.
As witty as she’s pretty, she’s who every lady
in a gentlewoman’s novel wants to be.
Parsing out
the delicacies of her watchful
sensibilities and luck,
.
without of course in any way broadcasting
her advance,
she’s found she is the central presence
with whom
every man must dance. She chooses
confidants
.
and confidences with an almost playful
sense
of mild unguarded ease – a touch of tease
–
and yet a breath, though never taken
heavily,
.
that something more than nothing may well
be
at stake. She is the cake and they are
eating it
and she is eating it: there always will
be more. Ears
.
she favors with her secrets are both
known to be
deserving, and deserving. Perhaps this
sounds
self-serving: as if her main pursuit
resides in publicly
.
performing her appeal: ministering only
to the very
knowing, deeper minds, more handsome
brows –
those gentlemen who have a feel for depth
and value
.
and who can’t not fall in love with every
ripple
of her surreptitious sense of the absurd
– so fresh
with laughter! – touched with nearly
negligible sighs.
.
This is neither solipsistic nor unwise.
Wondrous things
get said in bed with human treats as
fully formed
and sweet as she. Play it to the hilt, my
dear: release
.
your talent for the balances of volupté
and every
elegant, sharp, brilliant bit of evidence
you have
amassed of what you’re more than certain
.
is persuasive re: the wars of soul and
class
in Proust. Perhaps assume a looser stance
onstage today. Love the play. Be the
play.
.
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