A beautiful woman with long eyelashes is like nothing else I’ve ever seen. I don’t care to replace her with an apple pie, or a Bugatti, or the complete works of Milton.
I’m an old-young bastard. I’ve been around the block once or twice or 78 times. I write on this blog, which I love to do; and I read all the others, which I kinda like too. I don’t want to put the beautiful woman on a pedestal, because no person warrants that, young or old or male or female or beautiful or ugly. I don’t want to confuse her physical beauty with actual moral dignity. Moral dignity is something that all humans are born with in some minimum amount, and something we must all earn much more of if we wish to be more than mere children.
I read the Spearhead, and it is good. I read Ferdinand Bardamu, and it is good. I read Roissy in DC and sometimes it is really, really good. I’m sure if I search back in the archives, I can find the praise of beautiful women per se in all those sites. I know Roissy has written on it, and for all his haters, his passion for beautiful women is more real and human than any dry, analytic criticism someone dribbles his way. This is all prologue just to say: please don’t bother me in the comments with warnings that I need to “get past my Madonna-Whore complex” or that “Women are the devil,” or that they are the moral equivalent of children. Yes, yes. I know, dear friends. But a life lived without joy is a sad plot of dry sand indeed.
And what brings me joy? Lots of things… when my team wins, when I get fuckloads of money from a new contract, when the cheese tastes just right, when I touch down in some new city I’ve never seen before. Above all that, a beautiful woman brings me joy.
There’s nothing like a beautiful woman with curvy hips and a sweet smile. The way she talks, the way she thinks. She turns her head to one side and her mind flashes back over all her experiences, good and bad, before she answers a question. The shape of her nose, be it straight or curved or hooked. That inconceivable brilliance of her hidden smile when she shyly laughs at something you say.
A beautiful woman is truly irreplaceable. I don’t mean that one girl is irreplaceable (although sometimes she seems that way). Of course it’s a vast sea with plenty of fish. I mean that a beautiful girl, whoever she might be, gives me a happiness that no other being can’t quite fulfill. That’s why I can’t really be a “Man Going his Own Way.” I like women too much.
Learning about the way women really are, the way they really think, is 100% indispensible. Putting them on a pedestal because your heart swoons is a terrible mistake, one most of us have made at one time or another. But an equally terrible mistake is to let yourself swing so hard to the other end of the pendulum that you hate women. Good God, don’t hate women. They’re so lovely, they offer so much. As long as you aren’t confused as to what, precisely, they offer, you are safe.
Beauty is a good in and of itself. I’m not an environmentalist, but I sympathize with those who try to preserve beautiful vistas. They might often have their priorities confused, but a thing of beauty has value in and of itself. One should not deny this, on penalty of forfeiting one’s soul.
The best women I have ever known have an appreciation of their own beauty. They value it. The best women I have known aren’t self-absorbed or arrogant, but they have a deep knowing of the value of their own loveliness. It’s not a cynical knowledge of the value it gives them on the dating market (though, if they are smart, they understand that, too). It’s more of a an aesthetic appreciation of their own sweet existence. Just like the best men I have ever known have an appreciation of their own dignity, and by extension their “beauty” as human beings. Human excellence is a jewel-like thing. A great slam-dunk is just as elevated as a perfect pas-de-deux. If I ever throw out the baby with the bathwater — if I ever lose my love of beautiful women because I’ve become so cynical about sex relations — well then, it will be time to hang up my spurs and call it a game. (Count the mixed metaphors!)
Even the current struggle between feminists and realists is just another episode of the greater drama of the beauty of life. Sure, I take sides. I take the side of the realists, firmly and enthusiastically. But I just can’t become such a partisan of any side (feminist or realist, atheist or theist, Democrat or Repulican… the list goes on), that I let my partisanship rob me of my joy. To know it’s all a game and to still partake anyway: this is the best way I’ve found to live my life.
And thanks to Jah or Allah or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the beauties keep coming my way. I relish their eyes, their arms, their lips. Their beauty may not earn them moral dignity, but it gives them worth. Real, honest worth. And when someone hands me a satchel of gold, I’m not about to throw it in the river based solely on some calcified notion of “principle.” Praiséd be the beautiful girl, and praiséd be the life that lets one enjoy her. That’s what all this is about, after all.