06

It may well be that life emerges out of war between the genders, the so-called 'gender war', but the more a man, or mature male, desires peace the less he can have to do with gender and the more aloof from gender confrontation he must be. The 'man of peace' is likely to be a solitary celibate, not a practising heterosexual or, indeed, homosexual. Cultural and religious geniuses are normally inclined to celibacy in a relatively or even absolutely solitary lifestyle, appropriate to the endorsement of otherworldly values within a metaphysical framework. I have always mistrusted geniuses – or so-called 'men of genius' – who were neither celibate nor solitary, including the likes of J.S. Bach and Igor Stravinsky. The greatest geniuses were ever solitary celibates, men like Beethoven and Brahms, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. Even Baudelaire and Huysmans would largely seem to approximate the mould.

The twentieth century, by contrast, signifies the collapse of the otherworldly idealism of the greatest nineteenth-century geniuses, who were no friends of science or industrialism, by unleashing female freedom on the back of two industrially-fuelled world wars. This is the actual beginnings, the painful birth-pangs, as it were, of the modern age, and it is one of the least peaceful ages in history. In fact, it is truly awful. But somehow civilization survived, and it may be that, for those of us who live in the twenty-first century, civilized progress will again be truly possible, without the threat and actuality of war. Meanwhile the female will continue, in freedom, to war on the male, even without reference to the 'increase and multiply' ethos of the Old Testament that would appear to give her carte blanche, in this regard, to do her undamndest, so to speak, and work free will to a free spirited end, which is the maternal pride that comes from the expression of beauty.

Going against the grain of life, based as it is in war, not least in relation to gender, is no easy matter but, in truth, a painfully uphill task. But if you give in or surrender to the basic terms of life, beyond, that is, the basic necessities, then there is no hope, no prospect of an alternative world, otherworldly in character, and no higher culture, which is to say, metaphysical culture triumphant over pseudo-metachemical pseudo-civility in an apotheosis of civilization only intimated at within the church-hegemonic framework of Roman Catholic tradition. You will simply have civilization at a low ebb, emerging from war, or even the barbarous abandonment of civilization in favour of war and the enhancement of power. And, as you should know, if only from bitter experience as a man, power wars on contentment as, lower down from the ethereal realms of space and time to the corporeal realms of volume and mass, glory wars on form, making even the survival of ego somewhat uncertain.

A timely thud from a female neighbour – at any rate I can only presume such in the circumstances – would appear to indicate that she has somehow 'cottoned on' to the fact that I am writing my thoughts down again, which, as you well know, do not favour, much less encourage, female emancipation.

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The planet may look 'beautiful' from outer space, but what takes place on it, not least in the seas, can be extremely ugly in its predatory intensity and sheer ruthlessness, its necessity-driven brutality. Aesthetics, in any context, is apt to be shallow in its depiction of and fascination with the mere surface impression of things, and I suspect that the view from outer space gives rise to the most shallow of all modes of aesthetics.

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Outside, the rain pours down, not for the first time in recent days, and it looks set to continue for several hours, if not all day. One feels under the cosh, more so as an adult male, I suspect, than would a woman habituated, as they generally are, to varying degrees of objective imposition.

Often I write more on wet days than I do on dry or sunny days. Which I suppose is par for the course, as they say. Though, as a self-proclaimed thinker, I have to ensure that I do not get carried away … by my pen.

Now the rain hurtles down with what seems like a cynical disregard for human feelings, entirely oblivious of human or, indeed, any form of life.

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