Blue Pill in Fiction: The Republic of Thieves, Part 2

We continue the dissection of a blue-pilled writer’s portrayal of male-female relationships begun in Part 1.

gentlemanbastards
Light-fingered con artists barely keep themselves alive by their skill in juggling flaming chainsaws.

If you’re just joining us: Scott Lynch’s The Republic of Thieves is part of a fantasy series about a master con man. Overall, the series is better than average fantasy fiction, but lordy, the author’s blue-pill notions! Republic’s narrative alternates between two time periods: flashback chapters in which a gang of teen con-artist apprentices learn their trade, and “present day” chapters in which Our Hero has to rig an election. In Part 1, I only presented scenes from the flashback chapters. The first scene in this post is from the “present” action.

Spoiler warning, and I’m going to edit quoted passages for length. Any page numbers are from the hardcover edition.

Locke and his fellow con man Jean have been blackmailed into the following task: The city of Karthain is having an election. Locke and Jean are hired to rig this election. They’ve been engaged by a corrupt organization called the Democratic Par… uh, I mean, the kicker is that Sabetha, Locke’s old flame (and fellow gang member) from years before, has been engaged by the other side to rig the election too. Each side knows the other side has engaged a con artist to rig the election; they allow this for reasons that don’t matter here. Also, both sides know of the romantic history, and have warned Locke and Sabetha not to get into any hanky-panky with each other. They are not forbidden from communicating with each other, though.

Pages 314-27: In Karthain, after not seeing each other for years, Locke and Sabetha are Reunited, and it doesn’t feeeeeeel so gooooood!

“H-hello,” he said.
“Hello, Locke.”
“Yes. Sabetha. Hello. Uh.”
“Meant to say something grander and wittier, didn’t you?”

Aaaaaaaaaand we’re off. She basically says, “You wanted to impress me.” This is a “You’re hitting on me” shit test, like, “I have a boyfriend” or “Are you hitting on me?” or “I’m not going to have sex with you.” It’s part shit test to assess your poise, part attempt to find out by your reaction whether you actually are hitting on her, and part female status game, an attempt to define herself as the sought-after prize. All in one terse little verbal package. There are aspects of the mating game that women are impressively good at.

“Take my hands,” she said, and he does. Yawn, no. The proper response to that sort of thing was established by Roissy (Chateau v. 1.0) and others more than a decade ago: “No, you might try to take advantage of me,” you say playfully. Or just snort, ignore it, and say what you wanted to say. Women in this kind of situation always try to suck you into their frame. Don’t fall for it. An alpha male, which is what women are looking for, sucks people into his frame, or at least sticks with his own frame.

After more talk Sabetha embraces Locke:

She was so warm and strong, [“strong”? Which one of them is the chick here?] and her scent so instantly familiar… He sighed. “I’d work for free for any chance to be near you. They’re offering a fortune, and I’d throw it in the Amathel [River] for this.” No!
“Locke,” she whispered. “Indulge me. Kiss me. My preferred way. From back when we were—”
“Ahhh,” he said, laughing. “Your servant, madam.”
He gently placed his left hand beneath her chin and tilted her head back. Then planted his lips high up the side of her neck… when he felt he’d teased her enough, ran his tongue up and down those same few inches of warm skin.

It turns out that Sabetha has applied a poison to that area of her neck to knock Locke out. Locke notices a weird taste, but thinks it’s her perfume. Then he starts to lose consciousness. To add obnoxiousness to injury, Sabetha gives him a little lecture as he’s passing out:

“You’re not as good as I am, Locke, but you’re too damn good to let you run around fighting fairly. You’ll kill yourself trying to best me, and you can’t expect me to permit that.”

The lesson here should be obvious enough. Sex is the first thing a woman reaches for when she wants to manipulate a man. And a professional con woman, who’s an old flame, and with whom you’re in a competition… Come on, Locke!

He and Jean wake up on a ship far out at sea, LOL.

407-13, flashback scene. The con artist apprentices have been sent to a theater troupe to learn acting by performing in a play. Sabetha is on the roof going over her lines. Locke joins her, supplicatingly asking for the privilege of hanging out with her and paying for her attention with an offering of wine. Literally, he actually asks her, “Can I sit beside you?” The problem with this, of course, is that it should be, “May I sit beside you?” NO! That’s not the problem; the problem is that it’s wussily supplicating.

Also, she in her self-centeredness can’t resist accusing him of trying to get her drunk in order to fuck her. So annoying. He’s just offering you some wine, you silly bitch.

Whatever. She deigns to allow him to sit near her, and the “conversation,” such as it is, begins. Once again, as in the previous post, it’s all meta, conversation about their relationship. I’ll skip over that part. (Which goes on for freaking pages!) Eventually Locke makes a wince-inducing declaration. I don’t have the strength to quote the whole effin’ thing; here are the high, er low points:

“I, uh, I’m tired of talking behind my hands and dropping hints. These are my cards on the table. I think you’re beautiful.”

Sorry to interrupt just when you’re getting rolling, Locke, but: As a rule of thumb, you should not compliment a woman on her looks. The reason is this: In spite of all feminist agitprop to the contrary, females know at a gut level that their physical attractiveness is the most important part of their sexual market value. I’m not talking about a long-term relationship like marriage, where personality enters the picture in a big way. Rather, think of a young woman’s SMV. (Sabetha is 17 in this scene.) It’s more than 50% looks. Yeah, so? Won’t it make her feel good to compliment her looks, then? Yes, and that’s a mistake. You don’t want her to “feel good,” because that means she’ll think she’s too good for you. This is Female Hypergamy 101. Your job, if you want to do some co-ed spelunking, is not to make the girl feel good. It’s to make her feel that your overall SMV is about 2 points higher than hers. That’s enough to make her hypergamous cooch wet for you while you still seem within her reach.

My rule of thumb is this: A woman generally thinks she’s 1 or 2 points better-looking than she really is. And she wants to get a man who is 2 points higher than her if she can. This leads to weird things like a woman who’s objectively an overall 5 not wanting to “settle” for any man who’s less than an overall 9, which flaming lack of realism is one of the reasons the modern dating scene is so fucked up. In more realistic cases, a female 5 will seriously pursue a male 7, rejecting male 5’s and 6’s. Then she ends up as a cat lady. The point is this: As a man, your interest in a girl might spike if she squeezes your biceps and says, “Wow, you’re so muscular!” But a girl’s interest in you does NOT spike if you tell her, “Garsh, you’re so pretty!” She thinks, “Excellent, I’m attractive. And I’m obviously too good for this guy, since he’s impressed by me.”

Short version: If you’re going to compliment a girl, do it like French man: Make it so over-the-top that it seems sarcastic, like you don’t really mean it. (“You look radiant, mademoiselle; I grovel at your feet. And I’ll have an espresso and a latte, no sugar.”) The French are far ahead of us on this stuff, which is why their men are such a bunch of ravening assholes.

(When I wrote the latte thing I envisioned the dude saying it to a barista at a coffee bar. But it would be fuckin hilarious if you just said it to a random chick as if you mistook her for a waitress, LOL. That could be a good neg, though it’s kind of nuclear so you’d have to know what you’re doing to pull it off. She’s guaranteed to squawk like a wet hen. Also, you’d have to be able to say it with a straight face; I’m not sure I could.)

Locke continues: “I feel like I’m an idiot [agreed, you are] with dirt on his face sitting next to someone out of a painting. [gah!] …Frankly, I’d kiss your shadow. [GAH!] I’d kiss dirt that had your heel print in it. [GAAAAAAH!! Make it stop!] I admire everything about you [I admire her ability to not throw him off the rooftop for this ass-kissing announcement], even your temper [huh?] and your moods [what?] and the way you take gods-damned offense when I breathe wrong around you. [Oh HELL no!] I admire the way you’re good at everything you do, even when it makes me feel small enough to drown myself in this wine cup.” Well, do it then, you spineless fuckbag!

Aside from the wussiness, this is also bad seduction technique because (1) it puts way too much attention on the girl – any human being, male or female, would feel self-conscious having this blast of oral servicing directed at them – and (2) it doesn’t give her much by way of options. I mean, how is she supposed to respond to this? “Yes, Locke, you’re right, I am quite awesome in every way, and my beauty is matched only by my wonderful moods (LOL, WTF?) and the fact that I’m excellent at everything.”

Plainly that won’t work, which is why PUAs came up with verbal games like Marry-Fuck-Kill and other ways of getting the girl participating in the conversation.

Locke considers his past few statements and concludes that he wasn’t being wussy enough, so it gets worse. Recall from Part 1:

Sabetha to Locke: “Years ago, I was the oldest child in a small gang. I was sent away by my master to train in dancing and manners. When I returned, I found that a younger child had taken my place. Calo and Galdo, who once treated me as a goddess on earth, had transferred their allegiance to the newcomer.”
And now we see what has been bothering her. This entitlement-mentality little twat thinks she has some sort of right to have everyone else worship her.

So Locke now says to her, “I’m sorry. If I’ve pushed you aside… if I’ve screwed up anything that you felt was rightfully yours, I apologize.”

Watching this dumpster fire of masochistic groveling makes me feel like Beavis when wuss music comes on MTV: “Butthead, change it! Change it or kill me!”

beavisbutthead
“Aiieeee, this is Boy George! Change it! Change it!”

Locke actually affirms this chick’s right to be treated “as a goddess on earth.” What the fuck!? And he apologizes for – unintentionally – supplanting her. And it makes even less sense than that, because if Sabetha has some right to be treated like a god, then why doesn’t Locke also have a right to be treated like a god? But it gets even stupider, because these kids do not treat each other as gods. They are constantly saying things to each other like, “Suck vinegar out of my ass,” etc. (Actual quote. Scott Lynch is pretty good at thinking up memorable insults, one of the notable stylistic features of this series.)

Page 412-3, the drama rises. Locke recalls out loud the first time he saw her free her gawageous red hair in the sunlight and it glinted with heavenly glittering, or whatever. It makes you flash on those scenes they have in cheesy movies in which the babe whips off her hat and swings her hair around dramatically in slow-mo. Cue the “Ohhhhh, yeeeeeeaaaaah,” voiceover from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Inexplicably, drama queen asshole starts screaming about how Locke only likes her because she’s a redhead. Her freakout is completely disproportionate to what he said and we’re wondering why she’s suddenly gone even more psycho than usual. She tells him to get lost, so he does, briefly. When he and Sabetha are alone again, he actually grows a pair and says to her, “You owe me an explanation. I will not let you push me aside just because you’re pitching a fit!” My God, there actually are some nads in there somewhere!

“I am not pitching a fit!” she says, despite the obvious fact that she’s pitching a fit. By the way, women always know when they’re pitching a fit, and they don’t respect you if you put up with it.

Sabetha continues,
“You cannot be so wholly ignorant. Do you know what they pay for red-haired girls in Jerem? Do you know what they do to us if we’re pristine?”

She then describes a horrible practice that some sick fucks do to red-haired girls. I’ll spare you the nasty details, but it boils down to this: It’s thought that men can cure various diseases they might have by gang-raping a red-haired virgin to death.

That is terrible. But it never happened to Sabetha. The worst she can plead to is living in fear. And since it didn’t happen where they grew up (she’d have to be abducted and carried off) and since she dyed her hair brown and kept it tucked under her hat, the risk was very small. Furthermore, since this disgusting practice is only believed to work if the girl in question is a virgin, she could have just gone and fucked some dude as soon as she was old enough, thus eliminating the risk right there.

And Locke didn’t know about this horrific practice. And it’s not like he was planning on raping her to death!

What is actually going on here? In plot terms, the author needs drama here, so that’s the actual reason for this. Within the fictional universe, whether the author realizes this or not, Sabetha is freaking out in order to attention whore, play drama queen, and play damsel in distress. This. Is. A. Shit. Test. What she is testing you for specifically, with this kind of shit test, is whether she can jerk you around by your emotions.

Here’s a question for ya, poochy: Does a girl sleep with a guy she can jerk around? That would be No. I don’t know how I’d handle this, but it certainly wouldn’t be by apologizing. I think I’d offer her a bag of Skittles and tell her to calm the fuck down. Guaranteed to work better than letting her control you by tugging on your heart strings.

As a female psychologist once wrote, “Women only love men they can’t control.”

On pages 479-81, Locke’s friend Jean loses his virginity to an older woman. Afterwards, Jean:

“Hey, there’s a… sorry, beneath your legs did we…?”
“Ah. My apprentice, allow me to introduce you to the concept of the wet spot.”
“Is that uncomfortable?”
“Well, it’s not what I’d call ideal. Hey, what are you—”
With an enthusiastic excess of groping and giggling, he applied his strength to shifting their positions. In a few moments, he’d pushed her to the dry side of the bed and taken her former place.
“Mmmmm. Jean, you have a gallant streak.”

Psssht. A real man would get a log from the fire, clock her over the head with it, and make her change the sheets. But seriously, why switch places? Someone has to be on the wet spot, and the girl’s going to think you’re a wuss if you pull that move, comments about gallantry notwithstanding. That’s the reality of female psychology.

Well, this dissection of blue-pill butt-fuckery has spanned two posts now. I’d like to draw things to a close, so I’ll just mention, without quoting in detail, some other blue pill stuff in this novel:

505-6: Scott Lynch can’t seem to even imagine a man making a pass at a woman. We are never shown an example of this in the entire three-book series so far. When Locke and Sabetha lose their virginity to each other in a flashback scene, it’s because she enlists a friend to drag Locke to a secret room she found in the hotel where they’re staying, so they can fuck there. Locke is drinking in the hotel bar when his buddy comes and drags him upstairs to the secret compartment where Sabetha is waiting. Then she’s just basically like, “I had him bring you up here so you could do me.” Then she kisses him. This ain’t great. Obviously women often make the first move in the sense of the first expression of interest (college, whoo-hoo!). But it’s a little much if the man doesn’t make the first physical move. Yeah, that can get you accused of “sexual assault” on a college campus in an “affirmative consent” state these days. For fuck’s sake, don’t go to college in an “affirmative consent” state.

468-70: In the present day, Locke and Sabetha are talking about how many people they’ve each boinked in the five years since they’ve seen each other. Locke confesses that he hasn’t screwed one chick in that five years. GAAAH, NOOOOOOOOO!!! Even if that’s true, you can’t tell the girl that; she’ll tag you as a loser. Just lie or just refuse to talk about this subject. Even worse, Sabetha says she’s had sex with several men in that time. This puts their relative notch counts topsy-turvy to what they should be.

So in summary: An above-average fantasy series, if you can stomach the main character’s invertebrate notions about women. Good pacing in plots that revolve around heists/capers, world-building that’s thorough without falling into the trap of being distractingly over-detailed, and amusing dialogue (aside from the wussy stuff). But the author’s blue-pilled notions about women could be used as a freakin’ textbook in What Not To Do. If you like fantasy, try the first one, The Lies of Locke Lamora. The chick is absent from that one, which keeps the blue pill stuff out and allows the main character to act like he actually has a Y chromosome most of the time.


Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:
https://neurotoxinweb.wordpress.com/red-pill-in-fiction/

Blue Pill in Fiction: The Republic of Thieves, Part 1

The Gentleman Bastard novels are a series of three (so far) fantasy novels by Scott Lynch. The setting is fantasy, but magic plays only a small role until the last quarter or so of the first novel.

RepublicOfThieves
Not sure how this cover image maps into the novel’s characters or events, but it’s a dramatic image, so whatever.

First, the Good: They’re generally quite good, entertaining novels. The first, The Lies of Locke Lamora, is an excellent novel about a crew of con men. The pacing is zippy, the characterization is good, the worldbuilding is comprehensive without being in-your-face about it, and the dialogue is much more amusing than average. (The language is quite earthy, so readers of a fragile turn of mind should ask a friend to cross out the swears first; this will also halve the book’s length.)

The setting is a fantasy world at around an 18th century level of technology. The first novel is set in Camorr, a typical fantasy city with both gorgeous palaces and feces-clogged gutters, etc. The central character, Locke Lamora, is the best con man in the world. The narrative structure is back-and-forth through time, so we see “the education of the supreme con man” in the flashbacks and another story in the “present day” sections. It’s a romp. The next two novels are also good, though not as good as the first one.

The Bad: The author has unfortunate male feminist notions about chicks. (His Twitter account and web site confirm that his politics swing left.) This didn’t matter in the first novel because Lamora’s love interest is on another continent and we only get like two sentences of backstory about his pathetic obsessive crush the woman. But the third novel, The Republic of Thieves, makes it apparent that the author is a horribly blue-pilled dude who has the most outrageously wussy notions about how to deal with women. This emerges in Republic because Miss Love Interest has a major role, in both current action and flashbacks. A dozen times Locke puts up with crap from this chick, one Sabetha, which would make me put a bullet through her eye. (Note: Not optimal Game either, but at least you wouldn’t have to listen to her bitching.)

As always, I’m going to edit quoted passages for length, cutting dialogue and eliminating most description of scenery. Any page numbers are from the hardcover edition.

Page 10 et seq. Their first meeting is when Locke is like six years old (no one knows his age), living in a school that turns orphans into thieves. Sabetha, an older student there, is assigned to be his minder on a training task and he thinks, basically, “I’m in luuuuuuurv!” But her first words to him are:

“You’re the Lamora boy, right?”
He nodded eagerly.
“Well, look here, you little shit. I’ve heard all about you, so just shut up and keep those reckless hands in your pockets.”
(Locke has acquired a reputation for stealing too much, even though it’s a thief school.) “I swear to all the gods, if you give me one hint of trouble, I will heave you off a bridge and it will look like an accident.”

Makes you want to kick her in the pussy. We don’t know Locke’s response, because that’s the end of that scene.

Pages 133-4: At a young age – Locke’s maybe 11, Sabetha 13 – the thief school has sold them both to the same con man. They’re two of five kids this master con man is training. One day he pits Locke and Sabetha against each other in a con artist contest. The loser has to do the winner’s dishes for three days. It ends in a draw. Sabetha, being a howling cunt, is pissed about this:

“You were just sloppy. And I was sloppy to fall for it!”
“No, Sabetha, look,” said Locke. “You weren’t sloppy, you were brilliant, you deserved to win—”
“That’s right,” she said. “But you didn’t lose, so I didn’t win.”
“Look, I concede. I give it to you. I’ll do all your kitchen chores for three days, just like—”
“I don’t want your damned concession! I won’t take your pity as a coin.”
“It’s not pity, honest! I want your chores, it would be a pleasure. It would be my, my privelege.

GAH! Get some self-respect, you fucking pussy! God, I want to punch him so badly. And don’t tell me his youth is an excuse because I’ve never known any boy who treated a girl like that at any age. WTF?

You might think, from an evo psych perspective, that if another male, a potential competitor for da wymens, is an outrageous wussy, that should make you happy, because it makes you look that much better by comparison. Yet it just fills you with anger. Probably because fighting off rival tribes in the ancestral environment required that the other men in your tribe not be a bunch of fucking pathetic wussies. There are serious negative consequences to other men from those little ratfucks being such invertebrate pussbags.

221: A couple of years later, Locke has just let Sabetha beat him up in a baton training exercise. Later his friend Jean tries to set him straight:

“You’re a real idiot from time to time.”
“What did I do, besides fail to be a master baton duelist?”
“You’d have stood there and let her slap you into paste just for the sake of being in the same room as her. I know it. You know it. She knows it.”
“Well, uh—”
“It’s not endearing, Locke. You don’t court a girl by inviting her to abuse you from sunrise to sunset.”

This is good advice, of course. Unfortunately, Locke’s response to it is to make a wise-ass remark:
“Really? Because that sounds an awful lot like courtship in every story I’ve ever read—”
“It’s not charming or impressive. It just makes you look silly.”

Locke makes three mistakes here. One is having One-itis in the first place. This is the most forgivable mistake, since it’s natural for a such a young man. But it’s still a mistake. Two is being a wuss to the girl. Three is trying to learn about how to charm women from fiction. No! You learn about women from interacting with women. There is no other way. The counterintuitive nature of female sexuality is God’s way of telling us, “Be empiricist, bitches!”

If Lynch had made Locke shape up, this could have been a “red pill in fiction” post. Guy does wrong thing, gets bad result; does right thing, gets good result. But Locke continues to be a wuss with this chick but eventually gets between her legs. In isolation, the foregoing excerpt suggests that Lynch has a clue, but it’s undercut by the rest of the novel.

Pages 231-4: The gang now consists of one leader and five teenagers; Locke, Jean, Sabetha and a pair of identical twins, the Sanza brothers. Their mentor is sending all five of them out of town for a while; to improve their con artistry they’re going to be actors for a summer. This scene takes place the evening before they start their ten-day voyage to the theater. Locke is still smitten with this obnoxious twat. He is going to buy dinner for the gang. He says to Sabetha,

“You want to come with?”
“You need me to?”
“Well…I’d like you to.”
“Hmmm.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, during which Locke experienced the curious sensation of his heart apparently sinking several inches deeper into his chest. [Wussy. But okay, that’s adult me talking. This kid is like 16 so we’ll cut him some slack. He hasn’t been hardened by experience with women the way older males have been.] Then she shrugged.
“I suppose.”
(They start walking.)
“I was, ah, hoping I could talk to you,” he said.
“Easily done,” said Sabetha. “Open your mouth and let words come out.”
“I– Look, can you not…can you please not be glib with me?”
“Requesting miracles now, are we?” Sabetha kicked a stone. “Look, I’m sorry. Contemplating ten days stuck together on the road. The whole thing has me feeling like a hedgehog, rolled up with my spikes out.”
“Oh, a hedgehog is the last thing I would ever compare you to,” Locke said with a laugh.
“Interesting,” said Sabetha, “that I mention my own feelings, and you seem to think that what I’m after is reassurance concerning your perceptions.”

What a cunt. The gentlest response this merits is “What the fuck are you talking about?” Or if you’re just sick of this crap, which I would be, “Look, just don’t talk to me any more except as necessary for our business.” If you want to game her (why would you? There are plenty of other vaginas in the world), then “Are you always such a drama queen?” would do it. (Or whatever is this fictional universe’s equivalent of “drama queen.”) That would prompt a shit test, of course, which you’d pass, because you’re Game enough to be expecting it, right?

“You know,” said Locke, feeling his hands shake nervously with what he was about to put into the open, “you know that when I’m around you I find it very easy to shove my foot into my mouth.”
“Mmmmm,” she said.
“More than that. You make use of the advantage.”
“I do.” She looked at him strangely. “You fancy me.”

“When you aren’t acting like a wanker,” he should say, but doesn’t. Or: “Actually, I haven’t made up my mind about you yet.” He actually says,
“That… that is… really… not how I would have…”
“Not as grand in plain speech as it is up here?” She tapped her forehead.
“Sabetha, I… I value your good opinion more than anything else in the world.”
GAAAAAHH!!! NO! Never mind effective charming of women, get some fucking balls! He continues, “There’s this fog between us. I don’t know what I did to put it there, but I would throw myself under a cart to lift it.”
You damned pussy! Just throw yourself under a cart already!

Isn’t this painful to read?

Sabetha: “Why do you assume it’s something you’ve done?” This is the first non-annoying thing she’s said. Don’t worry, though; she quickly adds more obnoxiousness: “I’m not some arithmetic problem just waiting for you to show your work properly. Did you ever think that I might have warm-blooded motives of my own, being as I’m not an oil painting, or some other decorative object of desire— ”

Ugh. Standard female bullshit. “Don’t put me on a pedestal! You’re putting me on a pedestal because I’m so attractive! You desire me!” She’s trying to define herself as the prize, the person to be pursued, though I suppose that’s water over the dam, since Locke already tipped his hand on that. It’s also like those ugly fatties in “slut walks” who hold up signs saying, “Don’t treat me as a sex object,” LOL, you wish.

Plus the feminist “Don’t pedestalize me” is a way of saying, “If you say nice stuff about me you’re oppressing me!” Of course, they also say, “If you say non-nice stuff about me you’re oppressing me!” Partly this is a shit test, obviously. Partly it’s a woman’s natural reaction of panic to a desperate beta drooling over her. Women’s gut-level reaction to that is “Ick! Beta pregnancy risk! Get away! Get away!” But they feel they can’t say that explicitly, so it comes out in elliptical ways like “Don’t pedastalize me!”

Locke’s response is amusing:

“Do you like me?” Locke blurted. This is bad, of course, since it shows concern for her opinion. But it actually has a couple of redeeming features: At last he’s cutting through the bullshit and getting to the point. He’s also ignoring her frame, just crashing through it and putting the convo into his frame. If he had blurted almost anything else, it would have been half decent. He continues: “At all? Am I at least preferable to an empty room?”
“I do sometimes admire you, if it helps to hear it.”
“It means everything to hear it,” he said.
Dork.

Painful though this is, I’ve cut more than half of it. Man! This is like a textbook lesson in what not to do.

Aside from the male feminist wuss notions, there’s also the other problem: The weird notion that relationships should involve a lot of talk about the relationship. Ugh. Only a woman could have thought up such a stupid notion. (Even though women don’t actually like this one tenth as much as they think they will when they’re theorizing about it.) And blue-pilled men like Scott Lynch often fall for it.

In fact, the “meta” stuff in relationships should be rare. Usually conversation in a relationship should involve topics other than the relationship. Indeed, if the conversation doesn’t involve other subjects, then the meta stuff necessarily exhausts itself quickly, because there’s nothing else to talk about. How would a relationship based on meta conversations go, anyway? Typical conversation:

“I love you!”

“Yay, I love you, too! And the fact that you love me makes me feel great!”

“I feel the same way! The fact that you love me makes me feel great!”

Then what?

“I’m glad that my love for you makes you feel great!”

“And I have the same feeling, but with the roles reversed!”

Okaaaaay… And then?

“I’m really glad that the fact that your love for me makes me feel great, pleases you!”

“Oh, same here! I think. This is getting kinda complicated…”

“Yes, I too feel the challenge of trying to keep track of all the levels! So we have that in common as well!”

If your date conversation goes this self-referential, you are not getting laid, unless you’re dating Kurt Godel or Jacques Derrida.

You know how some people bite off more than they can chew? Well, conversations of this type chew more than they’ve bitten off, if you see what I mean. You have to have some actual substance to feed into the machine so it has something to work with.

Inevitably, the conversations between Locke and Sabetha are horrible, but Lynch actually does pretty well given that he’s writing dialogue subject to this constraint. This whole thing about relationships based on talking about the relationship is a weird piece of idiocy whipped up by old maids who had never had a relationship and were theorizing a priori about such. (That opinion of mine is based on the comprehensive research of vaguely recalling old Ann Landers columns from the 1980s, and suchlike.) The whole thing reeks of forming your opinions about relationships by reading “relationship books.” Gah! No! DON’T do that! If you’re empiricist about only one thing in your entire life, make it male-female interactions.

277-84, Locke puts up with Sabetha’s unprovoked cuntiness on the road to Espara, the place where the theater is. During their voyage they stop for the night at a village on the road. Everyone else has gone off to explore the town so Locke and Sabetha are alone in their camp.

“I, ah, regret not having a chance to speak to you last night,” he said. [They’d had a little mini date of sorts, which she skipped out on. Flaking: Even blue-pilled writers know about it.]
“Oh? Was it any real loss to either of us?”
“Well…damn. You’re obviously in a mood.”
“Am I?” There was danger in her tone. “Am I really? Why should that be exceptional? A boy may be as disagreeable as he pleases, but when a girl refuses to crap sunshine on command the world mutters darkly about her moods.”

BULLSHIT, you fucking cunt! Aargh, I know she’s fictional and this STILL pisses me off! The truth is, women can get away with acting like outrageous bitches, and nothing will happen to them. If a man acts like a tough guy when he’s not, or offends the wrong man, he risks being physically attacked. The crap that women get away with BECAUSE they’re women is unbelievable. And here she is asserting that she’s put upon because she’s a girl. Aargh! Fucking twat! Example: Call a girl a cunt, and it’s “ZOMG! Gendered insults!” But call a man a dick, and no one says anything. Same for bitch/bastard. In other words, people make up reasons to defend you if you’re female, solely because you’re female. That’s privilege, by feminists’ own definition of privilege.
(I don’t care much one way or the other, but let’s be consistent, assholes.)

“If I’m in a mood,” Sabetha said after a moment, “it’s because this journey is unfolding as I had foreseen. Tedium, bumpy roads, and biting insects.”
“Do I count as part of the tedium or one of the biting insects?”
[WEAK; shows he cares what she thinks of him.]
“If I didn’t know any better,” she said softly, “I’d swear the sweeper was attempting to be charming.”
Why would that be charming? Whatever. Notice we’ve gone meta again. For her it’s normal, since going meta is one way that chicks have of shit-testing you, trying to disrupt your game to see how solid your frame is, and trying to throw themselves out of state so they don’t have sex with every guy who has memorized a couple of good lines. But for a man it’s a dangerous trap, and Locke makes the mistake of jumping right into it:
“You might as well assume,” said Locke, “that I’m always attempting to be charming where you’re concerned.” [Weak.]
“Now, that’s risky.” Sabetha rolled sideways and jumped down beside him. “That sort of directness compels a response, but what’s it to be? Do I encourage you in this sort of talk or do I stop you cold?”

More fucking meta stuff! BTW, ladies, don’t do this unless you’re really trying to throw a man’s conversation with you off track. If you’re actually interested in keeping his interest alive, don’t bore him to death like this. At least, I’d be bored. Often, in fiction, TV, and movies, when the chick and a dude are dragging out the run-up to finally hooking up, you’re like, “For fuck’s sake, just hook up already!” It’s bad when you’re like, “For fuck’s sake, just give her a wedgie and move on already!”

A few lines of dialogue later she says,

“Tell me, how do you even know for sure that I don’t fancy girls?
“I—” Locke was lucky to spit the one syllable out before the power of coherent speech ran up a white flag and deserted him.
“You never even thought about that, did you?” she said, her voice a sly whisper.

Lame. The whole girl-on-girl thing was hot back in the 1990s, when it was new. (New to pop culture, of course; not new in porn.) Now it’s played out. I don’t know the deal in this fictional universe, but plainly we’re supposed to be hot and bothered imagining ULTRA-HOT GIRL-ON-GIRL ACTION!!! Yawn.
After she admits that she is in fact straight, he confesses that he has been in luuuuuurv with her ever since he was like five:
“Sabetha, I don’t remember my own father, and my mother is as much a mystery. But the moments I’ve spent with you, they’re still with me, smoldering like coals. I can touch them and feel the heat.”

Gah, I’m feeling the pain from this cheesiness.

She, reasonably enough, is like, whoa, slow down there, Trigger! She then points out that the situation they’re in, what with all the con artist training, etc., adds too many complications for a relationship to be convenient.

At this point two other gang members, the Sanza twins, return, there’s a little discussion, and then the Sanzas decide to go back into the village and take it for everything it has at cards.

“Hold on,” said Locke. “Since when are you two criminals?”
“Since…” Calo pretended to calculate. “Sometime between first leaving mother and hitting the ground between her legs.”
“I know the Sanzas are as crooked as a snake in a clockwork snake-bending machine,” said Locke, “but the Asino brothers [their fake identity] are actors, not cardsharps.”

He convinces the Sanzas that it’s better to stay honest, and to just go back to the village and rustle up some food. When the Sanzas are gone it’s just Locke and Sabetha again, and…

Locke detected a sudden coolness in her demeanor.
“That right there,” she said, “would be one of the obstacles I mentioned.”
“What?”
“You really didn’t notice?”
“Notice what? What am I meant to realize?”
“Years ago,” said Sabetha, “I was the oldest child in a small gang. I was sent away by my master to train in dancing and manners. When I returned, I found that a younger child had taken my place.”
“But—I hardly—”
“Calo and Galdo, who once treated me as a goddess on earth, had transferred their allegiance to the newcomer. In time, he got himself a third ally [Jean].”

And now we see what has been bothering her. This entitlement-mentality little twat thinks she has some sort of right to have everyone else worship her. She actually presumes to be angry and resentful that they don’t! Not only that, but the guy to whom their attentions shifted didn’t even cause this on purpose. He just happens to be the best of them, and in any case, she wasn’t even around for a year. God, this chick! She really does believe that she has the right to be the center of the universe. Ugh.

She says, functioning as a mouthpiece for every annoying feminist ever, “Haven’t you ever noticed that suggestions from me are treated as suggestions, while suggestions from you are taken as sacred warrant? Even if those suggestions are identical?

First of all, no. This line would at least make sense within-universe if Lynch had actually shown an example of it happening, but he never does. Secondly, even if it is true, Sabetha should take it up with the Sanzas and Jean. Their behavior is not Locke’s responsibility.

In other words, she not only thinks she is divinely appointed to be the Queen of the Galaxy, but she actually expects Locke to enforce her status as Galaxy Queen, because she can’t even be arsed to do it herself! This is entitlement of a mind-bending level that I’ve never encountered before. At least dictators from Napoleon to Lenin to Mao realized they had to fight and win a civil war themselves! They didn’t say to someone else, “Hey, you go fight a civil war and then install me as Dictator.” God! The sheer arrogance of this fucking cunt is unbelievable! She not only thinks she should be Empress of the Universe, she expects other people to appoint her Empress, and she whines that she’s put upon because they don’t!

Hey, you! Neurotoxin here. You’re oppressing me by not ordering everyone to obey me and treat me as God of the Universe! Stop oppressing me right now, and go and tell everyone to worship me and obey my every word!

Alright, this is as much as I can stand for now, and probably as much as you can stand too. To be continued.

Part 2 is here.


Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:
https://neurotoxinweb.wordpress.com/red-pill-in-fiction/

Who Supports Walls?

Every now and then some fuck-witted liberal, or occasionally a libertarian, will say that the human species really is not that violent, and that we’d all just get along if only (etc.).

This is dangerously naive. Anthropologists, before modern political correctness became a big problem, documented how very murderous our species is. There are cases in which a village in Africa will do a night raid on another village and kill every man, woman, and child in it. Also, western intellectuals sometimes say (either with self-flagellating guilt or chest-puffing pride) that Western culture’s militaries are the world’s deadliest. Well, in terms of raw numbers I’m inclined to believe that (if we ignore Mao, anyway), but it seems to be just a fact about military technology. In proportional terms were are not especially lethal.
(The content of this paragraph is drawn from Steven Pinker’s wonderfully heterodox The Blank Slate.)

This also explains why people who aren’t completely insane have a gut-level instinct against admitting people from other cultures into their societies, at least in large numbers. That’s an instinct, plainly; it’s not learned, no matter many idiots insist it is leaned. Consider those African night raids again.

In this regard, the difference between male and female instincts is, once again, clear and relevant. Men vote against invaders and political groups that want to admit invaders. Women are more complicated. I have noted before that many women will work to admit invaders into their home societies so they can play a game of Let’s You and Him Fight. For real-world examples see the USA and Western Europe lately. For a fictional example see my review of Justina Robson’s Keeping It Real.

Note, though, that while men clearly want to exclude invaders, women are split. In the 2016 election, “only” 43% of white women voted for the pro-invasion candidate. 53% of white women voted for the anti-invader candidate. The rest threw their vote away on third party candidates rather than vote for the pro-invader candidate the media was telling them to vote for. This has to do with the African slaughter I mentioned above: Women are sometimes prizes in war, but sometimes victims of war. Being invaded is a gamble from a woman’s point of view. From a man’s point of view it’s always bad.

Thus we have some women in some contexts supporting invasion of their own societies; other women in other contexts oppose it.

It is also a fact that women try to gain sexual access to alpha men and prevent contact with beta men. This affects sexual harassment procedure, mostly designed by women, as it applies to the workplace, e.g. They try to exclude sub-alpha males from social-sexual contact with them. The point is, women don’t always want an influx of any men into their sanctuaries. Reproductive optimization from a female’s point of view is more complicated than that.

Additionally:

In Nash Equilibrium, we would not expect all women to be genetically programmed to issue society-threatening shit tests. The reason is that, if say half the women start such, the other half will also gain the knowledge or benefit from the results (whatever those benefits are). Furthermore, a woman who doesn’t shit test is more attractive to men than one who does. She free rides on the shit-testers, at their expense. Free riding generally plays the villain in discussions of human interactions, and often rightly so, but this is a case in which free riding has good consequences.

(A reminder to any chicks reading this: The fact that you find shit tests and the associated drama and strife to be fun and exciting, doesn’t mean that men do. Any more than the fact that dung beetles like eating poop means that you also like eating poop. Men and women are really different, biologically different.)

It might be objected that maybe there is just one kind of psychology of shit testing, so any woman who has the “shit testing genes,” i.e. all women, will potentially throw out a society-threatening shit test. But still: some women are more shit-testy, some less so.

Addenda on Darwinian Lenses

Some nuances etc. on my last post. I wanted to make the basic point before including the complications.

1) The evolutionary effect is not always something dramatic like you getting caught and eaten by a lion, or you or your offspring starving. E.g., peacocks have fancy tails because that attracts peahens, for no awesome reason. This is a runaway sexual selection result that cannot last in the long run – it’s like an asset bubble in Finance, a temporary deviation from a more stable situation. That tail is burdensome. Put a new predator in the peacock’s environment and see what happens. (But don’t do this if you like peacocks.)

2) Another qualification is there are equilibria with a mix of features across individuals. This can happen because some features depend on the prevalence of themselves and other features. So an equilibrium can have, say, 60% of feature A and 40% of feature B. Not all features are like having better eyesight, which is always better.

An example from David Friedman: Suppose, simplistically, that you can be born with a temperament to always fight (“hawk”) or never fight (“dove”). (Don’t sperg out; I said it’s a simplistic example.) The payoff to being a fighter depends on the prevalence of other fighters. If there are lots of such people, then if you’re starting fights constantly you’ll soon encounter another fighter. So you’ll run afoul of the Law of Large Numbers eventually and be outselected (killed or injured to an extent that hampers your reproductive success). So if there are a lot of fighters in the population, the average payoff to being a fighter is negative, so the percent of fighters in the population declines.

On the other hand, if the percent of fighters in the population is small, this doesn’t happen much. So you pick a fight with someone who just killed an antelope, he very probably runs away and you take the antelope. Lots of food at a trivial metabolic cost! So the average payoff to being a fighter is high if the percent of fighters in the population is small. So if there are few fighters the percent of fighters in the population will rise.

So if the percent is low it tends to rise and if it’s high it tends to fall. This, kids, is known as “stable dynamics.” The proportion of fighters in the population will converge to some stable percent such that the mean reproductive success of fighters and non-fighters is the same.

(BTW, I suspect a similar point is true for r/K theory, if that theory is descriptive of homo sapiens. We seem to be in a high-r period now, but that can’t last because a critical mass of rs is a problem that prompts a response from the Ks. Ks are getting PO’d, starting to fight back, electing God-Emperors, etc., while the rs themselves (whether they realize it or not) are starting a civil war that just can’t end well for them. They’re too impulsive and inclined to ignore tactics, strategy, caution, the long-run consequences of current actions, etc.)

3) In the previous post I asked, “why didn’t the subdominant males simply gang up to kill the dominant males and/or their children?”

And in the comments Alf said,

“Because the most dominant subdominant males answered to the dominant male, and in return received their share of the women. That has been the evolutionary deal between the dominant and subdominant males, and is reflected in the evolutionary fact that while all women get wettest for alpha males, they will pair bond with beta males.”

Indeed, alpha males are as capable of strategic alliances as anyone else.

In fact, alphas can be quite pro-social, especially with others of around their status level. Think of the way that guys on the college football team interacted with each other.

And of course, alpha/beta is not a binary thing; it’s a continuum.

4) The complications in the following turn out to explode quickly, so here’s the short version:

There’s a possible version of the human story that’s more pleasant than children of low-dominance males being directly or indirectly killed: Say that if you were an average man you had fine reproductive success, e.g., three (surviving) children, but if you were an alpha you had, say, six. Maybe this is because alpha traits are good for, e.g., hunting, which provides for children. So the most hair-raising version of the story isn’t the only possibility.

But I doubt this kind of effect can explain why all (it seems) women prefer dominant men. That’s because, while alphas and good providers have some overlap, when they’re distinct, women have a clear preference for alphas. A woman settles for a provider. She gets wet for an alpha.

I don’t think optimistic versions can explain women’s strong preference for alphas, because any optimistic argument (I can think of) that predicts an attraction to alpha (dominant) men also predicts an attraction to good providers. So optimistic arguments can’t explain women’s real-world preference for alphas.

What I mean is this: Suppose some men’s children have particularly high survival rates. Call these H men (for high-survival). For the moment it’s not important why these men’s kids have especially high survival rates. It’s easy to show that women who have a hardwired preference to mate with H men will gradually have their female descendants become 100% of females. (I did some arithmetic to check; the result is exactly what you’d expect.)

Now here’s the problem: The validity of the above argument doesn’t depend on the reason that a given man is H. That’s a problem because what’s to be explained is women’s strong preference for alpha males in particular. In light of that fact, the foregoing argument is too broad: It implies women should be indifferent between varieties of H men such as alphas versus providers. But they actually aren’t indifferent.

So it looks like we are back to the original dark view of the matter.

In fact, the failure of the optimistic argument is even worse, because it draws its false conclusion with even more confidence than it seems at first. That’s because it implies that any H man, regardless of why he’s H, should benefit from…

5) … positive feedback: Kinship support groups and conflict. If you get into violent conflict, your siblings are likely to support you. This raises your survival probability. Say H men have on average 6 surviving offspring and non-H men have 3. Then if you’re a non-H’s child you have 2 siblings who might support you in a conflict . If you’re an H’s child you have 5 siblings who might support you. This raises H children’s survival probability even more.

So the argument once again predicts a strong attraction to good providers just as strong as an attraction to socially dominant men. But empirically, that’s not observed.

What we actually observe is that women are most attracted to socially dominant men. This tells us that such men’s offspring had the highest survival probability in the ancestral environment.


In my (rapidly growing) set of notes on this topic, here’s one possibly-important qualification:

Do “all” women really prefer men who are unpleasantly socially dominant? The extent to which this is true should be investigated. E.g., as far as I could tell, most girls in my high school didn’t date thugs or seem to want to date them. Indifferent “bad boys,” yes, absolutely, but the truly fucked up guys, no. That was a small subset of girls. So when we remember, e.g., Charles Manson getting love letters from women, is that just salience bias? Do we just remember the women who prefer thugs because it sticks in our heads as shocking? And why does the average girl not go for the thugs? Does she not want the thug, or does she just not have enough social self-confidence that she can get the thug? This merits empirical follow-up.

Of course, one thing we do know: Even if it’s only a small subset of women who really are attracted to the very worst men, there is no equal-and-opposite set of women who are attracted to the nicest of men. (LOL, as if.) The female preference distribution is not symmetric around “average guy.” The question is exactly how asymmetric it is.

Through Darwinian Lenses

This post makes two points about evolution, a general point and a specific point.

The general point:

Organisms have the features they have because individuals that lacked those features were not reproductively successful. More precisely, over time were not as reproductively successful as individuals that had the feature. Yes, this is the supposedly well-known core of evolutionary theory, but I get the sense that the average person still hasn’t fully absorbed the implications.

For example, some species of eagle can see a small prey animal like a rabbit from two miles away. Consider what this astounding fact implies: Individual eagles who didn’t have such good vision were out-selected. At worst, they starved to death because they couldn’t feed themselves. At best, they had fewer surviving offspring than those with better vision, because good nutrition is required to create healthy eggs and good hunting is needed to feed the hatchlings. So over time their genes became less common until they disappeared in that species.

So when you observe a feature, like astoundingly sharp eyesight, in nature, understand what you are seeing: The imprint of death.

One way or another, individuals who lacked that feature didn’t get their genes into successive generations. This is the same outcome as simple death, evolutionarily speaking. Note, not metaphorically the same outcome, but actually the same outcome.

So, speaking in an evolutionary sense, we can say:

Eagles have good eyesight because eagles without it died.

Bats have good sonar because…

Gazelles can run fast because…

Organisms’ features exist because those features matter. They affect the organisms’ reproductive success.

If you look through Darwinian lenses, you can see the imprint of death all around you, in every organism you observe. Every feature implies the evolutionary death of individuals who lacked that feature.

Once at a zoo I saw a male lion pounce on a large plastic bucket that had been left in his cage. His teeth dug into it and he lifted it into the air. There was something startling and a little scary about seeing 500 pounds of muscle launching a set of teeth at something. But of course I should not have been surprised, because evolution didn’t endow lions with huge sharp teeth and lots of muscle so those features can not be used.

(By the by, why do male lions have armor— manes— around their necks?)

Now, the specific point:

What does human females’ obsessive preference for dominant men say about our species’s evolutionary history?
.
Just mull that over for a second.
.
Ponder it…
.
Let it sink in…
.

What it says is grim, and alarming. Women have an intense preference for dominant men because women without that preference were less reproductively successful in our species’s evolutionary past. That is, to put it plainly, either those women didn’t reproduce, or their offspring didn’t survive.

But why should that be? The obvious guesses are that such women’s children were killed outright, or starved during periods of scarce food. The children of women who preferred dominant men didn’t starve. (Obviously, since their female descendants are here, all around us.) E.g., because their men could take food from less formidable men. Or, slightly less horrifyingly: “I’m hunting over here in the best hunting grounds; you go hunt over there, where the hunting isn’t as good.” So the implication is unavoidable: The powerful men killed, directly or indirectly, the children of less-powerful men. Again, it might not have been that direct. It might have been a matter of differential reproductive success over time.

Now there are some questions to be answered about this. E.g., if you try to directly take food from Joe’s kids, Joe’s going to fight you, and stands a good chance of doing you significant injury even if you win. So it’s not obvious that it’s worth it to you. E.g., why didn’t the subdominant males simply gang up to kill the dominant males and/or their children? I don’t care how dominant you are; you have to sleep some time. (And alphas are a minority of men, by definition.) So we’re talking about… what? An effect that didn’t kick in until kings, palaces, and palace guards were established? So there are blanks to fill in, but the basic mechanism is not in doubt. It’s not in doubt because we observe its immediate consequences, in the reality of current human female sexual behavior.

Closely related point: Why do men have more muscle mass than women? Not so they can not use it. Men have it because they fight each other and the losers weren’t as reproductively successful. That is, they died, or at “best” were prevented from producing as many (surviving) children.

Human beings, like other animals, are red in tooth and claw. Yes, we are wired for both cooperation and conflict, but in western society we tend to underestimate the conflict because we are particularly good at things like feeding ourselves, so that life-and-death conflict over food doesn’t happen any more. But the hard wiring is still there. Summarizing: Chicks dig jerks with big pecs, and that tells us that plans for world peace are doomed to failure. No, we are not all going to sit around the campfire singing Kumbaya.

Obiter dictum: It’s important to get this perspective into our mindset as our political situation moves from “dress rehearsal” to “it’s showtime!”

Women, Jerks, and Evolutionary Psychology

Women interpret male niceness as proof that the male is not good enough for them. As The Chateau said – commenting on a study that revealed exactly this way of thinking by women – if you’re nice to her she takes that as evidence that she’s too hot for you.

Thus it seems reasonable on the surface to think: Women are the choosers, so you’d better be nice to them. However, the reality is: Women are the choosers, so you’d better be mean to them.

You haven’t understood female evolutionary psychology until that last sentence makes sense to you. If it doesn’t make sense to you – if you think that evolution implies that women should make choices that make them happy – remind yourself of this:

Evolution doesn’t select for happiness. It selects for reproductive success.

So much male confusion about women results from a failure to understand this point. Quite a lot of female sexual behavior is driven by this fact. Women are compelled by their genes to have sex with men who won’t make them happy. An indifferent jerk who places a low value on a female makes her experience a fierce desire to have sex with him.

Presumably the evolutionary driver of this is as follows: Alpha males are the desirable mates (because they can protect and provide for a woman and her offspring). And for that reason, alphas receive sexual attention from many women. This surplus of sexual attention makes an alpha indifferent to any particular woman. Thus women evolved the “short-cut” algorithm of concluding that a man who is indifferent to them is alpha. I don’t mean that women think this through explicitly and “draw conclusions.” Hardly! Rather, it’s an emotional response to indifferent men that evolution has hard-wired into the female brain.

Additionally, women seem to be hard-wired to put out for men who don’t give them much affection in the hopes that the sex will earn the man’s affection. Needless to say, this doesn’t work, but evolution has wired women to think that it will work. It’s one of the motivations women have to mate with alphas. By the way, ladies, this makes no sense, as should be obvious. If I treat you like dirt and you give me sex, do I have any incentive to change how I treat you? Try to answer by thinking with your brain, not your vagina. Your vagina is genetically programmed to come up with the wrong answer. Anyway, a woman is wired to think that if she just puts out for the guy who treats her with contempt, he’ll stop treating her with contempt. (Yeah! And if you give someone a thousand bucks every time he throws a brick through your window, he’ll stop throwing bricks through your window!)

It is also true that in some ways, being with an alpha man makes a woman happy. Many (all?) women are suckers for emotional roller coasters. Some aspects of being with an indifferent man make women happy and some make them unhappy. Evolution doesn’t care about the “principled consistency” of all this; evolution is the ultimate ideology-free pragmatist. Seeing her boyfriend flirt with the waitress and the waitress flirt back may make a woman unhappy and wet at the same time: Unhappy because it’s a threat to the relationship. Wet because (1) it’s social proof of her man’s desirability, and (2) if she has sex with him ASAP she can yank his attention away from the relationship threat.

Once in a public library I walked past a group of around eighth-grade girls, one of them crying. And it wasn’t gentle weeping.
“Why is he so mean to me?” she wailed.
“Did you break up with him?” one of her friends asked.
“No,” she said through her tears.

God, it is funny, isn’t it? If you look at it from a certain point of view? I remember the incident because it was soon after I started to acquire a clue about female behavior. A couple of years before I would have thought, “Huh. If he’s mean to her I wonder why she doesn’t just break up with him.” This was one of the first times, maybe the first time, that I thought, “Yup. Standard female behavior. She didn’t break up with him because he’s mean to her.”

Anyway, the point is that women aren’t wired to do what will make them happy, but what will optimize the propagation of their genes. These can be the same thing or they can be totally different things; evolution doesn’t give a fuck. It will wire women to be made happy by reproductively optimal behavior if that’s the easiest hack, and will wire them to be deluded about what will make them happy if that’s the easiest.

This is also true for men, at least in principle, but the contradictions don’t seem as important for male sexual behavior as for female sexual behavior.

Jim in the comments at his blog:
(Backup link for WordPress’s magic Disappearing Links feature: https://blog.jim.com/culture/women-like-sexual-coercion/ )

Female behavior in sexual matters is not well described by utility maximization. They react to stimuli, rather than optimizing long term utility. They want what they do not want, and do not want what they do want.

Male sexual behavior is pretty much utility maximizing – or, which comes to much the same thing, pussy maximizing. Female behavior not so much. What women “like” is not consistent with behavior, nor predictive of behavior.

Red Pill in Fiction: The Maltese Falcon

The red pill aspect of this novel lies in main character Sam Spade’s interactions with women.

MaltFalcCover2
Why does it never rain in this novel? I thought this was supposed to be noir!

This is a very good novel, so SERIOUS SPOILER WARNING. In particular, I’m going to be forced to reveal whodunnit about a murder.

Elisions won’t be indicated with ellipses. I’m not omitting anything important.

The setting: San Francisco, late 1920s.

In the first chapter a Miss Wonderly, a gorgeous redhead, comes to the offices of private investigators Sam Spade and Miles Archer. Wonderly is seeking her sister, who fled from New York City to San Francisco with a man named Thursby, whom Wonderly doesn’t trust. She wants to find her sister and bring her back to NYC. She’s found out Thursby’s general whereabouts on her own, and she gives Spade and Archer enough info for Archer to start tailing Thursby that night. The hope is that Thursby will lead Archer to the sister. By the next morning both Archer and Thursby have been shot dead.


Chapter 4

Spade and Wonderly are talking in her apartment. “Wonderly” now says her real name is Brigid O’Shaughnessy, and admits that she has no sister. She won’t tell Spade anything about why she really wanted Spade and Archer to tail Thursby.

Spade: “Now what are we going to tell the police?”

“Must they know about me at all?” she asked. “I can’t explain now, but can’t you somehow manage so that you can shield me from them, so I won’t have to answer their questions?”

“Maybe,” he said, “but I’ll have to know what it’s all about.”

She went down on her knees at his knees. She held her face up to him. Her face was wan and fearful over tight-clasped hands.

“I haven’t lived a good life,” she cried. “I’ve been bad–worse than you could know–but I’m not all bad. Look at me, Mr. Spade. You know I’m not all bad, don’t you? Then can’t you trust me a little? Oh, I’m so alone and afraid, and I’ve got nobody to help me if you won’t. I’ve nobody else, Mr. Spade. If I thought anybody else could save me would I be down on my knees like this? You’re strong, you’re resourceful, you’re brave. Help me, Mr. Spade. Help me because I need help so badly. I’ve no right to ask you to help me blindly, but I do ask you. Be generous, Mr. Spade. Help me.”

Spade, who had held his breath through much of this speech, now emptied his lungs with a long exhalation between pursed lips and said: “You won’t need much of anybody’s help. You’re good. You’re very good. It’s chiefly your eyes, I think, and that throb you get into your voice when you say things like ‘Be generous, Mr. Spade.'”

Absolutely unmoved by her histrionics, and doesn’t let himself get, er, distracted by the fact that she’s on her knees before him. In other words, he sees through her attempt to play the sex card.

(Also, of course, you probably don’t want to trust someone who gave you a false name and is somehow involved in two murders.)


Chapter 6

The next day Spade and O’Shaughnessy are again at her apartment. Since they’ve last seen each other, one Joel Cairo has hired Spade to recover a statuette of a raptor. This falcon would seem to have nothing to do with O’Shaughnessy… except that Cairo told Spade that Thursby’s murder is connected to the falcon, and we know Thursby has some connection to O’Shaughnessy.

Spade to Brigid O’Shaughnessy:

“I saw Joel Cairo tonight,” he said in the manner of one making polite conversation.

Gaiety went out of her face. There was a long pause before she asked uneasily:

“You–you know him?”

“I saw him tonight.” Spade maintained his light tone.

“Well, what did he say?” she asked with half-playful petulance.

“He offered me five thousand dollars for the black bird.”

She laughed, dropped the cigarette into a tray, and looked at him with clear merry eyes. “And what did you say?”

“Five thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

She smiled, but when he looked gravely at her, her smile vanished. In its place came a hurt, bewildered look. “Surely you’re not really considering it,” she said.

“Why not? Five thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

“But, Mr. Spade, you promised to help me.” Her hands were on his arm. “I trusted you. You can’t–” She broke off.

Spade smiled gently into her troubled eyes. “Don’t let’s try to figure out how much you’ve trusted me,” he said. “You didn’t say anything about any black birds.”

“But you must’ve known or–or you wouldn’t have mentioned it to me. You do know now. You won’t treat me like that.” Her eyes were cobalt-blue prayers.

That last sentence is beautiful writing. It’s made all the more forceful by the fact that O’Shaughnessy is a psychopathic liar.

“Five thousand dollars is,” he said for the third time, “a lot of money.”

She lifted her hands and let them fall in a gesture that accepted defeat. “It is,” she agreed in a small voice. “It is far more than I could ever offer you, if I must bid for your loyalty.”

Spade laughed. “What have you given me besides money? Have you given me any of the truth? Haven’t you tried to buy my loyalty with money and nothing else? Well, if I’m peddling it, why shouldn’t I let it go to the highest bidder?”

“I’ve given you all the money I have.” Tears glistened in her eyes. Her voice was hoarse, vibrant. “I’ve thrown myself on your mercy. What else is there?” She suddenly moved close to him on the settee and cried angrily: “Can I buy you with my body?”

Their faces were a few inches apart. Spade took her face between his hands and he kissed her mouth roughly. Then he sat back and said: “I’ll think it over.” His face was hard and furious.

He stood up and said: “Christ! there’s no sense to this.” He took two steps towards the fireplace and stopped, glowering at the burning logs. He turned to face her. “I don’t give a damn about your honesty,” he told her. “I don’t care what your secrets are, but I’ve got to have something to show that you know what you’re doing.”

Again, not befuddled by her – now overt – offer of sex. Notice that he keeps that door open, though. LOL, pimp.

Later Spade and O’Shaughnessy go to Spade’s apartment to meet with Joel Cairo. Outside Spade’s place Archer’s wife Iva, with whom Spade was/is having an affair, is waiting in a car. Spade continues with Brigid into the lobby and asks her to wait a minute.

“That’s perfectly all right,” Brigid O’Shaughnessy said, sitting down. “You needn’t hurry.”

Spade went out to the sedan. When he had opened the sedan’s door Iva spoke quickly: “I’ve got to talk to you, Sam. Can’t I come in?” Her face was pale and nervous.

“Not now.”

Iva clicked her teeth together and asked sharply: “Who is she?”

“I’ve only a minute, Iva,” Spade said patiently. “What is it?”

“Who is she?” she repeated, nodding at the street-door.

“What is the matter?” he asked. “Has anything happened? You oughtn’t to be here at this time of night.”

In other words, “Keep outta my bidness, woman!” He doesn’t try to placate Iva and he doesn’t give in to her demand for info. He basically just presents a brick wall.

“I’m beginning to believe that,” she complained. “You told me I oughtn’t to come to the office, and now I oughtn’t to come here. Do you mean I oughtn’t to chase after you? If that’s what you mean why don’t you say it right out?”

“Now, Iva, you’ve got no right to take that attitude.”

“I haven’t any rights at all, it seems, where you’re concerned. I thought I did. I thought your pretending to love me gave me–”

Spade said wearily: “This is no time to be arguing about that, precious. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

Notice that he neither confirms nor denies the “love” thing. Saying that he loves her would be retarded, because he obviously doesn’t, and it would give her too much hand. But telling her he doesn’t love her would just make her go into histrionics, and he doesn’t have time for that at the moment.

“I can’t talk to you here, Sam. Can’t I come in?”

“Not now.”

“Why can’t I?”

Spade said nothing. [“Keep outta my bidness!”]

She made a thin line of her mouth and started the sedan’s engine, staring angrily ahead.

When the sedan began to move Spade said, “Good night, Iva,” shut the door, and went indoors again.

Brigid O’Shaughnessy rose smiling cheerfully from the bench and they went up to his apartment.

Brigid has good Girl Game. She’s cheerful, both in agreeing to wait in the lobby, and in her demeanor when Spade returns. This makes a sharp contrast with Iva’s clingy and demanding behavior. Just based on this scene, whom would you rather boink? Or, if you’re a chick, which one do you think most men would rather boink?


Chapter 7

In Spade’s apartment, O’Shaughnessy and Spade are waiting for Joel Cairo. All we know at this point is that O’Shaughnessy became nervous when Spade told her Cairo is in San Francisco.

She stood in front of him, close. Her eyes were wide and deep. “I don’t have to tell you how utterly at a disadvantage you’ll have me, with him here, if you choose.”

Spade smiled slightly without separating his lips. “No, you don’t have to tell me,” he agreed.

“And you know I’d never have placed myself in this position if I hadn’t trusted you completely.” Her thumb and forefinger twisted a black button on his blue coat.

Spade said, “That again!” with mock resignation.

“But you know it’s so,” she insisted.

“No, I don’t know it.” He patted the hand that was twisting the button. “My asking for reasons why I should trust you brought us here. Don’t let’s confuse things. He’ll be here in a moment. Get your business with him over, and then we’ll see how we’ll stand.”

“And you’ll let me go about it–with him–in my own way?”

“Sure.”

She turned her hand under his so that her fingers pressed his. She said softly: “You’re a God-send.”

Spade said: “Don’t overdo it.”

She looked reproachfully at him, though smiling, and returned to the rocker.

He calls out her attempt to butter him up with flattery. This is good because (1) it shows that he’s experienced enough to see through such manipulations, and (2) by rejecting her flattery, he’s showing that he doesn’t care about her approval. As the Chateau would say, he’s not lapping it up eagerly like a thirsty beta.


Chapter 9

After Cairo has left, Spade asks Brigid,

“What’s this falcon that everybody’s all steamed up about?”

She asked: “Suppose I wouldn’t tell you? What would you do?”

“I wouldn’t be too surprised,” he told her, grinning so that the edges of his jaw-teeth were visible, “to know what to do next.”

“That’s what I wanted to know: what would you do next?”

He shook his head. “I don’t see what you’ve got to gain by covering up now. It’s coming out bit by bit anyhow, and give me another day, I’ll soon be knowing things about it that you don’t know.”

“I suppose you do now,” she said. “But–oh!–I’m so tired of it, and I do so hate having to talk about it. Wouldn’t it be just as well to wait and let you learn about it as you say you will?”

Spade laughed. “My way of learning is to heave a wild and unpredictable monkey-wrench into the machinery. It’s all right with me, if you’re sure none of the flying pieces will hurt you.”

She moved her bare shoulders uneasily, but said nothing. For several minutes they ate in silence. Then she said in a hushed voice: “I’m afraid of you, and that’s the truth.”

He said: “That’s not the truth.”

“It is,” she insisted in the same low voice. “I know two men I’m afraid of and I’ve seen both of them tonight.”

“I can understand your being afraid of Cairo,” Spade said. “He’s out of your reach.” [Joel Cairo is obviously, flamboyantly, homosexual.]

“And you aren’t?”

“Not that way,” he said and grinned.

Frankly sexual, no shame about male sexuality.

She blushed. She picked up a slice of bread encrusted with liverwurst. She put it down. She wrinkled her white forehead and she said: “It’s a black figure, as you know, of a hawk or falcon, about that high.” She held her hands a foot apart.

“What makes it important?”

She sipped coffee and brandy before she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “They’d never tell me…”

She gives Spade a story about her, Cairo, and Thursby, and an attempt to get the falcon from some other guy in Constantinople.

Spade mashed the end of his cigarette in his plate. He spoke casually: “You are a liar.”

She got up and stood at the end of the table, looking down at him with dark abashed eyes. “I am a liar,” she said. “I have always been a liar.”

“Don’t brag about it. It’s childish.” His voice was good-humored. He came out from between table and bench. “Was there any truth at all in that yarn?”

She hung her head. “Not–not very much.”

Spade put a hand under her chin and lifted her head. He laughed into her wet eyes and said: “We’ve got all night. I’ll put some more brandy in some more coffee and we’ll try again.”

Her eyelids drooped. “Oh, I’m so tired,” she said tremulously, “so tired of it all, of lying and thinking up lies, and of not knowing what is a lie and what is the truth. I wish I–”

She put her hands up to Spade’s cheeks, put her open mouth hard against his mouth, her body flat against his body.

Spade’s arms went around her, holding her to him, a hand cradling her head, its fingers half lost among red hair, a hand moving groping fingers over her slim back.


Chapter 10

The next morning, while Brigid is still asleep in his bed, Spade finds the key to her apartment in her clothes, slips out, and searches her apartment. LOL!

While this isn’t quite up to the standard of the guy who recently stole his date’s car, then used it to pick up another date, it’s a pretty pimp move.

Later, after Spade has returned to his apartment:

“Now about the bird?” Spade suggested as they ate.

She put her fork down and looked at him. “You can’t ask me to talk about that this morning of all mornings,” she protested. “I don’t want to and I won’t.”

“It’s a stubborn damned hussy,” he said sadly and put a piece of roll into his mouth.

He doesn’t push her, but he doesn’t act like supplicating wuss either.


Chapter 11

Spade and Iva Archer:

Spade: “Where were you the night Miles was shot?”

“Home,” she replied without hesitating.

He shook his head, grinning at her.

“I was,” she insisted.

“No,” he said, “but if that’s your story it’s all right with me.”

“What makes you think I wasn’t home?” she asked slowly.

“Nothing except that I know you weren’t.”

“But I was, I was.” Her lips twisted and anger darkened her eyes. “Effie Perine [Spade’s secretary] told you that,” she said indignantly. “I saw her snooping around. You know she doesn’t like me, Sam. Why do you believe things she tells you?”

“Jesus, you women,” Spade said mildly. [LOL. Notice he doesn’t give her question – which is really just an attempt to start a fight – the dignity of a response.] He looked at the watch on his wrist. “You’ll have to trot along, precious. I’m late for an appointment now.”

“I’m not lying to you, Sam,” she protested.

“Like hell you’re not,” he said and stood up.

She strained on tiptoe to hold her face nearer his. “You don’t believe me?” she whispered.

“I don’t believe you.” He bent his head and kissed her mouth. “That’s all right. Now run along.”

This is pretty good. He calls out her BS but doesn’t stamp his foot about it like a frustrated beta. He basically just says, “LOL bullshit, now scram; I’ve got stuff to do.”

He patted her arms, took them from around his body, and kissed her left wrist. He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her to face the door, and released her with a little push. “Beat it,” he ordered.

He gives her the tender gesture of kissing her wrist to soften the shoving her out the door. After his calling out of her BS the previous night and in this scene, he provides just enough sensitive guy to give her hamster something to chew on. Reading all of this makes me wonder if Hammett was a particular stud hombre, or if our culture was just generally that much more knowledgeable about women circa 1930.


Chapter 14

Spade and Effie Perine:

“The whole damned Perine family’s wonderful,” Spade said, “including you and the smudge of soot on your nose.” [CLASSIC NEG! Maybe Mystery has read this novel.]

She bent her head to look at her nose in her vanity-case mirror. “I must’ve got that from the fire.” She scrubbed the smudge with the corner of a handkerchief.


Chapter 19

The final meeting with all the main characters: Spade, Cairo, O’Shaughnessy, and two others: Gutman, an all-around slimeball who has been chasing the falcon for seventeen years (and is the canonical “fat man” of detective noir), and Wilmer, a young gunman and associate of Gutman. All these people knew each other before they came to San Francisco and bumped into Spade. They are meeting in Spade’s apartment to wait while the falcon is delivered there, and to discuss matters like who will pay whom how much when.

Gutman: “Business should be transacted in a business-like manner.” He opened the envelope, took out the thousand-dollar bills, counted them, and chuckled. “For instance there are only nine bills here now.” He spread them out on his fat knees and thighs. “There were ten when I handed it to you.”

Spade looked at Brigid O’Shaughnessy and asked: “Well?”

She shook her head. Her face was frightened.

Spade held his hand out to Gutman and the fat man put the money into it. Spade counted the money–nine thousand-dollar bills–and returned it to Gutman. Then Spade stood and picked up the pistols on the table. “I want to know about this. We”–he nodded at the girl–“are going in the bathroom. The door will be open and I’ll be facing it. Unless you want a three-story drop there’s no way out of here except past the bathroom door. Don’t try to make it.”

“Really, sir,” Gutman protested, “it’s not necessary to threaten us in this manner.”

Spade was patient but resolute. “This trick upsets things. I’ve got to find the answer.” He touched the girl’s elbow. “Come on.”

In the bathroom Brigid O’Shaughnessy put her hands flat on Spade’s chest and her face up close to his and whispered: “I did not take that bill, Sam.”

“I don’t think you did,” he said, “but I’ve got to know. Take your clothes off.”

“I won’t.”

“All right. We’ll go back to the other room and I’ll have them taken off.”

She stepped back. Her eyes were round and horrified. “You would?”

“I will,” he said. “I’ve got to know what happened to that bill and I’m not going to be held up by anybody’s maidenly modesty.”

“Oh, it isn’t that.” She came close to him and put her hands on his chest again. “I’m not ashamed to be naked before you, but–can’t you see?–not like this. Can’t you see that if you make me you’ll–you’ll be killing something?”

He did not raise his voice. “I don’t know anything about that. I’ve got to know what happened to the bill. Take them off.”

Again, not swayed by her earnest blue eyes and all that.

She undresses and he checks out her and her clothes and verifies that the $1,000 bill is not on her, so is able to force Gutman to admit that he has it. A bit later in Spade’s kitchen:

Brigid O’Shaughnessy was filling an aluminum percolator.

“Find everything?” Spade asked.

“Yes,” she replied in a cool voice. Then she set the percolator aside and came to the door. Her eyes were large and chiding. “You shouldn’t have done that to me, Sam,” she said softly.

“I had to find out, angel.” He bent down, kissed her mouth lightly, and returned to the living-room.

As with Iva earlier, he’s been pretty hardcore with her, so he tosses out a little sensitive-guy stuff.


Chapter 20

This is where everything comes to a crisis point.

The falcon has been delivered and turned out to be a counterfeit. Everyone but Spade and O’Shaughnessy has left Spade’s apartment. But there’s still a problem for Spade: The local cops dislike him, and there are still the unsolved murders of Miles Archer and Floyd Thursby… and since Spade is banging Archer’s wife the cops might use that to convince a jury that he has a motive to kill Archer. Spade (as he explained to everyone in the previous chapter) has to have a fall guy or he’ll get busted – and possibly hanged – for the murder of Archer, and maybe Thursby.

Spade tricks O’Shaughnessy into admitting that she killed Archer. She was hoping to pin the murder on Thursby to get him arrested.

Spade said tenderly: “I hope to Christ they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck.” He slid his hands up to caress her throat.

In an instant she was out of his arms, back against the table, wild-eyed. She said in a parched voice: “You’re not–” She could get no other words out.

Spade’s face was yellow-white. His mouth smiled and there were smile-wrinkles around his glittering eyes. His voice was soft, gentle. He said: “I’m going to send you over. The chances are you’ll get off with life. That means you’ll be out again in twenty years. You’re an angel. I’ll wait for you.” He cleared his throat. “If they hang you I’ll always remember you.”

The sweet words every girl longs to hear!

She dropped her hands and stood erect. Her face became smooth and untroubled except for the faintest of dubious glints in her eyes. She smiled back at him. “Don’t, Sam, don’t say that even in fun. Oh, you frightened me for a moment!”

Spade laughed. His face was damp with sweat and though he held his smile he could not hold softness in his voice. He croaked: “Don’t be silly. You’re taking the fall. One of us has got to take it.”

She took a long trembling breath. “You’ve been playing with me? You didn’t–care at all? You didn’t–don’t–love me?”

“I think I do,” Spade said. “What of it? I won’t play the sap for you.”

“That is not just,” she cried. Tears came to her eyes. “You know it was not that. You can’t say that.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Spade said. “You came into my bed to stop me asking questions. You led me out yesterday for Gutman with that phoney call for help.”

Brigid O’Shaughnessy blinked her tears away. She took a step towards him. “You’re lying if you say you don’t know down in your heart that, in spite of anything I’ve done, I love you.”

His eyes were becoming bloodshot, but there was no other change in his fixedly smiling face. “Maybe I do,” he said. “What of it? I should trust you? You who knocked off Miles, a man you had nothing against, in cold blood, just like swatting a fly, for the sake of double-crossing Thursby? No, darling. Why should I?”

Her eyes were steady under his and her voice was steady when she replied: “Why should you? If you’ve been playing with me, if you do not love me, there is no answer to that. If you did, no answer would be needed.”

Blood streaked Spade’s eyeballs now and his smile had become a frightful grimace. He said: “Making speeches is no damned good now.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t care who loves who. I’m not going to play the sap for you. I won’t walk in Thursby’s footsteps. You killed Miles and you’re going over for it. I can’t help you now. And I wouldn’t if I could.”

She put a hand on his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t help me then,” she whispered, “but don’t hurt me. Let me go away now.”

“No,” he said. “I’m sunk if I haven’t got you to hand over to the police when they come. That’s the only thing that can keep me from going down with the others.”

“You won’t do that for me?”

“I won’t play the sap for you. I don’t even like the idea of thinking that there might be one chance in a hundred that you’d played me for a sucker. Now on the other side we’ve got what? All we’ve got is the fact that maybe you love me and maybe I love you.”

“You know,” she whispered, “whether you do or not.”

“I don’t. It’s easy enough to be nuts about you.” He looked hungrily from her hair to her feet and up to her eyes again. “But I don’t know what that amounts to. But suppose I do? Maybe next month I won’t. I’ve been through it before–when it lasted that long. Then I’ll think I played the sap. And if I did it and got sent over then I’d be sure I was the sap. Well, if I send you over I’ll have some rotten nights, but that’ll pass.” He took her by the shoulders. “If that doesn’t mean anything to you forget it and we’ll make it this: I won’t because all of me wants to–wants to say to hell with the consequences and do it–and because–God damn you–you’ve counted on that with me the same as you counted on that with the others.” He took his hands from her shoulders and let them fall to his sides.

She put her face up to his face. Her mouth was slightly open with lips a little thrust out. She whispered: “If you loved me you’d need nothing more on that side.”

Spade set the edges of his teeth together and said through them: “I won’t play the sap for you.”

She put her mouth to his, slowly, her arms around him, and came into his arms. She was in his arms when the door-bell rang.

Spade, left arm around Brigid O’Shaughnessy, opened the corridor-door. Lieutenant Dundy, Detective-sergeant Polhaus, and two other detectives were there.

Someone’s gotta swing, babe, and it’s not going to be me. I don’t care if you turn those big blue eyes on me and whisper tearfully of love. I won’t play the sap for you.

Presumably most men, even blue-pill ones, wouldn’t take the fall for the woman in this scenario – especially when you’re looking at being hanged! – but I think some men would feel a need to make self-justifying speeches. Spade doesn’t do that. Yeah, there are a lot of words, but he basically stays on point: “I won’t play the sap.” Feminine wiles? Sorry, no dice.

By the way, note how good the writing is here. It’s not striking word choice in the sense of “Her eyes were cobalt-blue prayers,” in fact it’s very simple and stripped down. But that’s stylistically perfect for this kind of scene, because it presents with no distractions its inherent drama:

We have a psychopathic, cold-blooded murderess, looking at the gallows, desperately using everything she has in her ruthless Machiavellian toolkit to try to make a man take the fall for her. She throws everything she has at him. He is crazy about her (for some reason), but resists. Watching O’Shaughnessy on offense here, and Spade swatting down her efforts, is enthralling. This is especially true when you read the whole scene – I’ve cut it for length – and when you come to it after having been through the rest of the novel as build-up. This novel is deservedly a classic.


Thanks to Project Gutenberg for saving me lots of typing.


Index page for my Red Pill in Fiction posts:
https://neurotoxinweb.wordpress.com/2017/11/25/red-pill-in-fiction-index/