Thus is woman a showbread. The gods knew of naught comparable to her.
She exists, she is present, she is with us, close by; and yet she is
removed from us to an infinite distance when concealed in her modesty -
until she herself betrays her hiding place, she knows not how: it is not
she herself, it is life which informs on her. Roguish she is like a
child who, in playing peeps forth from his hiding place; yet her
roguishness is inexplicable, for she does not know of it herself, she is
ever mysterious - mysterious when she casts down her eyes, mysterious
when she sends forth the messengers of her glance which no thought, let
alone any word, is able to follow. And yet is the eye the "interpreter"
of the soul! What, then, is the explanation of this mystery if the
interpreter too is unintelligible? Calm she is like the hushed stillness
of eventide, when not a leaf stirs; calm like a consciousness as yet
unaware of aught. Her heartbeats are as regular as if life were not
present; and yet the erotic nature, listening with his stethoscopically
practiced ear, detects the dithyrambic pulsing of desire sounding along
unbeknown. Careless she is like the blowing of the wind, content like
the profound ocean, and yet full of longing like a thing biding its
explanation. My friends! My mind is softened, indescribably softened. I
comprehend that also my life expresses an idea, even if you do not
comprehend me. I too have discovered the secret of existence; I too
serve a divine idea - and, assuredly, I do not serve it for nothing. If
woman is a ruse of the gods, this means that she is to be seduced; and
if woman is not an "idea," the true inference is
.
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