I love the very idea of Woman, that Fiction of an abstract and universal essence where Life, Beauty and Care have a unified human shape.
From the nudes of marble goddesses beyond my intelligence, to the abandoned, deformed, mutilated or battered old female bodies on the side-walks of this town, I recognize a unique mode of being body and ground and relation that awakens my subtlest selflessness, the selflessness intrinsic to the experience of being vis-'a-vis that reality, always still missing in myself, and necessary to approach and attain Fulfillment.
What's a woman? An invitation to improve and expand the reasons for living. A cry disclosing the sense of Dying-for-something!
Aiming at self-perfection is the dynamic answer of anyone confronted with a woman, be it the most abstract and unaccessible idea, as for cloistered men. Likewise, all crimes against humanity, that is, against other-centered self-actualization, are forms of sacrificing the possibility of meaning, our womanhood.
Simultaneously, I love the concreteness and singularity of every woman, and here no Idea is illuminating. Therefore, love unfolds surrounded by vast forests of silence. Only proper names and shared narratives can develop this uncertain endless understanding.
"La reconnaissance de la Femme m'implique dans le drame de l'admiration absolue."
Men are so ridiculous and vulnerable and fruitless whenever they do not recognize their female origins and live thereby in complete absurdity - total deprivation of. Thus, all misogyny entails self-hatred and suicidal tendencies.
"C'est toujours une femme qui m'apporte le salut au moment de la chute."
Think of a woman: gratitude and humility, apprenticeship.
