IF you were born a man, you wouldn’t worry about being unsafe, especially at night. You wouldn’t have to make use of a pretty face to hide your intelligence. You don’t have to listen to nasty remarks when you sleep with someone you like.
People won’t tell you sin was born, the day you picked an apple from that reckless woman, called Eve. You’ll be able to disobey without being derided and love without fearing pregnancy. You don’t have to pay an odious homage to blood every month or to take great pride in yourself, without being laughed at…nor bear sous, only to be slaughtered at war!
The simpatico is whom you will agree to have dinner, even if you’re not hungry; the antipatico is someone with whom you wouldn’t go to dinner even if you’re starving. Simpatico is someone for whom you would jump into the river, in winter to save from drowning: the antipatico is someone you would calmly observe drowning in the river and refuse to go and help him, even if it’s is a very hot day in summer and you are dreaming of having a nice swim.
I cannot remember a time in my life when an interesting man was not the object of my interests, if not search. Unlike some women, I’ve never had the patience of an educator, nor the zeal of a reformer. You see, I prefer the finished product: not a man incapable of growth, but one who must have managed to acquire those perceptions, tastes and attitudes, which constitute, to me, the measure of my man’s worth.
What was my yardstick? Well, in my younger days, my preliminary judgments were largely visual, elegance in appearance and manners. I believe that class is elegance and price gently influencing — the old notion of refinement, a kind of carriage, a way of moving and dressing, use of voice and hands that proclaimed a being superior in perception and attainment, who doesn’t bludgeon sensibility and obliterate taste. There should be a refinement of behavior that commensurates with the possession of money and comforts; to discriminate between healthy freedom and sick license, in his demeanor.
A man who has never been exposed to other societies can not be interesting. I am speaking of a reasonable familiarity with foreign cities and peoples, art and customs. For the wholeness of a man to me suggest, primarily, a refinement of the senses. The eye that has not appreciated Michelangelo’s David in Florence or the Cathedral of St. Basil is not a sophisticated eye. The hand that has not felt the rough heat of the ancient walls in Siena, or the sweating cold of Salzburg stein of beer, is an innocent hand. So are the fingers that have not traveled, in conscious and specific savoring, over the contours of many different women.
You will recognize this man across the room. Easy in his clothes, hand well-groomed, oh no, not manicured. He does not laugh loud or often. He looks directly at the woman he speaks to, but he is not missing others as they enter, a flick of the eyes does it. For in all ways this man is not obvious. He would no more appear to examine a woman up than he would move his lips while reading. His senses are trained and his reflexes quick. And how did he get that way? From experience, observation, and deduction, he is educated in life.
I do not mean the elegance of diplomats, French actors, or Italian Princes. They are not real enough, He could simply be that boy next door, who would hold your hand with proper lightness and look into your eyes just long enough to create surface tension, who, in a well-modulated voice won’t rush you. He makes a flattering show of savoring your intelligence (and if my intellectual efforts are at this disposal, why not every material resource I possess?) and is not overcome by Pinot Noir or long black eyelashes. He doesn’t beguile – his sophistry is natural. He knows that the ardent look can be more effective than a hasty grab; the amorous lurch is not a compliment to me.
How he lives and what he surrounds himself with is index enough of his charm or lack of it. Are there no classics on his bookshelves? Does his record cabinet bulge with rock or jazz but lack Bach, Verdi or Prokofiev? A simple man is a limited man. His heart may be gold, but his company will be leaden. I am beginning to think other women will find this, my idea of a man, as an urbane monster — effete, affected, immoral, snobbish even unreliable, call it my romantic hubris.
He is certainly urbane, but with an appreciation of the natural world high in his category of perceptions. A man unaware or unmoved by the sea is merely half alive and as for the imputed defects, I do not hold them as such. Instead of effete, I would say civilized, instead of affected, effective; instead of immoral, curious; instead of snobbish, superior.
He is kind to those who are weak: generous to those who love him; ruthless to those who will order him around and fierce to the arrogant. This is the man.
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E-mail Mylah at [email protected].
