To
illustrate my point, I will quote the very pertinent conversation
between Foldal, the embittered old clerk, and John Gabriel Borkman
(Ibsen).
_Borkman_: Indeed! Can you show me one who is any good?
_Foldal_: That's just the point. The few women I've known are no
good at all.
_Borkman_: (with a sneer) What's the good of them if you don't know
them?
_Foldal_ (excitedly): Don't say that, John Gabriel! Isn't it a
magnificent, an ennobling thought, to know that somewhere, far
away, never mind where, the true woman lives?
_Borkman_ (impatiently): Stop your high falutin' nonsense!
_Foldal_ (hurt): High falutin' nonsense? You call my most sacred
belief high falutin' nonsense?
In conclusion I should like to mention here that I look upon Otto
Weininger as a tragic victim of the second stage of love which--in our
days--is sick with an almost insurmountable inner insufficiency.
There is no need to elaborate my subject further and point out that--the
first stage passed--the prime of life brings with it the fusion of
sexuality and love.
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