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About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (Dec. 12, 1934)
12 \ * THK BATTALION H'CMAN — A DILEMMA ' ' r/^ Ht ' >■ D> I DM DDDM N ’Tis, Well That This Is Not A Co-educational School, Or Otherwise—Well, Read It! ' * The Cynic * She’s just an essential in this life, as far as I n- i*oncernt‘d, like water and f<KKl and fire. She’s noth ing extraordinary, ks, the foolish are prone to l>elieve— nothing mysterious and wonderful about her. • * J* - "" i Woman is as shallpw as a hath tub, as easy to sec, through, as a window pane. And-what can be seen? Just pettiness, vanity, and temperament. All the fric tion-causing qualities are her’s. She is full of fttolish foibles and quick to imagine herself abused, besides Itfing intensely selfish with that which she wants ami ‘disgustingly generous with that for which she has no use. She has a place in this world and a job. in this Hfe. She was meant to Ik* the mother of the race—the direct instrument with which posterity is created. That is enough of a job for anyone. And when “Wo man’s New Freedom” spurs her on to take up the fight (man’s job) the foolish virgin realizes not that she is woman only in physical features—that phyloso- phically she is mis-sexed. And as for setting the love of woman lH*fore you as the greatest thing in life—the object of life itself, bunk! That’s merely a little diver sion offered between rounds—a little spice thrown ip to make it not too unbearable, and continue the race. The object of life is-—work! Battle! AVhether with brain-cell or brawn, whether you see the goal or not, plcxl on. And, hapless drone, when there are no prob lems to solve or elements to battle, pit your nervous muscles against each other, and fight. Struggle and strive on and on—for what you know not. Surely the - frilly female d<K*s not belong here. And yet some unthinking men raise her on a ped estal. enshrine her, case her in bejeweled glass. Non sense. The altitude affects her head and makes her only the worse. If you ''had the cigarette habit and craved nicotine, would you take each cigarette, guard it with a mania, write poems to it, compose songs to it, and* spend most of your life pampering it? No. You’d\smoke it. Well— The Poet Woman—the sacred love of woman! That is the only answer to our agonized entreaties of the meaning of Jife. That alone can bring us the sweetness, the beauty of life for which we search so fervently, yet find so seldom. “Tis the answer to it all.” -- She is fair, gracious, tender, a physical emlnKli- ment “of all ideal for which mere, man can strive no ^ hopelessly, yet Ik* so wildhappy in that hopelessness. She, with one small caress, can charge a man with pow er, enough to conquer the unconquerable, to^untrof mighty Destiny* with his finger-tips, to feel is a god. She is to Ik* revered, worshipped, exalted. That u| love—that is the key l>eauty to all i>eauties in life. Sh™ keeps the sole passage to that land of complete Utopian happiness, and lK*gs you enter. He who would -not is the fool. “But.” say you, “is not this fantastic fairy-land of your an illusion, a dream composed of that mater ial found inside a bubble?” \ ♦ % How can it be ought but real when you have „ created it ? Bacon assumed he existed, laxause h** thought. May not I assume sacred love Tor woman is real, because I feel it ? • * ’ ‘ A * Why doubt and dabble with proof, like dfsidering old scientists, who do not Udieve until they see? One casts despairingly about for something in this life— he knows at first not what. Then at length he realizes it is an object, happinesd, lK*auty. He stares a!>out hi in at the items in this work!’ storehouse with fault-find ing, searching eyes, and finds them ugly, common place, trivial: His eyes grow dim, his sold liecomes stifled. „ hut it he is as wise as I, he soon discovers that all !>cauty he epjoys in this life will be not handed him on platters of gold. No, he must create his own lenses through which to Unik at all things, ami thus set* their beauty. And woman is the Goddess of this new world you enjoy so highly now. Why ? Because each quality that makes this new, wdrftierfully pleasant world out of the shell of the old oi^Tp entwined around her heartstrings in a mesh that will never In* unraveled. Kach quality—love, blind trust, faith, ladief. > “Simple, sentimental tripe!” croaks our unhappy, truth-seeking mathematical friend. "The fellow’s crazy!” “Simple and sentimental, is it, my narrow-flighted old codger? But it serves, my friend, it serves. And is the fellow crazy?”