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Home Attitude Idleness is only the refuge of weak minds.

AttitudeChoiceIndividualityIt's up to me

Idleness is only the refuge of weak minds.

Polly, January 28, 2013

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Tags : Philip Dormer Stanhope

Women are much more like each other than men: they have, in truth, but two passions, vanity and love; these are their two universal characteristics.

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Wear your learning, like your watch, in a private pocket: and do not merely pull it out and strike it; merely to show that you have one.

Polly

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Where women love each other, men learn to smother their mutual dislike.

Where women love each other, men learn to smother their mutual dislike.

[Charm] It’s a sort of bloom on a woman. If you have it, you don’t need to have anything else, and if you don’t have it, it doesn’t much matter what else you have.

[Charm] It’s a sort of bloom on a woman. If you have it, you don’t need to have anything else, and if you don’t have it, it doesn’t much matter what else you have.

Choose your love, Love your choice.

Choose your love, Love your choice.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.

It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees.

Light tomorrow with today.

Light tomorrow with today.

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