[It bloody well is for him to tell, or at least to offer his own opinion, which is more of what Rosalind's really after. And she opens her mouth to say so, except he continues on, and she ends up scowling.]
[Not that he's so careless, but he certainly puts on that he is. Rosalind pauses for a few seconds, and then goes on, her tone a little less heated.]
I'm prideful because it was a method to get what I wanted in a world that was hellbent on denying it to me.
I've told you how misogynistic my world was. Pride was a useful solution. I already had the intelligence and talent . . . if I acted as though I was the best, as though it was foolish to even consider doubting me, things turned in my favor. People were left in my wake. If I acted like I was the greatest, sooner or later I'd become so.
[Of course, there were downsides. No friends, no lovers . . . selfish, that's what people call her, and that's the least of it. She'd not been at all popular, but on the other hand, she had accomplished her goals, and one can't have everything.
She'd known what it was she wanted. And nothing comes for free.]
And on the opposite end of the scale . . . I don't know if you can understand it, Ardyn. Not without understanding the common thinking of my time. Women are-- were-- considered inferior in every respect. It wasn't an opinion, it was fact. Women were supposed to be sweet and loving and nurturing; they were supposed to be forbidden, the mysterious, the subtly sexual and primly pure other half that no man could possibly understand. And above all, they were supposed to be stupid.
So if I wanted to succeed in a field that was decidedly unfit for women, it meant I couldn't be a woman. I couldn't be-- I couldn't have those emotions. Not any of them. Being angry would mean I was irrational; being upset would become hysteria. Happiness meant I was flighty, but pride . . . they could call me selfish or stuck up or snobbish, but they couldn't deny my pride had a decent point of origin, because my inventions were that brilliant.
So. A display like Wyver, or the one you subjected me to . . . that would render me weak. It would mean the end of my career. To shatter my pride would to be to shatter my entire life, Ardyn.
[A few seconds pass. She adds more mildly:]
Was that self-aware enough, or shall I lean on Freud a bit more?
no subject
First of all, you can kindly end that patronizing tone of yours. I'm very well aware of why I act the way I do. Secondly, yes, I rather think that is an answer you owe me-- if nothing else, you might share your own blasé approach to life.
[Not that he's so careless, but he certainly puts on that he is. Rosalind pauses for a few seconds, and then goes on, her tone a little less heated.]
I'm prideful because it was a method to get what I wanted in a world that was hellbent on denying it to me.
I've told you how misogynistic my world was. Pride was a useful solution. I already had the intelligence and talent . . . if I acted as though I was the best, as though it was foolish to even consider doubting me, things turned in my favor. People were left in my wake. If I acted like I was the greatest, sooner or later I'd become so.
[Of course, there were downsides. No friends, no lovers . . . selfish, that's what people call her, and that's the least of it. She'd not been at all popular, but on the other hand, she had accomplished her goals, and one can't have everything.
She'd known what it was she wanted. And nothing comes for free.]
And on the opposite end of the scale . . . I don't know if you can understand it, Ardyn. Not without understanding the common thinking of my time. Women are-- were-- considered inferior in every respect. It wasn't an opinion, it was fact. Women were supposed to be sweet and loving and nurturing; they were supposed to be forbidden, the mysterious, the subtly sexual and primly pure other half that no man could possibly understand. And above all, they were supposed to be stupid.
So if I wanted to succeed in a field that was decidedly unfit for women, it meant I couldn't be a woman. I couldn't be-- I couldn't have those emotions. Not any of them. Being angry would mean I was irrational; being upset would become hysteria. Happiness meant I was flighty, but pride . . . they could call me selfish or stuck up or snobbish, but they couldn't deny my pride had a decent point of origin, because my inventions were that brilliant.
So. A display like Wyver, or the one you subjected me to . . . that would render me weak. It would mean the end of my career. To shatter my pride would to be to shatter my entire life, Ardyn.
[A few seconds pass. She adds more mildly:]
Was that self-aware enough, or shall I lean on Freud a bit more?