"Schulz was successful with women and knew that he was."

I am still under the spell of your charming metamorphoses. . . You may think that I'm allowing myself to be taken in, that I'm pinning a deep interpretation on the playfulness of ordinary coquetry. Let me assure you that coquetry is something very profound and mysterious, and incomprehensible even to you. It is plain tht you cannot see this mystery and that to you it must present itself as something ordinary and uncomplicated. But this is a delusion. . . I don't know how it happens, but you are playing with the keys to the Pit. I don't know if you are familiar with everyone's abyss of perdition or only with mine. In any case, you are moving with light, somnambulist ease on that cliff's edge I avoid in myself with fear and trembling, where the gravel shifts underfoot. I have to assume that you yourself are probably safe. You detach yourself lightly and delicately from the one who has lost his footing and let him slide into the abyss by himself. For a few steps you may actually pretend you are losing the ground under your feet, confident that at a certain point the parachute will open and carry you off to safety. With all this, you remain genuinely innocent and, as it were, unconscious of what you are doing. You are truly the victim, and truly all the guilt falls upon him who bears within him that abyss whose rim you carelessly set foot on. (Letters 206-9)

Schulz weaves a hypnotic circle of language around himself and his woman of the moment, seducing by submitting, first creating the woman in his prose, and then overpowering her exactly by turning her face from him and placing himself at her feet.

 Let me tell you truthfully that fear of loneliness is not the deepest motive linking me to Jozefina. Would you believe me when I say no woman has ever bestowed such feeling and such passionate love on me? I will certainly never in my life find another being so completely filled by me. This great feeling of hers enslaves and obligates me. I couldn't throw away a feeling like this, which comes to one once in a lifetime. It is beyond my strength. (1936, Letters, 138)

The idea of not being sufficient to fill some vessel that might await him -- a new place, an expectation, a woman -- seemed to haunt him.