The dog, the wife, the man in the Third World, the pauper, the worker, the citizen, …the man in materialism…. They all have their master over them. They all have the masculine above them. And this masculine says: „You have it nice and warm and safe and full. Why? Because I’m out here busting my ass all day for you! So shut up and play my game. Be thankful! And function the way I want you to. That is the price for your fullness, for your security, for your warmth. This is how I decide, because it is I who have the power.“
This is the masculine, which allows only its own masculine to be valid. It denies its dependence on the feminine and nips every masculine impulse, every own initiative of its prisoners already in the bud and claims that it itself is root and crown, beginning and end, cradle and grave of everything that exists.
But without the longsuffering, without the soul knowledge, without the compassion and without the wisdom of the degraded female, there would be nothing for him. His game would not exist and he himself would be less than nothing… He would squirm in deepest loneliness and agony.
That’s how it is in a world in which the knowledge of the soul is no longer perceived. In which only the mind plays its lonely and fearful games full of addiction to control and annihilation.