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.

An Update from Ireland

It's incredibly hard to feel inspired to write a good post while glancing at the daunting pile of critical essays I should be reading. Still, I am staring at these pages in a computer cluster at NUI Galway...

Ireland is as wonderful as it always has been and the Irish are as fun as I hope they always will be. While I wouldn't want to live here, there's no doubt in my mind that I'd choose to visit Ireland before almost any other place in the world. I have yet to find a place as great as this tiny island-off-an-island-off-the-coast-of-Europe.

Even when the Irish fulfil all stereotypes of being light-hearted and fun they are still shockingly well-informed and perceptive. Their sharp wit can be suddenly reigned in as serious debates about National Identity (intentionally capitalized) capture the interest of the room. The most unassuming people will constantly surprise you with their detailed knowledge of Irish history and their incredible insights into current events.

In my opinion, Ireland is a very particular type of woman. On the outside she is the perfect hostess -known for her talents in music and for the quality of the food and drinks she serves. Her beauty leaves visitors in awe and her welcoming charm ensures that her house is always full of guests. However, there is a side to her that visitors never get to see. Her life has been full of struggles and sorrows as she has seen her possessions seized and her children killed or force to flee and, even within her own home, her children at arms with each other.  Beneath her smiles and graces she is a woman of amazing strength and perseverance and hardly any of her visitors will ever know it.

Living on your own is only occasionally lonely

Despite the fact that I have spent the last month living alone I suppose I don't feel half as lonely as I should. Really, the first week is sort of rough but after that you develop enough of a general dislike for other humans that you really just prefer the cosy cocoon of an empty apartment.  I don't mean to sound like the proverbial old cat lady but I genuinely think that enough time spent alone makes you indifferent to human contact. Perhaps this will change as time goes on but, at the moment, I think I'd fare pretty well on my own.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I would enjoy house arrest. I do still leave the building - It's just that I do so on my own. Nor am I saying that I'd fare well in a lonely post-apocalyptic society. In that case there'd probably be no cable and I'd be absolute crap at rearing my own animals. 

In fact, the only pro of my new found tolerance of solitude is that it forces a certain degree of intellectual reflection. Note, I did not say internal reflection. If anything being on my own has made me even more obtuse to my own shortcomings and even more intolerant of others’ but, being on your own means you don’t have to care!

However, I don’t intend to mislead you by pretending that living on my own has been an entirely positive experience. Being alone also means sacrificing a sense of personal security. Ironically, instead of worrying about the more realistic danger of being robbed, living alone seems to have fueled my, slightly unrealistic, childhood fears. Yes, I am saying exactly what you think I’m saying. Living alone has made me inexplicably terrified of under my bed; in my closet; bathrooms with the lights off; anywhere with the lights off; noises in the night; not having my feet under the cover and keeping my eyes closed for extended periods of time.  Though I should point out that this was not completely unprompted – I blame this almost entirely on the fact that the cable company sees it as their duty to show countless horror movie commercials after 9pm.