The best slave does not need to be beaten, she beats herself
Not with a leather whip or with stick or twigs
Not with a blackjack or a billyclub but with the fine whip
Of her own tongue and the subtle beating of her mind against her mind

For who could hate her half so well as she hates herself?
And who can match the finesse of her self-abuse?

Years of training are required for this
Twenty years of subtle self-indulgence
Self-denial until the subject
Thinks herself a queen and yet a beggar
Both at the same time
She must doubt herself in everything but love
She must choose passionately and badly
She must feel lost as a dog without her master
She must refer all moral questions to her mirror
She must fall in love with a cossack or a poet

She must never go out of the house unless veiled in paint
She must wear tight shoes so she always remembers her bondage
She must never forget she is rooted in the ground

Though she is quick to learn and admittedly clever
Her natural doubt of herself should make her so weak
That she dabbles brilliantly in half a dozen talents
And thus embellishes but does not change our life

If she's an artist and comes close to genius
The very fact of her gift should cause her such pain
That she will take her own life rather than best us
And after she dies, we will cry and make her a saint