From II.4 out of the Mead notebooks
I love those girls with their heads bent over their books, breasts swaying slightly beneath their sweaters to the rhythm of the bus, hair falling forward off their necks, how studious they look, how intelligent; but then again, I love those girls who never open a book, who spend all day lounging in intellectual idleness, sprawled in sybaritic comfort before a flickering screen… in the darkness of the movie theater our hands could touch beneath a shared arm rest.
A crucifix worn at the throat tempts me, draws me irresistibly, entices me to corruption. How I long to suborn those holy girls, lead them down the primrose path to dalliance, replace their God with one older, earthier, of simpler monuments; but then again, who can resist the sadder but wiser girl? All that experience, and she knows what she wants, too, and isn’t afraid to say it.
Or activists. Hairy-legged and short-haired, musk-scented bacchantes, eyes alight with determination and righteous indignation, they must be as furious and energetic in the bedroom, in an elevator, in a field. But then again, those girls who think of nothing but today, of nothing but themselves, of me, ah! What charms in selfishness! Those demanding flirts!
But then again…