begin to comprehend my teachings in a way that allowed me to consider that this difficult lecture had been well worth my trouble.
Margaret had been sitting with the dust in the library examining this passage and comparing it to the sections of Rousseau's
Émile
and Helvétius's A
Treatise on Man
from which it had been concocted. As she read, she felt herself becoming increasingly uncomfortable. It's only eighteenth-century empiricism, she told herself. Discredited, limited, old empiricism. But somehow, these familiar ideas from the past loomed suddenly, strangely, large and threatening.
Margaret had carefully, and she thought rather deftly, made a life for herself which minimized the need for comparison and choice. Comparison meant confusion, chaos. One sought certainty in life. But now it seemed one was meant to seek certainty through comparison. Did that mean there was no certainty in her life? In her marriage to Edward? For if judgment was comparison, why did she think she was happy with Edward? How did she know? How could she judge?
She sat on the couch beside Lily. Edward sat on the chair. Pepe, who had come with Lily, as he often did, sat moodily atop the dining room table eating the last of the lettuce out of the large salad bowl, which he held on his lap.
"Dinner was so divinely ladies mag," said Lily.
"Edward made it," Margaret said. Ladies had nothing on him. Perhaps there should be Edward mags.
Body Electric
and
Ode
and
Edward's Home Journal.
"Pepe, get down," Lily said. "You're spoiling the bourgeois ambiance."
Pepe impassively raised his eyebrows and stayed where he was.
Observe, Margaret told herself, turning away from Pepe, whom she instinctively sensed was best left unobserved. Listen and observe. Then you can compare. Then you can judge. Observe.
Edward's ankles are showing between his socks and his pants. They are white. Fish-belly white. Lily is dressed in a sixties-inspired outfit that includes high lace-up moccasins, patterned tights, a mini miniskirt of crushed purple velvet, and a transparent paisley blouse. Beneath the paisley blouse, her skin is white. Why is the white of her skin different, less fishy, than the white of Edward's ankles? Is it because a shoulder is intrinsically more appealing, less fishy, than an ankle? Or is it that her shoulder in particular is aesthetically superior to Edward's fishy ankle in particular? Is her shoulder really more beautiful than Edward's ankle, or am I trapped in layers of received, culturally determined lies, and it's really Edward's ankle that stands as a thing of beauty?
With some effort, Margaret attempted to listen to what Edward and Lily were saying.
"Our fleet entering the gulf? The gulf? The vaginal gulf!"
"I mean the Persian Gulf."
"So do I."
Never mind, Margaret thought. She wished Till were there. She missed Till, but she was too ashamed to call her. What would she say, anyway? I apologize? Oh, that's okay, Till would answer. Think nothing of it. You've secretly hated my husband, who gave you fame and fortune, for all these years? Why, I'm flattered that you've stayed friends with me when seeing us must have been such a trial for you.
Margaret returned to her musing on the nature of ankles, shoulders, beauty, and truth. Edward's ankles were white, fish-belly white, and so were suggestive of fish bellies. While Lily's shoulders, skimmed by the transparent paisley blouse, were indistinctly white and so were suggestive of—shoulders! The white, hidden and yet apparent, was therefore a conscious color, a decision, a decision made with a purpose, and the purpose was to make the viewer think about how hidden the shoulder was, and by extension to think of what else was hidden. Edward's ankle, on the other hand, was bared thoughtlessly, and so expressed no purpose, in fact expressed the very antithesis of purpose, a lack of interest in the ankle and by extension in his body as a whole.
So, Margaret thought, that is why Lily's shoulder is sexy
Margaret had been sitting with the dust in the library examining this passage and comparing it to the sections of Rousseau's
Émile
and Helvétius's A
Treatise on Man
from which it had been concocted. As she read, she felt herself becoming increasingly uncomfortable. It's only eighteenth-century empiricism, she told herself. Discredited, limited, old empiricism. But somehow, these familiar ideas from the past loomed suddenly, strangely, large and threatening.
Margaret had carefully, and she thought rather deftly, made a life for herself which minimized the need for comparison and choice. Comparison meant confusion, chaos. One sought certainty in life. But now it seemed one was meant to seek certainty through comparison. Did that mean there was no certainty in her life? In her marriage to Edward? For if judgment was comparison, why did she think she was happy with Edward? How did she know? How could she judge?
She sat on the couch beside Lily. Edward sat on the chair. Pepe, who had come with Lily, as he often did, sat moodily atop the dining room table eating the last of the lettuce out of the large salad bowl, which he held on his lap.
"Dinner was so divinely ladies mag," said Lily.
"Edward made it," Margaret said. Ladies had nothing on him. Perhaps there should be Edward mags.
Body Electric
and
Ode
and
Edward's Home Journal.
"Pepe, get down," Lily said. "You're spoiling the bourgeois ambiance."
Pepe impassively raised his eyebrows and stayed where he was.
Observe, Margaret told herself, turning away from Pepe, whom she instinctively sensed was best left unobserved. Listen and observe. Then you can compare. Then you can judge. Observe.
Edward's ankles are showing between his socks and his pants. They are white. Fish-belly white. Lily is dressed in a sixties-inspired outfit that includes high lace-up moccasins, patterned tights, a mini miniskirt of crushed purple velvet, and a transparent paisley blouse. Beneath the paisley blouse, her skin is white. Why is the white of her skin different, less fishy, than the white of Edward's ankles? Is it because a shoulder is intrinsically more appealing, less fishy, than an ankle? Or is it that her shoulder in particular is aesthetically superior to Edward's fishy ankle in particular? Is her shoulder really more beautiful than Edward's ankle, or am I trapped in layers of received, culturally determined lies, and it's really Edward's ankle that stands as a thing of beauty?
With some effort, Margaret attempted to listen to what Edward and Lily were saying.
"Our fleet entering the gulf? The gulf? The vaginal gulf!"
"I mean the Persian Gulf."
"So do I."
Never mind, Margaret thought. She wished Till were there. She missed Till, but she was too ashamed to call her. What would she say, anyway? I apologize? Oh, that's okay, Till would answer. Think nothing of it. You've secretly hated my husband, who gave you fame and fortune, for all these years? Why, I'm flattered that you've stayed friends with me when seeing us must have been such a trial for you.
Margaret returned to her musing on the nature of ankles, shoulders, beauty, and truth. Edward's ankles were white, fish-belly white, and so were suggestive of fish bellies. While Lily's shoulders, skimmed by the transparent paisley blouse, were indistinctly white and so were suggestive of—shoulders! The white, hidden and yet apparent, was therefore a conscious color, a decision, a decision made with a purpose, and the purpose was to make the viewer think about how hidden the shoulder was, and by extension to think of what else was hidden. Edward's ankle, on the other hand, was bared thoughtlessly, and so expressed no purpose, in fact expressed the very antithesis of purpose, a lack of interest in the ankle and by extension in his body as a whole.
So, Margaret thought, that is why Lily's shoulder is sexy
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