"Maybe a little bit of both, plus a general understanding of how certain men operate," he admitted. He'd heard it all far too often, and perhaps even been somewhat guilty of it in his younger years. By this point in his life, he'd known many intelligent, insightful, and fascinating women. Too many to allow him to hold onto the poorly formed opinions of his youth. Gertrude Stein had all but slapped that cheek out of him, anyway.
He laughed happily when she told him about his own work; there was something just wonderful about the idea of her standing her own and defending his writing for him against the idiocy of the next generation's so-called men. "Oh, well, sure. If they're not super soldiers or actively fighting the patriarchy, preferably with massive guns, then they're weak, right?" he smirked. "Why would he think that there's any kind of strength involved in the daily life of last centuries women?" he shrugged. "Plus, they were meant to be seen through the eyes of the male protagonist, you've got to trust the reader to see that they've been idealised, warped through their gaze, and see the truth beyond that. Oh, my God, I'm boring myself-" he laughed, not particularly wanting to go on and on about his own damn writing. He wasn't that man. He wasn't a writer. He had to stop pretending that he was.
Ernest gave her a soft smile and a nod, trying to convey that it was okay as he saw her expression change. He didn't think talking about his death was a particularly fun topic, but he didn't want her to worry about it either. "See, there you go. It could absolutely be the making of you. Before you can write anything, first you've got to live, have as many different experiences as you can... there's not really any better place for it. Even if you do feel like you've clearly gone fucking crazy at least five times a day for a while."
Ernest gave her a nod and got to his feet. "Oh, I know you would," he assured her before heading over to get their order.