if women really were the charming, gracious creatures men believe them to be: fairy princesses, angels from another world, too good both for men themselves and for this earthly existence. It is quite incredible that men, whose desire for knowledge is unbounded in every other field, are really totally blind to these facts, that they are incapable of seeing women as they really are: with nothing else to offer but a vagina, two breasts, and some punch cards programmed with idle, stereotyped chatter; that they are nothing more than conglomerations of matter, lumps of stuffed human skin pretending to be thinking human beings. If men would only stop for a moment in their headlong creativity and think, they could easily tear the masks off these creatures with their tinkling bracelets, frilly blouses, and gold-leather sandals. Surely it would take them only a couple of days, considering their own intelligence, imagination, and determination, to construct a machine, a kind of human female robot to take the place of woman. For there is nothing original in her – neither inside nor out – which could not be replaced. Why are men so afraid to face the truth?
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