I learned a beautiful lesson from life. It is that I should not have quit when I was almost failing, because I was almost failing.
I am currently reading The second sex, the book. It’s also known as the feminist’s bible, the encyclopaedia of feminism, the women, their becoming of women.
Here’s a picture of Simone de Beauvoir with Jean-Paul Sartre.
Sartre once said to Beauvoir that she had the intelligence of a man, which Beauvoir received as a compliment until she realised what it implied.
She says, it implied that the man is a human being and the woman is a female.
In her book, The second sex, she states that one is not born a woman, but one becomes a woman. She accuses the civilization for it.
I have been trying get hold of her work for a while but too much of good literature (and also non-literary stuff) gets in my way. As I finally lay my hands on this masterpiece, I promised to share what I feel would not be worth resisting to.
So what’s my next obsession? Beauvoir’s work.
Man is defined as human being and woman is defined as female.
-Simone de Beauvoir in her book, The second sex
They had their own way of grieving.
Some grieved while they laughed, and some when they shopped for things useless to them.
Some walked aimlessly, and some sang listlessly.
Orange shirts and white shoes, some grieved through colors.
Some added one bit more of everything, a shout, a jump, a stretched nap.
Some ate more, some read more.
They were not happy faces. They were successful faces, filled every bit with ambition.
Running is arguably a great healer of those who face dilemma.
The run makes things disappear.
While running one can’t much see present recede into past, but trust anyone that it does. Present does recede into past. Pebbles and flowers are crushed alike. But you can’t see unless you stop a moment.
You can’t see them, whom once you walked with, sat with, laughed with disappear.
You can hear them but trying to understand what they say would be futile.
Those lotus that fills the ponds, the bougainvillea that grows in your rooftop, the bright yellow dress that your mother wears or the nee blue tile in your bathroom… You can’t see all this. You can’t much smell the wet clay, not can you hear the songs of those who sing to live. You keep running and the only thing you remember to check is how fast you’re running, how quick you need to reach before you begin again. But running will heal of the cries, the slap of dirt. Running will heal you by killing you. But running will heal you. For you will reach, whether it was your place or not. Somewhere. Nobody knows where it is. Keep running. But when you hear the sound of helpless breathlessness and you smell disgust and when your feet jump too high, stop a moment. For those feet might be weary of you.
Because I wanted to pass that moment,
and I believed that it would take only a while,
I kept walking. I kept walking as a blind man would. I kept walking as a deaf man would.
And what do I see? Everyone behind me was shouting. They were shouting to save me.
I had come out too far. I had walked on a hot road of tar. Almost burning tar on which tender, fragile flowers wept.
Now that I was here, they began clapping and cheering. Were they the same people?
I was crying. I wanted to stand there for as long as they let me. I wanted to walk on tar again.
Who does not want to be protected?
And I knew even if that passed, there was more to pass.