Declaration before Arrival
No city, however perfumed by rain, can confer completion upon a man who has arrived internally unfinished. Not Bangkok at dusk, with its impossible gold and electrical orchids. Not Paris, whose waiters have long ago ceased to be impressed by the spiritual emergencies of visiting men. One may go everywhere and remain, with great logistical sophistication, nowhere at all.
The world is full of people pouncing upon things because they are afraid the thing may vanish before it can testify to their existence.
They pounce upon beauty. They pounce upon attention. They pounce upon invitations, photographs, bodies, deals, parties, titles, and the small shimmering objects of social evidence.
They have mistaken appetite for hunger.
Hunger—that frantic insistence that another person, another city, another triumph, another conquest must repair one’s inner vacancy—is a poor master. It turns pleasure into extraction. It makes the admirer needy, the host defensive, the desired person wary, and the evening very long.
The man who is already full may want intensely without behaving as though he is dying of thirst. He sees something beautiful and does not immediately attempt to own it, explain it, invoice it, photograph it, or turn it into proof of his desirability.
The word advertisement has suffered terribly. It conjures neon promises, frightened brands, men shouting into cameras about miracles for the lower abdomen. Yet there is a nobler form of advertisement: the clear presentation of one’s nature so that nobody must waste precious life deciphering a false signal.
To advertise oneself magnificently is not to boast. It is to spare others the labour of guessing.
What could be more merciful than clarity?
The evasive man, by contrast, keeps himself behind seven curtains and calls the darkness depth. He wants to be pursued, interpreted, forgiven, and applauded for mysteries which are often merely poor communication in an expensive coat. He leaves a trail of mixed signals behind him and then wonders why the room feels drafty.
No: let us be brighter than that. Attention is a currency more intimate than money. To give it freely is beautiful; to give it resentfully is a form of self-betrayal.
