if you don't know which direction to take,
look round for the man your heart will point out to you. And
follow--and never look back. Because if Lot's wife, looking back, was
turned to a pillar of salt, these miserable men, for ever looking back
to their women for guidance, they are miserable pillars of half-rotten
tears.

You'll have to fight to make a woman believe in you as a real man, a
real pioneer. No man is a man unless to his woman he is a pioneer.
You'll have to fight still harder to make her yield her goal to yours:
her night goal to your day goal. The moon, the planet of women, sways
us back from our day-self, sways us back from our real social unison,
sways us back, like a retreating tide, in a friction of criticism and
separation and social disintegration. That is woman's inevitable mode,
let her words be what they will. Her goal is the deep, sensual
individualism of secrecy and night-exclusiveness, hostile, with
guarded doors. And you'll have to fight very hard to make a woman
yield her goal to yours, to make her, in her own soul, _believe_ in
your goal as the goal beyond, in her goal as the way by which you go.
She'll never believe until you have your soul filled with a profound
and absolutely inalterable purpose, that will yield to nothing, least
of all to her. She'll never believe until, in your soul, you are cut
off and gone ahead, into the dark.

She may of course already love you, and love you for yourself. But the
love will be a nest of scorpions unless it is overshadowed by a little
fear or awe of your further purpose, a living _belief_ in your going
beyond her, into futurity.

But when once a woman _does_ believe in her man, in the pioneer which
he is, the pioneer who goes on ahead beyond her, into the darkness in
front, and who may be lost to her for ever in this darkness; when once
she knows the pain and beauty of this belief, knows that the
loneliness of waiting and following is inevitable, that it must be so;
ah, then, how wonderful it is! How wonderful it is to come back to
her, at evening, as she sits half in fear and waits! How good it is to
come home to her! How good it is then when the night falls! How richly
the evening passes! And then, for her, at last, all that she has lost
during the day to have it again between her arms, all that she has
missed, to have it poured out for her, and a richness and a wonder she
had never expected. It is her hour, her goal. That's what it is to
have