February 10, 2009

I’ve always known my taste in women was idiosyncratic, but lately I’ve been trying to give it some more-or-less rigorous definition. The more I read in aesthetics, the more I sense a governing principle in the offing… but it eludes. I still don’t understand why, for example, in this photograph,

Bar Refaeli’s beauty disquiets, summons that onset of powerful but undefined emotions we call ‘a lump in the throat,’ (you’ll admit, that’s one formidable lower left eyelid), while I would never look at this photo

of her twice. I’ve read my fair share of Maxim, thank you: I get the point. Boring.

Maybe I’m letting my stripes show, but I assign disinterestedness a starring role in aesthesis. When judging the beauty of a painted horse, after all, one should not consider how it would ride: so it follows that when women emphasize their potential as sex partners (“how they would ride,” if you will) they become uglier.


One Response to “”

  1. Kate Says:

    but Julian is looking on at his mistress when he claims beauty as just the promise of happiness!

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