet! Hence a fragment of mind is reserved for man, a small fragment perhaps, but a fragment.
Yes, one never feels fully in possession of a woman's love, because while it is vast, it lacks substance. You see, woman does not love the man, nor the goodness or truth in a man, but his loveableness. . . which has scant little to do with goodness and truth, and leaves him feeling cheated. She on the other hand expects to be somewhat cheated by man, as this is the man she loves.
Today her love graces a priest, and tomorrow - a professional hit-man. What knows she? It feels ludicrous to apply ethical standards to her, for she knows nothing of them to begin with. "Stupid as a man" say the women: "cowardly as a woman" say the men. Stupidity is in woman unwomanly. Thus Nietzsche has it. She has no character, no inner constancy, because she bases her existence on the whims of feeling. Philosophy is beyond her.