Man

A genuine man was as unusual a phenomenon as a genuine woman.

For men, or so, in that moment however mysteriously, their beating hearts told them- were fathers, husbands and lovers who enjoyed behaving in a manly fashion. Men liked to act in a superior manner, bragging, sometimes even crowning with vanity: they were as ridiculous as roosters. Under their display, most of them madly melancholy and childish, now simple, now greedy, now dull and insensitive.

I loved man for genuinity, most resolute, just that and no more, the way a rock is a rock.

A man who is not trying to prove anything by raising his voice or rattling his hand, who does not crow, who asks no favour except those himself can grant, who does not look to women for either friendship or maternal comfort, who has no wish to hide in love's embrace or behind a women's skirts; a man who is only interested in buying or selling without hustling or greed, because every atom of his being, every nerve, every spark of his spirit and every muscle of his body, is devoted to the power that is life: that kind of man is indeed the rarest of creatures.

For there were mummy boys and men's soft hands, and there were loud and boastful men whose voice has grown croaky declamining their feelings to women, and they were vulgar, uncultured and panting kind of men- none as real.

There were the handsome, who cared less for women than for their own beauty and success. And there were the merciless, who stalked women as though they were enemies, their smiles sticky as honey, who carried knives beneath.

And then occasionally, just occasionally, there was just a man. So real, that you know he’s the one. The one in the millions, we call exception. So, what’s the chance to meet one?