The masculine imagination lives in a state of perpetual revolt against the limitations of human life. In theological terms, one might say that all men, left to themselves, become gnostics. They may swagger like peacocks, but in their heart of hearts they all think sex an indignity and wish they could beget themselves on themselves. Hence the aggressive hostility toward women so manifest in most club-car stories.


The most unhappy and frail creatures are men and yet they are the proudest.


The question arises as to whether it is possible not to live in the world of men and still to live in the world.


The test of man is how well he is able to feel about what he thinks. The test of a woman is how well she is able to think about what she feels.


The things a man has to have are hope and confidence in himself against odds, and sometimes he needs somebody, his pal or his mother or his wife or God, to give him that confidence. He's got to have some inner standards worth fighting for or there won't be any way to bring him into conflict. And he must be ready to choose death before dishonor without making too much song and dance about it. That's all there is to it.


The tragedy of machismo is that a man is never quite man enough.


The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.


The world men inhabit is rather bleak. It is a world full of doubt and confusion, where vulnerability must be hidden, not shared; where competition, not co-operation, is the order of the day; where men sacrifice the possibility of knowing their own children and sharing in their upbringing, for the sake of a job they may have chosen by chance, which may not suit them and which in many cases dominates their lives to the exclusion of much else.


There are only two kinds of men; the dead and the deadly.


There are three classes of men; lovers of wisdom, lovers of honor, and lovers of gain.


There are three classes of men; the retrograde, the stationary and the progressive.


There is hardly an American male of my generation who has not at one time or another tried to master the victory cry of the great ape as it issued from the androgynous chest of Johnny Weissmuller, to the accompaniment of thousands of arms and legs snapping during attempts to swing from tree to tree in the backyards of the Republic.


There must be some reason why a man must be convinced, while a woman must be persuaded.


There's so much saint in the worst of them, and so much devil in the best of them, that a woman who's married to one of them, has nothing to learn of the rest of them.


To call a man an animal is to flatter him; he's a machine, a walking dildo.


Unlike femininity, relaxed masculinity is at bottom empty, a limp nullity. While the female body is full of internal potentiality, the male is internally barren. Manhood at the most basic level can be validated and expressed only in action.


What God wants are men great enough to be small enough to be used.


When a man is wrong and won't admit it, he always gets angry.


You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable.

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