Man is willing to accept woman as an equal, as a man in skirts, as an angel, a devil, a baby-face, a machine, an instrument, a bosom, a womb, a pair of legs, a servant, an encyclopaedia, an ideal or an obscenity; the one thing he won't accept her as is a human being, a real human being of the feminine sex.
In the coastal strains of music full of lovers hopes and dreams upon, wearing only warmth, fresh scent of the ocean and delightfully joyous smile...I look deep in your dark gloomy ochi 'cross the oceans and lands between us, am aware by sweet memories your heart is tortured...and you are for eternity mine...
The woman is not just a pleasure, nor even a problem. She is a meniscus that allows the absolute to have a shape, that lets him skate however briefly on the mystery, her presence luminous on the ordinary and the grand. Like the odor at night in Pittsburgh’s empty streets after summer rain on maples and sycamore.