Mircea Cartarescu, a Romanian writer became famous for his “Why we love women”, a short essay on why men are fascinated by women. Here’s a tentative translation of this essay for my English readers. Enjoy!
We love women because they have round breasts with nipples that stick out through the blouse when they are cold, because they have big and round bottoms, because they have faces with sweet traits like children’s, because they have full lips, nice teeth and tongues that don’t disgust you.
Because they don’t smell like perspiration or cheap tobacco and don’t sweat on their upper lip. Because they smile to every little child they pass by. Because on the street they walk straight, head up high and shoulders back and don’t react to your look when you’re staring at them like a maniac. Because they transcend with unexpected courage all the servitudes of their delicate anatomy. Because in bed they are daring and inventive not out of perversity but to show you they love you.
Because they do all the minute and annoying chores around the house without bragging about it and without demanding gratitude. Because they don’t read porn or browse porn websites. Because they wear all sorts of cheap jewelry which they match to their clothes according to complicated and incomprehensible rules. Because they paint their faces with the concentrated attention of an inspired artist. Because they have Giacometti’s obsession for slimness. Because they come from little girls. Because they paint their toe nails.
Because they play chess, whist or ping-pong without caring who wins. Because they drive carefully in candy-like shiny cars, waiting for you to admire them when they’ve stopped at a red light and you’re crossing the street in front of them. Because they have a way of solving problems that’s driving you crazy. Because they say “I love you” exactly when they love you less, as a way to compensate.
Because they don’t masturbate. Because every once in a while they experience small aches: a small rheumatic pain, a blister, and then you suddenly realize that women are people too, people just like you. Because they write either extremely delicately, collecting small observations and outlining subtle psychological nuances, or brutally and scatological lest they be suspected of feminine literature.
Because they are amazing readers for whom three quarters of the world’s prose and poetry is written. Because Rolling Stone’s “Angie” drives them crazy. Because they’re mad about Cohen. Because they are at a totally inexplicable war with cockroaches. Because even the toughest business woman wears underwear with heartbreaking laces and flowers. Because it’s so weird to hang your woman’s underwear on the clothesline, these tiny wet things, black, red and white, in sateen and lace, marveling at what small parts they need to cover.
Because they never shower before making love, but only in movies. Because with them there’s no reaching an agreement on another woman’s or man’s beauty. Because they take life seriously, because they seem to truly believe in reality. Because they are really interested in who’s dating who in television. Because they remember the names of actors, even the most obscure ones. Because if unaltered hormonally the embryo always develops inside a woman. Because they’re not thinking how to screw the cute guy they see on the metro. Because they drink stuff like Martini Orange, Gin Tonic or Vanilla Coke.
Because it’s only in commercials that they touch their ass. Because the idea of rape excites them only in men’s minds. Because they are blondes, brunettes, redheads, sweet, warm, cute, because they always have an orgasm. Because if they don’t have an orgasm they don’t fake it. Because the most wonderful moment of the day is the morning coffee, when during one hour you nibble on biscuits and plan your day. Because they are women, because they are not men or anything else. Because we came from them and we go back to them, and our mind revolves like a heavy planet, always, always only around them.