Curiously, she hates to have it put that way. She wants to be a human being as much as I am. But absolutely and honestly, I don’t know what a human-being is. Whereas I do know what a British Subject is. It can be defined.
And I can see how a Civis Romanum, or a British Subject can be free, whether it’s he or she. The he-ness or the she-ness doesn’t matter. But how a man can consider himself free, I don’t know. Any more than a cock-robin or a dandelion.
Imagine a dandelion suddenly hissing: “I am free and I will be free!” Then wriggling on his root like a snake with his tail pegged down!
What a horrifying sight!
So it is when a man, with two legs and a penis, a belly and a mouth begins to shout about being free. One wants to ask: which bit do you refer to?
There’s a cock and there’s the hen, and their two egos or individualities seem to stay apart without friction. They never coo at one another, nor hold each other’s hand. I never see her sitting on his lap and being petted. True, sometimes he calls for her to come and eat a titbit. And sometimes he dashes at her and walks over her for a moment. She doesn’t seem to mind. I never hear her squawking: “Don’t you think you can walk over me!”
Yet she’s by no means downtrodden. She’s just herself, and seems to have a good time: and she doesn’t like it if he is missing.
So there is this peculiar togetherness about them. You can’t call it love. It would be too ridiculous.
What then?
As far as I can see, it is desire. And the desire has a fluctuating intensity, but it is always there. His desire is always towards her, even when he has absolutely forgotten her. And by the way she puts her feet down, I can see she always walks in her plumes of desirableness, even when she’s going broody.