I mean that a woman is not made for passion and love; but to be a mother.
"When I married, my wife was a beautiful girl, white and slim as a lily, with dancing eyes and gay rippling laughter like music.

In a year or so the flower-like grace had all vanished; she became heavy, shapeless, deformed: she dragged herself about the house in uncouth misery with drawn blotched face and hideous body, sick at heart because of our love.
It was dreadful.

I tried to be kind to her; forced myself to touch and kiss her; but she was sick always, and--oh! I cannot recall it, it is all loathsome....

I used to wash my mouth and open the window to cleanse my lips in the pure air.

Oh, nature is disgusting; it takes beauty and defiles it: it defaces the ivory-white body we have adored, with the vile cicatrices of maternity: it befouls the altar of the soul.
"How can you talk of such intimacy as love?
How can you idealise it?
Love is not possible to the artist unless it is sterile." "All her suffering did not endear her to you ?" I asked in amazement; "did not call forth that pity in you which you used to speak of as divine ?" "Pity, Frank," he exclaimed impatiently; "pity has nothing to do with love.