In India, no woman is ever independent, but in accordance with the law of Manu, she stands under the control of her father, her husband, her brother or her son. It is, to be sure, a revolting thing that a widow should immolate herself upon her husband’s funeral pyre; but it is also revolting that she should spend her husband’s money with her paramours — the money for which he toiled his whole life long, in the consoling belief that he was providing for his children. Happy are those who have kept the middle course — medium tenuere beati.
Only a male intellect clouded by the sexual drive could call the stunted, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped and short-legged sex the “fair sex”: for it is with this drive that all its beauty is bound up.
More fittingly than the fair sex, women could be called the unaesthetic sex…. Nor can one expect anything else from women if one considers that the most eminent heads of the entire sex have proved incapable of a single truly great, genuine and original achievement in art, or indeed of creating anything at all of lasting value.
This strikes one most forcibly in regard to painting, since they are just as capable of mastering its technique as we are, and indeed paint very busily, yet cannot point to a single great painting; the reason being precisely that they lack all objectivity of mind, which is what painting demands above all else.
Isolated and partial exceptions do not alter the case: women, taken as a whole, are and remain thorough and incurable philistines: so that, with the extremely absurd arrangement by which they share the rank and title of their husband, they are a continual spur to his ignoble ambitions.
They are sexus sequior, the inferior second sex, in every respect.
One should be indulgent toward their weaknesses, but to pay them honor is ridiculous beyond measure and demeans us even in their eyes.
