The Magic of Women
Some people declare difficulty with the formulation “I pray to God”, as they find it ludicrous to state as a certainty that God exists. I have no doubt of God’s existence, but I doubt my own. Not to burden a legitimately self-occupied reader with my own dreary problems, but I’ve never been quite sure that I exist; and have always considered myself, at best, a figment of someone’s imagination. As that imagination cannot (as per supra) be my own, imagine my consternation. Work both distracts and fulfils me.
It brings me great joy. But this joy, yet again, is that of non-existence. In work I am happy, as I am subsumed, and, so, again, “not there”. I am sure many philosophers (the bulk, no doubt, German) have felt as I, and have expressed themselves, if not more cogently, at least in longer or more compounded words. I have felt fairly certain that I exist in dealing with my children, their needs taking precedence – at most times – over my troubled state; and with women.
I like women. I have a perfect marriage; most of my colleagues, over the years, have been women. I think I get along with them, in the main, better than I do with men. I find it easier to spend extended time with women than with men. This essay prompts me to ask why, and to respond that, I believe, it is because I feel they do not care if, in fact, I exist.
It brings me great joy. But this joy, yet again, is that of non-existence. In work I am happy, as I am subsumed, and, so, again, “not there”. I am sure many philosophers (the bulk, no doubt, German) have felt as I, and have expressed themselves, if not more cogently, at least in longer or more compounded words. I have felt fairly certain that I exist in dealing with my children, their needs taking precedence – at most times – over my troubled state; and with women.
I like women. I have a perfect marriage; most of my colleagues, over the years, have been women. I think I get along with them, in the main, better than I do with men. I find it easier to spend extended time with women than with men. This essay prompts me to ask why, and to respond that, I believe, it is because I feel they do not care if, in fact, I exist.
Women, to me, are much more interesting than men, who run to type with a depressing regularity. And there is seldom a male interchange free of invidious comparison. Who, each assesses, is wealthier, smarter, stronger? Women make such assessments, too, but of the man per se, not of the man as a potential adversary.
Perhaps this is why I find their company so restful.
Then, there is sex. Call me limited, but I still find it astonishing: that a woman would allow or desire me to do that...?
This may be attributable to the sclerotic self-image described above. For, indeed, I have known men who take women’s sexuality completely as a matter of course.
Many of these men have been that which an earlier age described as “successful with women”.
This is not to say that I have not behaved boorishly, or even inexcusably, with women. I have, and, should I roast in hell, it will be with a sense of justice served.
But these men I write of were, notably, devoid of that sense of gratitude mentioned above.
I don’t know whether success was due to straightforward bluntness or relief on the part of their women. Perhaps to both.
Perhaps the men were as those Polynesian islanders of the Bounty Era who, sailors related, took sex truly as a matter of course. Perhaps these successful men were untouched by a sense of gratitude. Perhaps this freed them to act in a manner, finally, more responsible than my own.
In any case, my particular experience of women, neurotic or whole, has been of their generosity.
Perhaps I simply find it erotic; but, then, what is the difference? Great US philosopher Eric Hoffer wrote this in his seventies, mourning the coming of age and the attendant passage of the “magic glow of desire”.
We live in a world curiously prudish and puritan. Sexuality may be decried as licence or permitted as pornography. But it cannot simply be acknowledged. That a word has “sex” in it, and that one may pronounce it is, in these times, an erotic adventure.
’Twas said of old that two of the world’s most beautiful sights are fear in a man’s eyes and desire in a woman’s. Each, of course, indicates surrender. This is a display of a different order than mere acquiescence – we may find gratification in acquiescence, but we will not find beauty. Men do not surrender well. Their capitulation, in these dishonest times, usually has in it an element of sullen reserve: “But wait ’til next time.” The Japanese swordmasters wrote of a state of conquest called “to hold down the pillow”. Here, the beaten opponent is, spiritually, rendered unable to raise his head to look upon his victor; he has been truly subdued. This opponent has made the ultimate acknowledgment: that his life is no longer his own. The woman overcome by desire has, similarly, if only temporarily, pledged her life.
For the period of erotic transport she has removed herself, and, so, her lover, from the sad hypocrisy of the world and its endless negotiations.
Here, rather than triumph, a transient and reversible emotion, the attendant may feel awe.
We live in a world curiously prudish and puritan. Sexuality may be decried as licence or permitted as pornography. But it cannot simply be acknowledged. That a word has “sex” in it, and that one may pronounce it is, in these times, an erotic adventure.
’Twas said of old that two of the world’s most beautiful sights are fear in a man’s eyes and desire in a woman’s. Each, of course, indicates surrender. This is a display of a different order than mere acquiescence – we may find gratification in acquiescence, but we will not find beauty. Men do not surrender well. Their capitulation, in these dishonest times, usually has in it an element of sullen reserve: “But wait ’til next time.” The Japanese swordmasters wrote of a state of conquest called “to hold down the pillow”. Here, the beaten opponent is, spiritually, rendered unable to raise his head to look upon his victor; he has been truly subdued. This opponent has made the ultimate acknowledgment: that his life is no longer his own. The woman overcome by desire has, similarly, if only temporarily, pledged her life.
For the period of erotic transport she has removed herself, and, so, her lover, from the sad hypocrisy of the world and its endless negotiations.
Here, rather than triumph, a transient and reversible emotion, the attendant may feel awe.
The magic of women is their frankness.
Men are, in the main, prevaricating, temporising and pathetic creatures. We do not deal well with loss, success or change. Women seem to handle these more effectively.
Perhaps this is an effect of their less equivocating biology: pregnant is pregnant, for all of our contemporary fascination with sanctimony.
Speaking of which, our modern temporal religion has set out, as do all religions, to regulate sex.
Our effort lacks both the mystery of the Catholic and the rationality of the Jewish faith. It is just good old-fashioned wish fulfilment: Canute has commanded the sea, and the sea will, of course, obey.
But, as the Christians and the Jews have long known, the sea will continue to be its own master – we will be both driven and driven mad by our sexual urges, and reiterating failed commands will not increase their efficacy.
Unsanctioned sex and sex acts are shameful and have implications, we’re told. Everyone, meanwhile, continues doing what comes naturally – but, perhaps, with increased anxiety, and, so, diminished joy.
In our day, we are deprived of the frankness of a Mme de Staël and that of Pee-wee Herman: those things not specifically allowed are forbidden. What a dreary prospect.
How grateful, then, is frankness. It is the most charming of feminine characteristics.
When coupled with simplicity, it may be known as freshness; with experience, sophistication.
It makes bearable the pain of bad, and increases the happiness of good, news. It is the very opposite of pomposity, encouraging the hearer towards an unencumbered world view, and it is particularly the province of women, and of the good woman most especially.
Men are, in the main, prevaricating, temporising and pathetic creatures. We do not deal well with loss, success or change. Women seem to handle these more effectively.
Perhaps this is an effect of their less equivocating biology: pregnant is pregnant, for all of our contemporary fascination with sanctimony.
Speaking of which, our modern temporal religion has set out, as do all religions, to regulate sex.
Our effort lacks both the mystery of the Catholic and the rationality of the Jewish faith. It is just good old-fashioned wish fulfilment: Canute has commanded the sea, and the sea will, of course, obey.
But, as the Christians and the Jews have long known, the sea will continue to be its own master – we will be both driven and driven mad by our sexual urges, and reiterating failed commands will not increase their efficacy.
Unsanctioned sex and sex acts are shameful and have implications, we’re told. Everyone, meanwhile, continues doing what comes naturally – but, perhaps, with increased anxiety, and, so, diminished joy.
In our day, we are deprived of the frankness of a Mme de Staël and that of Pee-wee Herman: those things not specifically allowed are forbidden. What a dreary prospect.
How grateful, then, is frankness. It is the most charming of feminine characteristics.
When coupled with simplicity, it may be known as freshness; with experience, sophistication.
It makes bearable the pain of bad, and increases the happiness of good, news. It is the very opposite of pomposity, encouraging the hearer towards an unencumbered world view, and it is particularly the province of women, and of the good woman most especially.
Proverbs 31 is known as “The Woman of Valour” and is traditionally read by the Jewish husband every Sabbath to his wife. It enumerates frugality, temperance, circumspection and application as among the virtues of the good woman. But I was puzzled by this verse: “Her husband is known in the Gates when he sits among the elders of the Land.” Why should the accomplishments of the husband be found in a poem dedicated to those of the wife? Pondering at length, I have coupled my question to an observation. We know of the man perhaps overlooked or ill-valued; a slight acquaintance or colleague, perhaps. We later meet his wife and find her to be without blemish: straightforward, upright, strong, considerate and kind. We reason that if this woman found the man acceptable, he must possess virtues unrevealed by our cursory examination. And he is, thus, known in the gates because of his election by his wife. I have found in women the magic to inform, to reform, to incite, to instruct. It may be that I have been fortunate in my associations (as I have, indeed) and that a mindlessly egalitarian sensibility might condemn my experiences as “anecdotal”, which is to say unscientific; but, then, I am not writing about science, but magic.
Posted by The Correspondent
on 12:53. Filed under
