He was not going to be governed by women, he was not going to be
dictated to in the least by any one. And this because he was beaten by
his own flesh.
His real man's soul, the soul that goes forth and builds up a new world
out of the void, was ineffectual. It could only revert to the senses.
His divinity was the phallic divinity. The other male divinity, which is
the spirit that fulfils in the world the new germ of an idea, this was
denied and obscured in him, unused. And it was this spirit which cried
out helplessly in him through the insistent, inflammable flesh. Even
this play-acting was a form of physical gratification for him, it had in
it neither real mind nor spirit.
It was so different from Ibsen, and so much more moving. Ibsen is
exciting, nervously sensational. But this was really moving, a real
crying in the night. One loved the Italian nation, and wanted to help it
with all one's soul. But when one sees the perfect Ibsen, how one hates
the Norwegian and Swedish nations! They are detestable.
They seem to be fingering with the mind the secret places and sources of
the blood, impertinent, irreverent, nasty.
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