Writing "the Best of Men"

The perfect man, we have all been told, does not exist. He is a character confined to the pages of gushy novels and idle dreams. But, indulge me for a few minutes by suspending your disbelief and trying to picture this elusive paragon of chivalry. What would it be like to know the perfect man? By that I don't mean to have met him in passing over a cup of tea or to have shared an entire evening of enjoyable conversation with him (assuming that all conversation with the perfect man would be enjoyable). What if you knew him so well that you spent most of your time in his company? How would you feel? Well, I'll tell you...

You'd be frigging pissed off 90% of the time.

Notwithstanding that your eyes would never get tired of looking at him, this nonpareil man would be so insufferably good that you would eventually find it obnoxious. With the exception of the equally perfect female, all those around our "Best of Men" would have their flaws constantly rebuked and corrected (and if any person is harder to find than the perfect man it must be the individual who actually enjoys being constantly corrected).

Wouldn't you rather correct your flaws by comparing yourself to someone worse than you than someone better? It's no wonder that most writers who attempt to create the perfect hero also insert grossly exaggerated villains.

I would venture to say that we are more likely to correct ourselves through witnessing others' punishments than from the moralising lectures of these perfect men. Keep your Sir Charles Grandisons, your Lord Orvilles and your Mr. Darcys. I am not a perfect woman and I don't care for any perfect man.

~*~

And the point of saying all that was just to let you know that I'm currently writing an essay on the representations of masculinity in Samuel Richardson's "Sir Charles Grandison" and Frances Burney's "Evelina" and therefore, if you don't see a blog post for some time it's because I'm drowning in work.