“Quick! Sharp! On the alert!
Let every gentleman put on his shirt!
And be quick if you please!
Let every lady put on her chemise!”
Though nowadays, a lady’s chemise won’t save her face.
In or out her chemise, however, doesn’t make much difference to the modern woman. She’s a finished-off ego, an assertive conscious entity, cut off like a doll from any mystery. And her nudity is about as interesting as a doll’s. If you can be interested in the nudity of a doll, then jazz on, jazz on!
The same with the men. No matter how they pull their shirts off they never arrive at their own nakedness. They have none. They can only be undressed. Naked they cannot be. Without their clothes on, they are like a dismantled street-car without its advertisements: sort of public article that doesn’t refer to anything.
The ego! Anthropomorphism! Love! What it works out to in the end is that even anthropos disappears, and leaves a sawdust mannikin wondrously jazzing.
“My little sisters, the birds!” says Francis of Assisi.
“Whew!” goes the blackbird.
“Listen to me, my little sisters, you birds!”
“Whew!” goes the blackbird. “I’m a cock, mister!”
Love! What’s the good of woman who isn’t desirable, even though she’s as pretty as paint, and the waves in her hair are as permanent as the pyramids!