(I have to lose weight for an upcoming — minor — operation, and this is the diary of how it makes me feel)
Day Six
A beautiful young waiter was nice to me. This sounds so pitiful. What is beauty? In medieval times one would prostrate oneself before the beloved like a dog. (‘Spaniel.’) Beauty is over, is it not? I am antique to talk about it; immediately you say — what kind of body fascist is he? And what particular type of person is beautiful? But I am adamant, it is about the shape of the neck the curl of the eyelash, the shy look, the man planting his two legs firmly on the ground. But why physical? Oh why so physical? I wish I could answer that; I wish I could answer why I think that if I lose weight I will be more ‘attractive.’ What is attractive? Why not just seek to be a better person? But, nevertheless, I have a body, it has ‘needs’ — as the pejorative cliche goes, and it does things, and wants to do things, and demands attention: to be taken care of (or not). We all have bodies, don’t we? We all may harbour different fantasies of what is beautiful; but must we relinquish the term? I speak in defence of beauty; a beauty that I attest will never go away. Try and deny it; it will assail your eyes and your desires. And go on, admit it, you will always believe somewhere, deep inside you, that what is beautiful on the outside must be beautiful on the inside too.
