“Stop breathing.”
“Yes. But if you laugh at that, you must laugh at artists, and literary people.”
“I will. I do.”
“Yes; but in general. You must see the identity of the two things for good or for bad. If people reverence men’s art and feel their sacrifices are worth while, to themselves, as well as to other people, they must not just pity the art of women. It doesn’t matter to women. But it’s so jolly bad for men, to go about feeling lonely and superior. Men, and the women who imitate them, bleat about women ‘finding their truest fulfilment in self-sacrifice.’ In speaking of male art it is called self-realisation. That’s men all over. They get an illuminating theory—man must die, to live—and apply it only to themselves. If a theory is true, you may be sure it applies in a most thorough-going way to women. They don’t stop dead at self-sacrifice. They reap ... freedom. Self-realisation. Emancipation. Lots of women hold back. Just as men do—from exacting careers. I do. I don’t want to exercise the feminine art.”
“It’s true you don’t compete or exploit yourself, Miriam.”
“Some women want to be men. And the contrary, men wanting to be women, is almost unknown. This is supposed to be evidence of the superiority of the masculine state. It isn’t. Women only want to be men before they begin their careers. It’s a longing for exemptions. Young women envy men, as young men, faced with the hard work of life, envy dogs.”
“Harsh Miriam.”
“It’s true. At any rate it’s deserved, after all men have said. And I believe it’s true.”
“Pugilistic Miriam.... Your atmospheric idea is quite illuminating. I think there’s some truth in it; and I’d be with you altogether but for one ... damning ... yes, I think absolutely damning, fact.”
“Well?”