“A woman with your potentialities,” he proclaims wide-eyed, his arms outthrown to illustrate her far-flung positions. “You are not one but many women. You’ve got a fantastic problem between Spinoza and being a playgirl in Acapulco,” he exclaims. “How will you resolve this?”

She senses her peril. In a minute he will make the initial move to resolve this conflict for her which she cannot, which no woman alone can resolve for herself.

“It’s no problem. I told you I am writing a novel. The truth of the matter is that I’ve never read Spinoza.”

“Baby, I saw your publications on display in the lobby, but it’s understandable that you should want to deny it; the conflict between your intellectual passion and your femininity, just as I was telling you. It’s obvious you’re worried I’m less attracted to you because you read Spinoza.”

“I swear to God I’ve never read Spinoza. As for my degrees and publications—ancient history. If you must know, my husband made me do it.”