For every man, there is a yoke into whose traces he will gladly leap -- whose burden he will carry unto death, even beyond if he could. A yoke fitted perfectly to his shoulders, and engraved with a name only he can know. Sometimes it reads "Hate", sometimes "Love", or "God", or "Country", or a thousand other worthies -- a lover, a cause, a memory, a dream.
Women are not like this. But we can see that men are. This is the greatest secret that we know.