
“Instead of calling them beautiful there would be more warrant for describing women as
the unesthetic sex. Neither for music, nor for poetry, nor for the fine arts have they really
and truly any sense of susceptibility.”
—Essay on Women, Arthur Schopenhauer
See him sulking in the corner
with his failed theories,
posture rigid,
tie-less Oxford
buttoned to the neck.
Only men possess
the power of genius,
he once claimed;
the fair sex
are mere distractions,
vessels for reproduction.
Art can be made of woman,
but woman cannot make art.
Now, everywhere he looks—
female executives and entrepreneurs,
prime ministers and presidents,
astronauts, artists, scientists,
pioneers and visionaries.
Not one to burn a book,
even one now worthless,
he drops his leather-bound
Essay on Women
to use as a doorstop.
He has no desire
to hold a door open
for a woman.
Worse yet,
she for him.

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