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Home Individuality If a little knowledge is dangerous, where is the man who has so much as to be out of danger?

If a little knowledge is dangerous, where is the man who has so much as to be out of danger?

Polly, February 1, 2013

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Tags : Thomas Henry Huxley

The minority is always right.

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There’s only one corner of the universe you can be certain of improving, and that’s your own self.

Polly

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We are taught by great actions that the universe is the property of every individual in it.

Let the views of others educate and inform you, but let your decisions be a product of your own conclusions.

Let the views of others educate and inform you, but let your decisions be a product of your own conclusions.

The value of life is not the end of it, but the use we make of it.

The value of life is not the end of it, but the use we make of it.

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.

I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try to please everyone.

I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try to please everyone.

We all have two choices: We can make a living or we can design a life.

We all have two choices: We can make a living or we can design a life.

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