Woman

by Anthony M. Ludovici

We must always remember, too, that the complicated and wearing responsibility that man has always cheerfully undertaken, of ordering Life and mastering nature, is an arduous and very onerous business, and that those men who have fulfilled their obligations to their social instinct most scrupulously and honestly, have frequently come to their journey’s end without having been able to cast more than a glance of hearty encouragement and tender affection at the women they passed on the road, however positive may have been their feelings towards them.

When we see a whole regiment, or two or three regiments, present arms, or slope arms simultaneously, so that the glint on their rifles seems like one flash that illuminates the whole multitude in the same second of time; when we see one policeman suddenly make a clear channel through the congested traffic of Cheapside, in order that a fire-engine may dash through to perform its work of rescue; or when we watch the rhythmic and regular movements of a corps de ballet, keeping strict time with a well-conducted orchestra;—a mysterious thrill passes through us, a magic breath of cool air seems to lap the lower regions of our spine, and for some reason which we do not stop to analyse, we feel uplifted, exalted, in mystic and glowing fusion with something deep and distant, buried far away in the history of our race.

What is this mysterious thrill, this cold shiver? It is intensely pleasurable. It is the only purely non-sexual thrill that in any way approaches the sexual thrill. Its importance, therefore, to us and our lives must be enormous. For the fact that it is poles asunder from sexuality, ought to make us see that here we have something, a deep instinct that is not reproductive, which is capable of feeling immense bodily pleasure.

As a matter of fact, this cold shiver is one of the most infallible signs of profound unqualified approval that our body shows. When it is felt deep down in the back, man may conclude with absolute certainty that one of the strongest, most vital and most necessary chords of his nature has been touched and set vibrating. For the fact that it is the body that speaks here, is, I repeat, a proof that we are concerned with an instinct, and not with an act of intellect. It is always possible to make quite sure of this distinction by remembering that the body never participates in an act of intellect. When the intellect apprehends anything, the body, remembering its superior rank, and its superior age, remains coldly distant and unaffected. For the intellect, as Schopenhauer rightly observed, is the servant of the body, and not vice versâ. And the body does not share either its servant’s triumphs or pleasures.

Conversely, when the body apprehends something by means of its instincts, its servant—the intellect—is all agog, intensely interested, watchful and helpful; the intellect “stands by” and is ready to seek ways and means by which the body may speedily be guided to the object of its longing or to the consummation of its desire—no matter what the instinct be that is providing the momentum.

All bodily thrills, then, are very important; because they signify that the superior part of one, the older, more traditional, more unalterable, and more untractable part of one, is gratified, acquiescent, deeply approving what happens to be taking place.

This fact is most significant, particularly in regard to all that is going to follow in this book.

The thrill of the sexual union is easily explained and disposed of once and for all:—It is the superior, the oldest, most traditional, and most unalterable part of us—our body—approving the act of procreation, which promises a continuation and a multiplication of Life.

Now my claim is that this other thrill, which, in its different way, is just as pleasurable as the thrill of sexual union, is also an act of bodily approval—but of what?

Let us consider in what circumstances this thrill is felt. I have said that it is when we see a large body of troops manœuvring in such a manner that the movements of the whole multitude are as the movements of one man. I have said that it is when we see one single man in blue step into the midst of the torrent of vehicles in Cheapside, put his hand up, and clear, as if by magic, an open thoroughfare for the fire-engine to dash through on its mission of mercy and of rescue. I have said also that it is when we see the rhythmic movements of a corps de ballet adjusted to perfection to the regular beat of a fine orchestra.