Most women on your world, as I understand it, are free.

“Most women on your world, as I understand it,” said he,“are free.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Then,” said he, “they are self-centered, self-seeking, egocentric, petty, proud, haughty, suspicious, unpleasant, petulant, greedy, cold, sexually inert, and so on.”
“Some, doubtless,” I said. “I hope not many.”

It seemed to me that most of the women of my world were neither vicious nor cruel. It did seem to me, however, that most were somehow unhappy. I felt that many nourished unsatisfied desires, even deep, unrequited passions. Most, I felt, suspected that there might be much more to life than they knew, but did not understand what it might be, or where it might lie.

Whatever my civilization might favor or encourage, it did not seem to be humanity, or love.

And those, I knew, who made the most of such words tended to be the greatest of the haters and controllers.

The last thing they wanted was a natural world in which human beings might once again be themselves, a world which would liberate humanity to be what it was bred to be, and flourished as, in the long course of nature’s callous, implacable, discriminative eons. And what did the haters and controllers know of love, in its deepest sense, in its most profound expressions?

“But then,” said he, “what of other things, what of loneliness, of unhappiness, of confusion, of misery? What of a sense of being lost, of being unfulfilled, of wanting something and not seeming to even know what it is they are wanting, a sense of something that is missing from their life?”

I put down my head.

“Tiffany?” he said, not unkindly.
“Alas, Master,” I said. “I fear you know the lot of women on my world well.”

Kajira of Gor, p. 541-542

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