I am not sure whether I like the way Coverdale talks about women in The Blithedale Romance. Apparently we are Eve-like creatures, paradisical in health and form, and only if we condescend to the bourgeois ideals with robust laughter and possibly more than a modest affair of cleavage do we totally fall from Eden. Brilliant minds and haughty have we, simple and elegant, never lacking anything if only we dress simply and smile sweetly.
Ugh. I am sure this isn't all he thinks as I haven't gotten to the part in the book where he infinitely prefers one woman above all others, who become necessarily pale in comparison, but right now it is driving me up the wall to be put on such a pedestal.
I know I am supposed to be humbled by the flattery of my sex. No more does it put me on a pedestal than it does him, being such an insightful brute. Hollingsworth, Heathcliff, Rochester, D'Arcy, Narl, Beowulf, Arthur, Odysseus . . . I am sorry for all of you.