As a matter of fact, it is the slave’s bravado! The modern slave is he who does not receive his powers from the unseen, and give reverence, but who thinks he is his own little boss. Only a slave would take the trouble to shout: “_I am free!_” That is to say, to shout it in the face of the open heavens. In the face of men, and their institutions and prisons. Yes-yes! But in the face of the open heavens I would be ashamed to talk about freedom. I have no life, no real power, unless it will come to me. And I accomplish nothing, not even my own fulfilled existence, unless I go forth, delicately, desirous, and find the mating of my desire; even if it be only the sky itself, and trees, and the cow Susan, and the inexpressible consolation of a statue of an Egyptian Pharaoh, or the _Old Testament_, or even three rubies. These answer my desire with fulfilment. What bunk then to talk about being master of my fate! when my fate depends upon these things:--not to mention the unseen reality that sends strength, or life into me, without which I am a gourd rattle. The ego, the little conscious ego that I am, that doll-like entity, that mannikin made in ridiculous likeness of the Adam which I am: am I going to allow that that is _all of me_? And shout about it? Of course, if I am nothing but an ego, and woman is nothing but another ego, then there is really no vital difference between us. Two little dolls of conscious entities, squeaking when you squeeze them. And with a tiny bit of an extraneous appendage to mark which is which. “Woman is just the same as man,” loudly said the political speaker, “Save for a very little difference.” “Three cheers for the very little difference!” says a vulgar voice from the crowd. But that’s a chestnut. “Quick! Sharp! On the alert! Let every gentleman put on his shirt! And be _quick_ if you please! Let every lady put on her chemise!” Though nowadays, a lady’s chemise won’t save her face. In or out her chemise, however, doesn’t make much difference to the modern woman. She’s a finished-off ego, an assertive conscious entity, cut off like a doll from any mystery. And her nudity is about as interesting as a doll’s. If you can _be_ interested in the nudity of a doll, then jazz on, jazz on! The same with the men. No matter how they pull their shirts off they never arrive at their own nakedness. They have none. They can only be undressed. Naked they cannot be. Without their clothes on, they are like a dismantled street-car without its advertisements: sort of public article that doesn’t refer to anything. The ego! Anthropomorphism! Love! What it works out to in the end is that even anthropos disappears, and leaves a sawdust mannikin wondrously jazzing. “My little sisters, the birds!” says Francis of Assisi. “_Whew!_” goes the blackbird. “Listen to me, my little sisters, you birds!” “_Whew!_” goes the blackbird. “I’m a cock, mister!”