Women in Love

'I will go away the day after tomorrow,' she said.

She only did not want Gerald to think that she was afraid of him, that

she was running away because she was afraid of him. She was not afraid

of him, fundamentally. She knew it was her safeguard to avoid his

physical violence. But even physically she was not afraid of him. She

wanted to prove it to him. When she had proved it, that, whatever he

was, she was not afraid of him; when she had proved THAT, she could

leave him forever. But meanwhile the fight between them, terrible as

she knew it to be, was inconclusive. And she wanted to be confident in

herself. However many terrors she might have, she would be unafraid,

uncowed by him. He could never cow her, nor dominate her, nor have any

right over her; this she would maintain until she had proved it. Once

it was proved, she was free of him forever.

But she had not proved it yet, neither to him nor to herself. And this

was what still bound her to him. She was bound to him, she could not

live beyond him. She sat up in bed, closely wrapped up, for many hours,

thinking endlessly to herself. It was as if she would never have done

weaving the great provision of her thoughts.

'It isn't as if he really loved me,' she said to herself. 'He doesn't.

Every woman he comes across he wants to make her in love with him. He

doesn't even know that he is doing it. But there he is, before every

woman he unfurls his male attractiveness, displays his great

desirability, he tries to make every woman think how wonderful it would

be to have him for a lover. His very ignoring of the women is part of

the game. He is never UNCONSCIOUS of them. He should have been a

cockerel, so he could strut before fifty females, all his subjects. But

really, his Don Juan does NOT interest me. I could play Dona Juanita a

million times better than he plays Juan. He bores me, you know. His

maleness bores me. Nothing is so boring, so inherently stupid and

stupidly conceited. Really, the fathomless conceit of these men, it is

ridiculous--the little strutters.

'They are all alike. Look at Birkin. Built out of the limitation of

conceit they are, and nothing else. Really, nothing but their

ridiculous limitation and intrinsic insignificance could make them so

conceited.

'As for Loerke, there is a thousand times more in him than in a Gerald.

Gerald is so limited, there is a dead end to him. He would grind on at

the old mills forever. And really, there is no corn between the

millstones any more. They grind on and on, when there is nothing to

grind--saying the same things, believing the same things, acting the

same things. Oh, my God, it would wear out the patience of a stone.