Women would react quite differently to it. There are none among them who have not already been initiated. For within herself each woman possesses that love about whose inexhaustible nature we young men can only learn and comprehend a little at a time. Whether already unfolded or still in the bud, it's all the same. Even in her naive unknowingness the young girl already knows everything, even before love as lightening has set fire to her delicate womb and the closed blossom has unfolded into the full calyx of desire. And if a bud had feeling, wouldn't the presentiment of the flower to come be clearer in it than the consciousness of itself?

For that reason there are, in feminine love, no degrees or stages of development, there is nothing general at all, only so many individuals, so many unique kinds. No Linnaeus can classify and spoil for us all these beautiful plants and flowers in the great garden of life. And only the initiated favorite of the gods understands their marvelous botany, the godly art of divining their concealed powers and beauties and of knowing when they bloom and what sort of soil they need. There where the beginning of the world is, or at least the beginning of men, there too is the real center of originality, and no wise man has ever fathomed femininity.

One thing does seem to divide women into two large classes. That being whether they heed and honor nature, their senses, themselves, and masculinity; or whether they have lost this true inner innocence and purchase every pleasure with regret, to the point of becoming insensitive to their own inner disapproval. That is the story of so many. At first they avoid men fearfully; then they are sacrificed to unworthy men whom they soon hate or betray, reaching the point where they despise themselves and the feminine destiny. They take their limited experience to be universal and they consider everything else ridiculous. The narrow circle of crudity and vileness in which they constantly move is for them the whole world. And it doesn't occur to them that there might also be other worlds. For them, men are not human beings but merely men, a different species, annoying but an indispensable aid against boredom. They themselves are thus also all of a kind, one like the other, without originality and without love.

But are they incurable simply because they have not been cured? It is so evident and clear to me that for a woman nothing is more unnatural than prudery (a vice which I can not think about without a certain inner rage) and more troublesome than unnaturalness that I wouldn't want to set a limit and say any woman is incurable. I believe their unnaturalness can never become total, however agile and uninhibited they may have become in it, even achieving an appearance of consistency and character. It is all only appearance. The fire of love is totally inextinguishable, and even under the deepest ashes sparks still glow.

To awaken these sparks, to clean them of the ashes of prejudice, and where the flame already burns pure, to nourish it a bit: that would be the highest aim of my masculine ambition. Let me admit it. I don't love you alone, I love femininity itself. I don't merely love it, I adore it, because I adore humanity and because the flower is the summit of the plant and its natural beauty and structure.

It is the oldest, most child-like, simplest religion, this to which I have returned. I venerate fire as the most splendid image of divinity; and where is there a more beautiful fire than that which nature locked deep in the soft breast of women? —Consecrate me as a priest, Lucinda! Not so that I may idly view the fire, but so that I may free it, awaken it, and purify it. Where it is already pure, it will maintain itself without guards and without Vestal virgins.

I write and rave, as you see, not without unction; but it also does not happen without a calling, in fact, a divine calling. What may that man not dare to whom intellect itself said in a voice coming down from the open heavens: "You are my son in whom I am well-pleased." —And why shouldn't I by my own authority and freedom of action say of myself, "I am the favored son of Intellect," just as many a noble man wandering through life on the path of adventure has said of himself, "I am Fortuna's favored son.'' —Anyhow I actually wanted to talk about the kind of impression this fantastic novel would make on women if chance or caprice were to find it and put it on public display. It would also in fact be unfitting if I did not offer you in as brief a form as possible a few small proofs of my powers of prophecy and divination in order to assert my right to priesthood.

Though all readers would understand me, none would misunderstand and misuse me like the uninitiated young men. Many people would understand me better than I myself do, but only one person would understand completely, and that person is you. All the others I hope to attract and repel by turns, hurting them as often as I propitiate them. For every educated woman, the impression will be quite different, and quite unique, as unique and different as their own characteristic way of existing, and of loving. Clementine will merely be intrigued by the whole thing as a novelty to which there might really be something; part of it she will by the way grasp correctly. People say she is hard and impetuous, and yet I believe that she is worthy of love. Her impetuosity reconciles me with her hardness although, to all outward appearance, each feeds on the other. If only hardness were present, she would have to seem cold and heartless. Her impetuosity shows that the sacred fire is present and trying to break out. You can easily imagine how she would play with a man who loved her sincerely. The delicate and vulnerable Rosamunda will be attracted as often as she is repelled, until "shy delicacy becomes bolder and sees in the actions of fervent love nothing but innocence." Juliana possesses as much poetry as love, just as much enthusiasm as intellect; but each is too isolated in her. For that reason she will occasionally as a woman be frightened by this bold chaos and wish the whole thing had a bit more poetry and a bit less love.

I could go on a long time in the same vein, because I am striving with all my might for knowledge of human nature. And I often know of no better way of employing my solitude than to reflect on how this or that interesting woman would look and behave in this or that interesting situation. But enough for now; otherwise it might be too much for you, and the diversity might turn out poorly for your prophet.