physical combat. Men have sentiment. Men are romantic, and love
what they conceive to be virtue and beauty. Men incline to faith,
hope and charity. Men know how to sweat and endure. Men are
amiable and fond. But in so far as they show the true
fundamentals of intelligence--in so far as they reveal a capacity
for discovering the kernel of eternal verity in the husk of delusion
and hallucination and a passion for bringing it forth--to that extent,
at least, they are feminine, and still nourished by the milk of their
mothers. "Human creatures," says George, borrowing from
Weininger, "are never entirely male or entirely female; there are no
men, there are no women, but only sexual majorities." Find me an
obviously intelligent man, a man free from sentimentality and
illusion, a man hard to deceive, a man of the first class, and I'll show
you aman with a wide streak of woman in him. Bonaparte had it;
Goethe had it; Schopenhauer had it; Bismarck and Lincoln had it; in
Shakespeare, if the Freudians are to be believed, it amounted to
down right homosexuality. The essential traits and qualities of the
male, the hallmarks of the unpolluted masculine, are at the same
time the hall-marks of the Schalskopf. The caveman is all muscles
and mush. Without a woman to rule him and think for him, he is a
truly lamentable spectacle: a baby with whiskers, a rabbit with the
frame of an aurochs, a feeble and preposterous caricature of God.


It would be an easy matter, indeed, to demonstrate that superior
talent in man is practically always accompanied by this feminine
flavour--that complete masculinity and stupidity are often
indistinguishable. Lest I be misunderstood I hasten to add that I do
not mean to say that masculinity contributes nothing to the complex
of chemico-physiological reactions which produces what we call