ing is so boring, so inherently stupid and
stupidly conceited. Really, the fathomless conceit of these men, it is
ridiculous--the little strutters.

'They are all alike. Look at Birkin. Built out of the limitation of
conceit they are, and nothing else. Really, nothing but their
ridiculous limitation and intrinsic insignificance could make them so
conceited.

'As for Loerke, there is a thousand times more in him than in a Gerald.
Gerald is so limited, there is a dead end to him. He would grind on at
the old mills forever. And really, there is no corn between the
millstones any more. They grind on and on, when there is nothing to
grind--saying the same things, believing the same things, acting the
same things. Oh, my God, it would wear out the patience of a stone.

'I don't worship Loerke, but at any rate, he is a free individual. He
is not stiff with conceit of his own maleness. He is not grinding
dutifully at the old mills. Oh God, when I think of Gerald, and his
work--those offices at Beldover, and the mines--it makes my heart sick.
What HAVE I to do with it--and him thinking he can be a lover to a
woman! One might as well ask it of a self-satisfied lamp-post. These
men, with their eternal jobs--and their eternal mills of God that keep
on grinding at nothing! It is too boring, just boring. However did I
come to take him seriously at all!

'At least in Dresden, one will have one's back to it all. And there
will be amusing things to do. It will be amusing to go to these
eurythmic displays, and the German opera, the German theatre. It WILL
be amusing to take part in German Bohemian life. And Loerke is an
artist, he is a free individual. One will escape from so much, that is
the chief thing, escape so much hideous boring repetition of vulgar
actions, vulgar phrases, vulgar postures. I don't delude myself that I
shall find an elixir of life in Dresden. I know I shan't. But I shall
get away from people who have their own homes and their own children
and their own acquaintances and their own this and their own that. I
shall be among people who DON'T own things and who HAVEN'T got a home
and a domestic servant in the background, who haven't got a standing
and a status and a degree and a circle of friends of the same. Oh God,
the wheels within wheels of people, it makes one's head tick like a
clock, with a very madness of dead mechanical monotony and
meaninglessness. How I HATE life, how I hate it. How I hate the
Geralds,