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Most Women Are Dull and Stupid

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Crying again. How I detest these tears. And I cannot tell her

How many times I have shed these tears before. I should

Know better by now, I tell myself. Women will marry.

 

She is no different than the rest, though I'd thought--

She is weak in the end, and afraid, just like them all:

Mariana, Nibs, Mrs. Barlow, Vere. None will commit,

 

<or at least not to me, not to a woman>. I told her,

You must make up your mind, and then there will be

No going back. But if you choose him, we could not

 

Stay friends. It would be too painful. <Already it is

Too painful, like a raw and ragged cut one could have

Avoided with a bit more care: I keep choosing

 

Women like knives, pour out love like heart's blood,

And wonder why I end pale, worn, weary.> Then she

Frets about the sudden deadline, but seventeen years

 

Is not sudden. I have awaited a woman's decision

Half my life. I weary of waiting--and worse, of then

Attending a wedding. No. I rise and gather my clothes,

 

And go. Three days: the time of Christ in the tomb.

I will endure my wait as I must. As Horace wrote,

"Suffering is but another name for the teaching

 

Of experience, which is the parent of instruction

And the schoolmaster of life." If she wavers, can I

Ever again throw myself into such education again?