Gender Identity

Anyone who says he can see through women is missing a lot.

It is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue.

I like men who have a future and women who have a past.

A woman can be anything that the man who loves her would have her be.

A man falls in love through his eyes, a woman through her imagination, and then they both speak of it as an affair of “the heart.”

I see when men love women they give but a little of their lives, but women, when they love, give everything.

Among such persons are those women who transform themselves into just that function of a man that is but weakly developed in him, and then become his purse, or his politics, or his social intercourse. Such beings maintain themselves best when they insert themselves in an alien organism; if they do not succeed they become vexed, irritated, and eat themselves up.

Most women set out to try to change a man, and when they have changed him they don't like him.

A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.

Man has his will - but woman has her way.

Man for the field and woman for the hearth: Man for the sword and for the needle she: Man with the head and woman with the heart: Man to command and woman to obey; All else confusion.

 

Very learned women are to be found, in thesame manner as female warriors; but they areseldom or never inventors.

A country where men despise sex, and live for it.

 

We still think of a powerful man as a born leader and a powerful woman as an anomaly.

Nobody will ever win the battle of the sexes. There is just too much fraternizing with the enemy.

Men forget but never forgive. Women forgive but never forget.

One is not born a woman: one becomes one.

Women have no wilderness in them, They are provident instead, Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

When, however, one reads of a witch beingducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of awise woman selling herbs, or even of a veryremarkable man who had a mother, then Ithink we are on the track of a lost novelist, asuppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Brontë who dashedher brains out on the moor or mopped andmowed about the highways crazed with thetorture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, Iwould venture to guess that Anon, who wroteso many poems without signing them, wasoften a woman.

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.

Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht uns hinan.

Therefore if you insist upon fighting to protect me, or “our” country, let it be understood, soberly and rationally between us, that you are fighting to gratify a sex instinct which I cannotshare; to procure benefits which I have notshared and probably will not share; but not togratify my instincts, or to protect myself or my country. For . . . in fact, as a woman, I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As awoman my country is the whole world.

Split at the root, neither Gentile nor Jew,

Marrying left your maiden name disused.