We're all the same in point of number.
But spiritually, there is pure difference and neither equality nor inequality counts.
It is upon these two bits of knowledge that you must found a state.
Your democracy is an absolute lie—your brotherhood of man is a pure falsity, if you apply it further than the mathematical abstraction.
We all drank milk first, we all eat bread and meat, we all want to ride in motor-cars—therein lies the beginning and the end of the brotherhood of man.
But no equality.
'But I, myself, who am myself, what have I to do with equality with any other man or woman?
In the spirit, I am as separate as one star is from another, as different in quality and quantity.
Establish a state on THAT.
One man isn't any better than another, not because they are equal, but because they are intrinsically OTHER, that there is no term of comparison.
The minute you begin to compare, one man is seen to be far better than another, all the inequality you can imagine is there by nature.
I want every man to have his share in the world's goods, so that I am rid of his importunity, so that I can tell him:
"Now you've got what you want—you've got your fair share of the world's gear.
Now, you one-mouthed fool, mind yourself and don't obstruct me."'
Hermione was looking at him with leering eyes, along her cheeks.
He could feel violent waves of hatred and loathing of all he said, coming out of her.
It was dynamic hatred and loathing, coming strong and black out of the unconsciousness.
She heard his words in her unconscious self, CONSCIOUSLY she was as if deafened, she paid no heed to them.
'It SOUNDS like megalomania, Rupert,' said Gerald, genially.
Hermione gave a queer, grunting sound.
Birkin stood back.
'Yes, let it,' he said suddenly, the whole tone gone out of his voice, that had been so insistent, bearing everybody down.
And he went away.
But he felt, later, a little compunction.
He had been violent, cruel with poor Hermione.
He wanted to recompense her, to make it up.
He had hurt her, he had been vindictive.
He wanted to be on good terms with her again.
He went into her boudoir, a remote and very cushiony place.
She was sitting at her table writing letters.
She lifted her face abstractedly when he entered, watched him go to the sofa, and sit down.
Then she looked down at her paper again.
He took up a large volume which he had been reading before, and became minutely attentive to his author.
His back was towards Hermione.
She could not go on with her writing.
Her whole mind was a chaos, darkness breaking in upon it, and herself struggling to gain control with her will, as a swimmer struggles with the swirling water.
But in spite of her efforts she was borne down, darkness seemed to break over her, she felt as if her heart was bursting.
The terrible tension grew stronger and stronger, it was most fearful agony, like being walled up.
And then she realised that his presence was the wall, his presence was destroying her.
Unless she could break out, she must die most fearfully, walled up in horror.
And he was the wall.
She must break down the wall—she must break him down before her, the awful obstruction of him who obstructed her life to the last.
It must be done, or she must perish most horribly.
Terribly shocks ran over her body, like shocks of electricity, as if many volts of electricity suddenly struck her down.
She was aware of him sitting silently there, an unthinkable evil obstruction.
Only this blotted out her mind, pressed out her very breathing, his silent, stooping back, the back of his head.
A terrible voluptuous thrill ran down her arms—she was going to know her voluptuous consummation.
Her arms quivered and were strong, immeasurably and irresistibly strong.
What delight, what delight in strength, what delirium of pleasure!
She was going to have her consummation of voluptuous ecstasy at last.