No man has ever pretended to pine for love of me, or sweat in fear of me. I believe in all my life the only sleepless nights I’ve caused have been my mother’s. And it wasn’t my goodness that prevented me from occupying men’s thoughts. It was not my sweet consideration or spreading love. There are times when I indulge in wild self-flattery: “Ah, how I wounded So-and-so when I said such-and-such,” “Oh, poor Whatsit, when I left him he must nearly have died,” “How cruel I was to flaunt that in Thingama’s face.” But the truth is that I was the bloodied and scourged and deserted one. I chose that role deliberately, rather than be ignored entirely. My pride was late in developing. I am a little ashamed, now, to think of who I’ve pursued and how. It occasionally occurred to me that there were alternatives, but they always seemed vague and impracticable. And I should specify that this retreat of mine, this very comfort and solitude, had involuntary origins. Precisely this life was always one of the horrifying thoughts that ripped me when I had recently been mislaid by one of my beauties. “I’ll become a hard-faced old maid,” I would moan, “and never feel or be touched again. I’ll keep a cat and take a vow of silence.” And finally it happened, without the cat. And now I seem to talk to myself incessantly.

No, I have never been a type to inspire love. No passions have burnt themselves out, only substantial flesh. Only a number of undirected lusts. And it’s just as well; I would have despised anyone who purported to love me. I felt confidence only in those who needed me for something in particular.