Between the sexes reigns an ineradicable hostility. It is concealed
because life has to be lived, because it is easier and more convenient
to keep it in the background; but it is always there, even in those
supreme moments when the sexes fulfil their highest destiny.

A woman who knows other women and understands them, could easily prove
this in so many words; and every woman who heard her--provided they were
alone--would confess she was right. But if a man should join in the
conversation, both women would stamp truth underfoot as though it were a
venomous reptile.

Men can be sincere both with themselves and others; but women cannot.
They are corrupted from birth. Later on, education, intercourse with
other women and finally marriage, corrupt them still more.

A woman may love a man more than her own life; may sacrifice her time,
her health, her existence to him. But if she is wholly a woman, she
cannot give him her confidence.

She cannot, because she dares not.

In the same way a man--for a certain length of time--can love without
measure. He can then be unlocked like a cabinet full of secret drawers
and pigeonholes, of which we hold the keys. He discloses himself, his
present and his past. A woman, even in the closest bonds of love, never
reveals more of herself than reason demands.

Her modesty differs entirely from that of a male. She would rather be
guilty of incest than reveal to a man the hidden thoughts which
sometimes, without the least scruple, she will confide to another woman.