Does a Children’s Story NEED Gay Kangaroos?

In The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There, a fantasy novel variously categorized as children’s or young adult– no, I’m not going to provide a link– writer Catherynne Valente launches a psychotically vicious attack on traditional marriage. Don’t worry, though; she’s not against all relationships: She also includes pro-homosexual propagandizing.

Soon after our heroine enters Fairyland, the poisonously hateful attack on marriage commences. It comes in the form of the Hreinn, creatures who if captured by hunters must do all their cooking, sewing, etc., for them, as well as bearing “the hunters’” children. This is not at all subtle in its bizarre feminist editorializing about traditional marriage being female slavery, ZOMG!!!! Yet the traditional marriage portrayed here has one massive element missing: The man.

What is he doing all day in this rad-fem scenario, while the Hreinn are forced to clean “his” house? Oh, right, working a 40-hour-a-week job to support himself and his wife. All this is completely absent from Valente’s portrayal. The Hreinn (housewives) bitch that they have to cook, but don’t discuss that the man is working to buy the food, or they wouldn’t have anything to cook! OR EAT. They kvetch about cleaning the house. Who is earning the money to pay for the house? Seriously, who is working to pay the mortgage to keep the rain off your brainless little head? In the insane feminist fantasyland, when men say they’re going to work, they’re really just drinking beer and having sex with supermodels while women are doing the housework.

Just in case you’ve ever wondered if feminists are actually as stupid and self-centered as they seem. Talk about “out of sight, out of mind”! If a feminazi can’t actually see you doing the work, it literally doesn’t occur to her that you might be doing work! There seems to be nothing in their heads except for the impressions created by immediate sense data.

“I’m here, vacuuming the rug, and he’s not! Bastard!”
“What do you think he’s doing right now?”
“I don’t know. Never thought about it!”
“Where do you get the clothes you complain about laundering?”
“What do you mean, where do I get them? They come from my closet, duh!”

This is immediately followed by an ethereal “Three cheers for lesbians!” Valente includes a lesbian couple and works in that the poor dears are oppressed. This is because… wait for it… people “look at them askance.” Oh my God! Call Amnesty International! (The funny thing is that since this is fiction, she could have had them getting lynched or whatever. But no, being looked at askance is oppression in this whacko’s worldview.)

The surreal pro-homosexual propaganda continues in a later chapter, where we get underground mining kangaroos, one of which has a gay lover. This is established somewhat elliptically, but that’s the best we can say of it. First, the kangaroo, a male, says of another kangaroo, “he broke my heart.” Now this by itself is ambiguous, but there’s more. The two kangas shared a stone and a few sentences later it is remarked that that kind of stone is for lovers. Oh, barf. What kind of sicko attacks man-woman marriage and feels a need to get in three cheers for gay animal sex?

In a children’s book?! How sick do you have to be to write that?

Must we have stumping for gay sex in a children’s book? Would a reasonable, non-ideological person say that’s the best decision? Is it okay to have just… stories? Just stories that don’t leap up and scream politics in your face?

The Left’s usual party line in this kind of context is, “But they show heterosexual lovers and spouses all the time in children’s books! That’s just as propagandistic!” No it isn’t! Portraying everyday normality, and portraying it as everyday normality, is not propagandistic. Getting up and whacking people upside the head with your special-interest political agenda is. “But…but… in your preferred approach, heterosexual relationships are portrayed as normal!” Yes, because heterosexual relationships are normal, you morons!

Gotta love that “portrayed,” by the way.

“Portraying” the sky as blue is not propagandistic. Portraying the sky as an orange background, with the first-string roster of the 1982 Hartford Whalers written across it in flaming green letters, is propagandistic. That’s because the second one is not true, you fucking psychos!

The thing about the gay sex element is, it isn’t about reproduction, even implicitly, since gay sex is not reproductive. Therefore, what we have here is the portrayal of pure sex, sex for its own sake. In a heterosexual relationship, it is all about reproduction, even if only obliquely, because that’s the entire evolutionary reason that sex exists. So even if your young child asks you questions about a man-woman marriage that force you to discuss the sex, you can mention genital intercourse and segue to having kids. I.e., the sex isn’t just about the sex. Do I actually have to say that sex for the sake of sex is inappropriate in a children’s story? Sex for the sake of sex is pornography. Literally, that’s the definition of pornography. I’m all for porn in its place, but in a children’s story?

What exactly are you going to tell your kid if s/he asks about specifics of these gay lovers? What are these gay kangas doing that makes them lovers, as opposed to friends? Well, they’re either sucking each other’s penises, having anal sex, or giving each other handjobs, or I guess, pawjobs. Or all three. There is nothing here about a reproductive sexual act that has some raison d’etre outside itself. No, there is just a couple of male kangaroos fucking each other in the ass.

In a novel intended for children.

So Catherine Valente is so evil and insane, so damaged, that she spews hate propaganda about man-woman marriage… but presents her ideal fantasy land announcing, “I have seen the future, and it is ass-ramming kangaroos.”

Look, people, I don’t mind adult male kangaroos sodomizing each other, in the privacy of their own San Francisco apartment, if that’s what they want to do. It just has no place in a children’s novel.

In 2016 the Left themselves rejected the short story Space Raptor Butt Invasion for a Hugo Award, apparently on the grounds that it wasn’t really a serious nominee for a Hugo. But we’re supposed to keep a solemn expression on our faces and nod profoundly as we contemplate the loving eroticism of kangaroos sixty-nining. People, Space Raptor Butt Invasion was a joke. And it wasn’t offered to children. Ass-ramming gay kangas is presented as serious, and material for children.

Grok this: The Left is not a political movement. It is sheer evil and insanity that has masked itself as a political movement for strategic reasons.

To put it another way, it is the political arm of insanity. The Left is like Hannibal Lechter in that scene from The Silence of the Lambs in which Lechter carves off the dead cop’s face and places it over his own face as a disguise. The Left is not “political” as healthy, sane people understand the word “political.” It is pure evil in political guise.

The Left gave up its last tiny shreds of sanity years ago. It’s now on the descent into the combination asylum and torture chamber that is Hell. And its goal is to drag everyone else there – including your kids – with it.

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Red Pill in Fiction: Red Pill Romance

I now present to the world my Romance novel written with Red Pill theory in mind.

Title: Ashley and the tall, muscular, preselected leader-of-men tough guy who’s gruff at first and used to be a thug/criminal with a rap sheet, but turns out to be misunderstood and is now reformed (due to our heroine’s appearance in his life!!!), secretly more wealthy than you’d think construction dude

Short title: Canonical Female Porn Romance novel

CHAPTER ONE

Ashley looked out the window. The construction crew was generating a skull-splitting quantity of noise, ripping up the sidewalk with a jackhammer at 6:30 in the morning! (Something about the word “jackhammer” made Ashley a little warm, but she couldn’t quite figure out why. Never mind.)

“Can’t believe it,” she muttered darkly. She threw on her bathrobe and strode purposefully out the door, slamming it to announce her presence. (Something about the word “slamming” made Ashley a little warm, but she couldn’t quite figure out why. Never mind.) She was a strong, decisive, modern woman, and she’d show those construction workers who was boss!

The slamming of the door hadn’t been heard over the sound of the jackhammer. She was forced to walk up to the man operating it and tap him on the shoulder.

He switched off the jackhammer, turned to Ashley, and removed his ear protectors. “Yeah, what?”

“That device is keeping me from sleeping!” Ashley said. “And probably the rest of the neighborhood too!”

“Sorry, miss,” he said. “Gotta do the job.” He put his ear protectors back on and turned back to the jackhammer. She tapped his shoulder before he could start it up again. He turned back and removed the protectors. “What?” His tone was annoyed.

“Sleep,” Ashley repeated. “Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. It’s something humans need. Didn’t your alien overlords tell you that before they sent you here?”

He put his protectors back on. “I’m sorry, miss, but you’ll have to file a complaint with the…” the rest of his reply was lost as he had already turned away and started the jackhammer up again before he had finished.

All right, that’s enough. If I were going to actually write this, which I don’t intend to do any time soon, I’d have it go something like this:

1. Boss of the construction crew comes over and asks Ashley the problem; she tells him. He orders the jackhammer dude to turn it off and do something else. (Leader of men.)

2. However, his behavior toward Ashley is gruff, uninterested, and a little irritated. (Jerky. Plus, uninterested: the girl has to win the guy over.)

3. Ashley tries to go back inside and realizes that she accidentally locked herself out of her apartment when she slammed the door. Thus she looks “charmingly dorky.” (Chicks think “charmingly dorky” is an actual thing. They picture themselves as Meg Ryan or Winona Ryder in one of those shriekingly boring “cute” RomComs from the 1990s. Women! Fuck! [Sorry, ladies. I’m not lactose-intolerant, but sometimes entertainment for women is so cheesy that my reaction makes me feel like I am. The point being, that women make me fart. No, that’s not the point. The point is, God, the cheesiness!]) This auto-lockout on Ashley’s part lets the construction boss – Mike HardPec – do something clever to open the door, thus revealing that he used to be a thief. (Bad boy bad boy bad boy bad boy bad boy ZOMG all hands on clit deck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

4. Over the next few days, it turns out that a few other construction dudes are totally attracted to Ashley, but she is not interested in them. (A woman loves the idea of lots of men wanting her but unable to have her. This contrasts with a man, who wants lots of women to want him so he can go ahead and bang them all.)

5. One morning some dude tries to mug Ashley as she leaves for work, but Mike HardPec beats him up. (Tough guy.)

6. The next evening Ashley sees Mike HardPec in a dive near her house, Mike having gone there for a beer after working on her street. He has a hot babe sitting on his lap when Ashley walks in. The babe is physically perfect in every way but for some reason Mike doesn’t seem that interested in her, at least after he notices ASHLEY WALK IN!!!!!!!!!! ZOMG!!! Ashley would never enter such a low-quality establishment in the normal course of events. (She does, however, have an occasional drink in an expensive, “classy” bar frequented by high-priced lawyers and hedge fund billionaires and so forth, where Ashley goes with her group of three girlfriends, just to get out of the house, mind you, not to put themselves in the proximity of high-socioeconomic-status men, though such men come on to Ashley ALL THE TIME, which she, mind you, just finds tiresome.) Tonight, however, Ash has to go to the dive because they also sell, let’s say, anal dildos. NO!!! Because they also sell Coke and Ashley needs some caffeine to finish the project that…

7. …Her TOTAL BITCH of a boss is making her do faster than is reasonable. Ashley is of course going to defeat this enraging manifestation of intra-sexual competition by the end of the novel. Ash is also going to get a promotion out of it somehow. Also, the bitch boss’s boyfriend is going to totes fall for Ashley, even though Ash has done absolutely NOTHING to encourage this, because she’s such a nice, demure girl, and by the way, is totally not a slut. Rather, the bitch boss’s boyfriend just can’t help himself because Ash is so totes hot. Thus BitchBoss is humiliated as well as defeated.

8. Meanwhile, Ashley’s ex-boyfriend, who is a quintillionaire, is still pining for Ashley. She broke up with him a few months ago. Note SHE broke up with HIM. It was because he was too possessive, because Ashley is so, so desirable. Her ex is tall, good-looking, and well-built, but somehow he just can’t find another woman and forget about Ashley. It’s almost as if Our Heroine is forced to choose between two attractive men!!! Which will she choose? WHICH WILL SHE CHOOSE!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

9. In the end she chooses SURPRISE!!! Mike HardPec. Mike explains that when he was acting all angry and standoffish back in Chapter Ten, it was merely because Ashley is so very attractive that it confused him – he felt like he was losing control of his emotions, it was just so overwhelming how desirable Ashley is – so he freaked out and had to get away from Ashley. But because Ash is so totes awesome in every way, he has now gotten over his committmentaphobia and wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

(Note to women: Men don’t really behave like this. If you’re hot, then I’m going to bang you. It’s simple. “But mightn’t a girl be so overwhelmingly—” Nope. Not after a man is experienced enough to know what to do. (A twelve-year-old boy might get freaked out because he doesn’t know what to do about that chick that has a crush on him. But that’s about lack of experience; different thing.) “But shouldn’t there be complications and dramatic—” No. If you look like Greta Buz and you’re ready to go, then I’m ready to go. I speak for 100% of heterosexual men here. “But you can’t actually speak for 100% of heterosexual men.” Yeah, actually, I can.)

And as they drive off in his million-dollar Ferrari, he explains that he has a lot of money due to inheriting it from a wealthy relative who has died.

Who was a duke in some European country, so Mike now bears that title.

And he finally confesses to her that he’s in a rock band, which is why he had to sneak off all those times – it was for concerts, not to cheat on Ash.

Also, he confesses that he’s a vampire and so has supernatural powers.

THE END

I am definitely NOT releasing this into the public domain. Someday maybe I’ll write it and make a shintillion dollars. (A shintillion is a bazillion to the tenth power.)

Red Pill in Fiction, Classics Edition: Gone with the Wind

Our text today is an obscure novel you’ve probably never heard of called Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. Kidding aside, if you’ve never read it, do so; it’s an amazing novel. Characterization, plotting, pacing, theme, exposition, setting… Mitchell was The Real Deal, a master novelist. So it’s impossible to resist discussing some of the novel’s excellent features as general fiction, along with the “red pill in fiction” stuff.

Programming notes:

1) Here’s a SPOILER WARNING.
2) All page numbers (that I remember to mention, heh) are from the Warner Books paperback edition, 1993.
3) I’ll confine my editing to splicing out irrelevant material. I won’t use ellipses () to indicate splices because they’re distracting. I haven’t cut anything that matters; trust me.

Ready? Okay.

Our setting is Georgia, early April 1861. That sound you hear in the background is, of course, the drums of war.

Let’s start with jerks vs. nice guys. Pages 98-9, our central character, 16-year-old Scarlett O’Hara, first sets eyes on a mysterious scoundrel at a party:

Her eyes fell on a stranger, standing alone in the hall, staring at her in a cool impertinent way that brought her up sharply with a mingled feeling of feminine pleasure that she had attracted a man and an embarrassed sensation that her dress was too low in the bosom. He looked quite old, at least thirty-five. [HEY! – N.] He was a tall man and powerfully built. When her eye caught his, he smiled, showing animal-white teeth below a close-clipped black mustache. He was dark of face, swarthy as a pirate, and his eyes were as bold and black as any pirate’s appraising a galleon to be scuttled or a maiden to be ravished. There was a cool recklessness in his face and a cynical humor in his mouth as he smiled at her, and Scarlett caught her breath. She felt that she should be insulted by such a look and was annoyed with herself because she did not feel insulted.

She dragged her eyes away from his without smiling back, and he turned as someone called: “Rhett! Rhett Butler!”

Rhett Butler? The name had a familiar sound, somehow connected with something pleasantly scandalous.

By coming across as a dangerous bad boy, Butler seizes Scarlett’s attention. She’s attracted, though she’d have to be put on the rack before she’d admit it.

On the other end of the jerk-vs.-nice-guy continuum, what kind of impression does a clingy beta make on Scarlett?

P. 99:
A shy voice behind her called her name and, turning, she saw Charles Hamilton. He was a nice-looking boy with a riot of soft brown curls on his white forehead and eyes as deep brown, as clean and as gentle as a collie dog’s.

Scarlett jerks him around with utterly effortless flirting:

“Why Charles Hamilton, you handsome old thing, you! I’ll bet you came all the way down here from Atlanta just to break my poor heart!”

By this point Scarlett has been established as an accomplished coquette, and you can just see her breezily tossing this line out on autopilot. But the effect it has on its inexperienced target is devastating:

Charles almost stuttered with excitement, holding her warm little hands in his and looking into the dancing green eyes. This was the way girls talked to other boys but never to him. He never knew why but girls always treated him like a younger brother and were very kind, but never bothered to tease him. He had always wanted girls to flirt and frolic with him.

Scarlett continues to toy with him:

“Now, you wait right here till I come back, for I want to eat barbecue with you. And don’t you go off philandering with those other girls, because I’m mighty jealous,” came the incredible words from red lips with a dimple on each side; and briskly black lashes swept demurely over green eyes.

“I won’t,” he finally managed to breathe, never dreaming that she was thinking he looked like a calf waiting for the butcher.

Which is, of course, exactly what he is. Practically in the same breath:

She turned to start up the stairs and her eyes again fell on the man called Rhett Butler who stood alone a few feet away from Charles. Evidently he had overheard the whole conversation, for he grinned up at her as maliciously as a tomcat, and again his eyes went over her, in a gaze totally devoid of the deference she was accustomed to.

“God’s nightgown!” said Scarlett to herself in indignation. “He looks as if–as if he knew what I looked like without my shimmy,” and, tossing her head, she went up the steps.

A moment later she asks another girl who “that nasty man” is and hears about a juicy scandal:

“My dear, don’t you know?” whispered Cathleen excitedly. “I can’t imagine how Mr. Wilkes must feel having him here, but he was visiting Mr. Kennedy in Jonesboro– something about buying cotton– and, of course, Mr. Kennedy had to bring him along with him. He couldn’t just go off and leave him.”

“What is the matter with him?”

“My dear, he isn’t received!”

“Not really!”

“No.”

Scarlett digested this in silence, for she had never before been under the same roof with anyone who was not received. It was very exciting.

“What did he do?”

“Oh, Scarlett, he has the most terrible reputation. His name is Rhett Butler and he’s from Charleston and his folks won’t even speak to him. He was expelled from West Point. Imagine! And then there was that business about the girl he didn’t marry.”

“Do tell me!”

“Darling, don’t you know anything? Mr. Butler took a Charleston girl out buggy riding. She couldn’t have been very nice or she wouldn’t have gone out with him in the late afternoon without a chaperon. And, my dear, they stayed out nearly all night and walked home finally, saying the horse had run away and smashed the buggy and they had gotten lost in the woods. And guess what–”

“I can’t guess. Tell me,” said Scarlett enthusiastically, hoping for the worst.

“He refused to marry her the next day!”

“Oh,” said Scarlett, her hopes dashed.

“He said he hadn’t–er–done anything to her and he didn’t see why he should marry her. And, of course, her brother called him out, and Mr. Butler said he’d rather be shot than marry a stupid fool. And so they fought a duel and Mr. Butler shot the girl’s brother and he died, and Mr. Butler had to leave Charleston and now nobody receives him,” finished Cathleen triumphantly.

“Did she have a baby?” whispered Scarlett in Cathleen’s ear.

Cathleen shook her head violently. “But she was ruined just the same,” she hissed back.

I wish I had gotten Ashley to compromise me, thought Scarlett suddenly [LOL. This is referring to Ashley Wilkes, the man Scarlett is in love with.] He’d be too much of a gentleman not to marry me. But somehow, unbidden, she had a feeling of respect for Rhett Butler for refusing to marry a girl who was a fool.

Examples of female contempt for men they perceive as clueless betas occur at several points. In particular, there are several of these concerning the hapless Charles Hamilton, both before and after Scarlett marries him. (Why does she do this? Keep reading.) Pages 108-110, Hamilton finds himself alone with Scarlett and speaks of the possibility of war:

“If I went–would–would you be sorry, Miss O’Hara?”

“I should cry into my pillow every night,” said Scarlett, meaning to be flippant, but he took the statement at face value and went red with pleasure. Her hand was concealed in the folds of her dress and he cautiously wormed his hand to it and squeezed it.

“Would you pray for me?”

“What a fool!” thought Scarlett bitterly, casting a surreptitious glance about her in the hope of being rescued from the conversation.

“Would you?”

“Oh–yes, indeed, Mr. Hamilton. Three Rosaries a night, at least!”

Charles gave a swift look about him. They were practically alone and he might never get another such opportunity. And, even given another such Godsent occasion, his courage might fail him.

“Miss O’Hara–I must tell you something. I–I love you!”

“Um?” said Scarlett absently, trying to peer through the crowd of arguing men to where Ashley still sat talking at Melanie’s feet.

“Yes!” whispered Charles, in a rapture that she had neither laughed, screamed nor fainted. “I love you! You are the most–the most–” and he found his tongue for the first time in his life. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever known and the sweetest and the kindest, and you have the dearest ways and I love you with all my heart. I cannot hope that you could love anyone like me but, my dear Miss O’Hara, if you can give me any encouragement, I will do anything in the world to make you love me. I will–”

Charles stopped, for he couldn’t think of anything difficult enough of accomplishment to really prove to Scarlett the depth of his feeling, so he said simply: “I want to marry you.”

Scarlett came back to earth with a jerk, at the sound of the word “marry.” [LOL.] She had been thinking of marriage and of Ashley, and she looked at Charles with poorly concealed irritation. Why must this calf-like fool intrude his feelings on this particular day? She looked into the pleading brown eyes and she saw none of the beauty of a shy boy’s first love or the wild happiness and tenderness that were sweeping through him like a flame. Scarlett was used to men asking her to marry them, men much more attractive than Charles Hamilton, and men who had more finesse than to propose at a barbecue. She only saw a boy of twenty, red as a beet and looking very silly. She wished that she could tell him how silly he looked.

The poor guy. He’s so far out of his depth. The passage continues,

But automatically, the words Ellen [her mother] had taught her to say in such emergencies rose to her lips and casting down her eyes, from force of long habit, she murmured: “Mr. Hamilton, I am not unaware of the honor you have bestowed on me in wanting me to become your wife, but this is all so sudden that I do not know what to say.”

That was a neat way of smoothing a man’s vanity and yet keeping him on the string, and Charles rose to it as though such bait were new and he the first to swallow it.

“I would wait forever! I wouldn’t want you unless you were quite sure. Please, Miss O’Hara, tell me that I may hope!”

“Um,” said Scarlett, her sharp eyes noting that Ashley, who had not risen to take part in the war talk, was smiling up at Melanie. If this fool who was grappling for her hand would only keep quiet for a moment, perhaps she could hear what they were saying.

Later the general talk at the party of course turns to the prospect of war. Butler illustrates the playah advice of showing no fear, not worrying about what other people think, and standing by your position without backing down. Holding frame, in other words:

Of all the group that milled about under the trees there was only one who seemed calm. Scarlett’s eyes turned to Rhett Butler, who leaned against a tree, his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets. He stood alone, and had uttered no word as the conversation grew hotter. The red lips under the close-clipped black mustache curled down and there was a glint of amused contempt in his black eyes–contempt, as if he listened to the braggings of children. He listened quietly until Stuart Tarleton repeated: “Why, we could lick them in a month! Gentlemen always fight better than rabble. A month–why, one battle–”

“Gentlemen,” said Rhett Butler, in a flat drawl, not moving from his position against the tree or taking his hands from his pockets, “may I say a word?”

There was contempt in his manner as in his eyes, contempt overlaid with an air of courtesy that somehow burlesqued their own manners.

The group turned toward him and accorded him the politeness always due an outsider.

“Has any one of you gentlemen ever thought that there’s not a cannon factory south of the Mason-Dixon Line? Or how few iron foundries there are in the South? Have you thought that we would not have a single warship and that the Yankee fleet could bottle up our harbors in a week? But–of course–you gentlemen have thought of these things.”

“Why, he means the boys are a passel of fools!” thought Scarlett indignantly, the hot blood coming to her cheeks.

Evidently, she was not the only one to whom this idea occurred, for several of the boys were beginning to stick out their chins.

“The trouble with most of us Southerners,” continued Rhett Butler, “is that we either don’t travel enough or we don’t profit enough by our travels. I have spent the last few years in the North. I have seen the thousands of immigrants who’d be glad to fight for the Yankees for food and a few dollars, the factories, the foundries, the shipyards, the iron and coal mines–all the things we haven’t got. Why, all we have is cotton and slaves and arrogance. They’d lick us in a month.”

For a tense moment, there was silence. Rhett Butler removed a fine linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and idly flicked dust from his sleeve.

The fight that seems to be incipient is prevented only by the intervention of the host.

Pages 127-129: Scarlett has just thrown herself at Ashley Wilkes in a last-ditch attempt to make him break off his engagement to another woman and elope with her instead. It fails. As she stands stunned, trying to absorb this savage emotional blow, Charles Hamilton runs up to her and tells her that the war has started. Scarlett doesn’t give a damn about this, but he mistakes her stupefied shock at her failure with Ashley for a reaction to his news about the war.

“I’m so clumsy,” he said. “I should have told you more gently. I forgot how delicate ladies are. I’m sorry I’ve upset you so. You don’t feel faint, do you? Shall we go sit on the bench?”

She nodded and he carefully handed her down the front steps and led her across the grass to the iron bench beneath the largest oak in the front yard. How fragile and tender women are, he thought, the mere mention of war and harshness makes them faint.

And what is actually passing through Scarlett’s mind?

“He has a lot of money,” she was thinking swiftly, as a thought and a plan went through her brain. “And he hasn’t any parents to bother me and he lives in Atlanta. And if I married him right away, it would show Ashley that I didn’t care a rap–that I was only flirting with him. And they’d all be sorry when I came back here to visit in a fine carriage and with lots of pretty clothes and a house of my own.”

Coolness was beginning to come back to her and her mind was collecting itself. A frost lay over all her emotions and she thought that she would never feel anything warmly again. Why not take this pretty, flushed boy? He was as good as anyone else and she didn’t care. No, she could never care about anything again, not if she lived to be ninety.

Hamilton is still on the war:

“Will you wait for me, Miss Scarlett? It–it would be Heaven just knowing that you were waiting for me until after we licked them!” He hung breathless on her words.

“I wouldn’t want to wait,” she said and her eyes were veiled.

He sat clutching her hand, his mouth wide open. Watching him from under her lashes, Scarlett thought detachedly that he looked like a gigged frog. He stuttered several times, closed his mouth and opened it again, and again became geranium colored.

“Can you possibly love me?”

She said nothing but looked down into her lap, and Charles was thrown into new states of ecstasy and embarrassment. Perhaps a man should not ask a girl such a question. Perhaps it would be unmaidenly for her to answer it. [HUH? Why would that be “unmaidenly”? Whatevs.] But he only squeezed her hand until he drove her rings into the flesh.

“You will marry me soon, Miss Scarlett?”

“Um,” she said, fingering a fold of her dress.

“When may I speak to your father?”

“The sooner the better,” she said, hoping that perhaps he would release the crushing pressure on her rings before she had to ask him to do it.

He leaped up and for a moment she thought he was going to cut a caper, before dignity claimed him. He looked down at her radiantly, his whole clean simple heart in his eyes. She had never had anyone look at her thus before and would never have it from any other man, but in her queer detachment she only thought that he looked like a calf.

“I’ll go now and find your father,” he said, smiling all over his face. “I can’t wait. Will you excuse me–dear?” The endearment came hard but having said it once, he repeated it again with pleasure.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll wait here. It’s so cool and nice here.”

He went off across the lawn and disappeared around the house, and she was alone under the rustling oak. The white house reared its tall columns before her, seeming to withdraw with dignified aloofness from her. It would never be her house now. Ashley would never carry her over the threshold as his bride. Oh, Ashley, Ashley! What have I done? Deep in her, under layers of hurt pride and cold practicality, something stirred hurtingly. An adult emotion was being born, stronger than her vanity or her willful selfishness. She loved Ashley and she knew she loved him and she had never cared so much as in that instant when she saw Charles disappearing around the curved graveled walk.

Wow. Margaret Mitchell does several things astoundingly well here (and the effect is stronger with dozens of pages of context I’ve excluded): What it’s like to be 16 and not in control of one’s emotions, and wildly in love… the pathos of Charles Hamilton, innocent victim of Scarlett and of his lack of knowledge of women… the utter indifference of women, especially attractive young women, to men they perceive as beta… and – moving away from the red pill stuff for a moment – the way that people at first fail to perceive wrenching changes in their world; Scarlett doesn’t give a damn about “Mr. Lincoln’s didoes,” as she thinks of the run-up to civil war (!), and Hamilton foolishly assumes that the Yankees will be licked in a month. (Other passages describe young southern men afraid that the war will be over before they get a chance to fight.) The pathos of this is amplified by the fact that we know that this is going to turn into a four-year firestorm that will devastate the country, and the South in particular. Scarlett and Charles Hamilton don’t know it yet. The phrase “normalcy bias” doesn’t begin to cover it.

Two comments on the art of fiction writing in general:

• The blending of the events of the individual characters’ lives and the events of the Civil War is done about as well as one can imagine. I’ve never seen it done better. I don’t think I can imagine it being done better.

• Scarlett is an unsympathetic character, yet she has virtues: Particularly her determination to get through the hurricane of crap that upends her life and indeed the entire society that was the context of her life. All that, it soon becomes clear, is gone, permanently gone… what’s the novel’s title, again? Through all this, while people like Ashley Wilkes get lost in the past (one understands the temptation, but it’s no use), Scarlett shrugs that off and soldiers on.

But I got off track. What I wanted to say was that even though Scarlett is not a sympathetic character, Mitchell makes us sympathize with her, or at least, to make her function as a synechdoche for every other 16-year-old, male or female. Earlier that day, when Scarlet awoke, we were shown her thinking of how to convince Ashley to elope with her. “Just think!” she ruminates as she’s getting dressed. “This time tomorrow I could be Mrs. Ashley Wilkes!” And we see, in later passages, that she really does love him, even if it is in a somewhat possessive, immature way. Now read again that last sentence quoted above:

She loved Ashley and she knew she loved him and she had never cared so much as in that instant when she saw Charles disappearing around the curved graveled walk.

God. By the time we get here, we really feel the emotional blow. This is the first real loss in Scarlett’s life, this moment in which she realizes she cannot have the man she loves, as a man she doesn’t love rushes away to discuss marrying her with her father.

Amazed admiration for what Mitchell did here. Most authors don’t make you experience anything like this. Mitchell not only makes us feel that emotional blow, she does it even though we’ve just read a hundred and thirty pages revealing how unlikeable Scarlett is.

Female game in GWTW: On pages 174-6 Scarlett ruminates on the ways to lead a man on. Gah, she’s obnoxious. The setting: For reasons I’ve forgotten, Scarlett is sent to live with some relatives in Atlanta. At a charity ball held to raise funds for the Confederate war effort, she’s stuck manning a booth. She can’t dance because she’s a war widow and her husband died less than a year before. It would be appallingly bad form for her to publicly enjoy herself, or indeed to wear a color other than black, under these circumstances.

She considered the unfairness of it all. How short was the time for fun, for pretty clothes, for dancing, for coquetting! Only a few, too few years! Then you married and wore dull-colored dresses and had babies that ruined your waist line and sat in corners at dances with other sober matrons and only emerged to dance with your husband. It seemed such a terrible waste to spend all your little girlhood learning how to be attractive and how to catch men and then only use the knowledge for a year or two. When she considered her training at the hands of Ellen and Mammy, she knew it had been thorough and good because it had always reaped results. There were set rules to be followed, and if you followed them success crowned your efforts.

With young bachelors– You could laugh softly at them and when they came flying to see why you laughed, you could refuse to tell them and laugh harder and keep them around indefinitely trying to find out. You could promise, with your eyes, any number of exciting things that would make a man maneuver to get you alone. And, having gotten you alone, you could be very, very hurt or very, very angry when he tried to kiss you. You could make him apologize for being a cur and forgive him so sweetly that he would hang around trying to kiss you a second time. Sometimes, but not often, you did let him kiss you. (Ellen and Mammy had not taught her that but she learned it was effective.) Then you cried and declared you didn’t know what had come over you and that he couldn’t ever respect you again. Then he had to dry your eyes and usually he proposed, to show just how much he did respect you. And then there were– Oh, there were so many things to do to bachelors and she knew them all, the nuance of the sidelong glance, the half-smile behind the fan, the swaying of the hips so that skirts swung like a bell, the tears, the laughter, the flattery, the sweet sympathy. Oh, all the tricks that never failed to work.

Rhett Butler shows up at this ball and tempts Scarlett into dancing. The entire character of Butler and his wooing of Scarlett – which takes up hundreds of pages, on and off, as he disappears for extended stretches due to war business – is pretty damn red pill. He shows no eagerness for Scarlett and no shame about his “scandalous” behavior. While he is a smuggler, a blockade runner, for the Confederacy, he is explicitly in it for the money. He straight-up tells Scarlett he doesn’t give a damn about her Confederacy. And note that part about disappearing for extended periods: This lets Scarlett know that she is not his first priority. Basic Game concept: “Your girl is not your mission.”

Later, Scarlett’s father Gerald O’Hara visits Atlanta on business. Having heard that Butler was dancing with Scarlett “under dishonorable circumstances” or whatever, he intends to call him out or something. Gerald to Scarlett: “I’m going to see this fine Captain Butler who makes so light of me daughter’s reputation.”

Watch how Rhett handles the situation. Hours later, after Scarlett has gone to bed:

She turned and tossed on the hot pillow until a noise far up the quiet street reached her ears. She slipped out of bed and went to the window. The noise came closer, the sound of wheels, the plod of a horse’s hooves and voices. And suddenly she grinned for, as a voice thick with brogue and whisky came to her, she knew. This might not be Jonesboro on Court Day, but Gerald was coming home in the same condition.

She saw the dark bulk of a buggy stop in front of the house and indistinct figures alight. Someone was with him. Two figures paused at the gate and she heard the click of the latch and Gerald’s voice came plain,

“Now I’ll be giving you the ‘Lament for Robert Emmet.’ ‘Tis a song you should be knowing, me lad.”

“I’d like to learn it,” replied his companion, a hint of buried laughter in his flat drawling voice. “But not now, Mr. O’Hara.”

“Oh, my God, it’s that hateful Butler man!” thought Scarlett, at first annoyed. Then she took heart. At least they hadn’t shot each other. And they must be on amicable terms to be coming home together at this hour and in this condition.

“Sing it I will and listen you will or I’ll be shooting you for the Orangeman you are.”

“Not Orangeman–Charlestonian.”

“‘Tis no better. ‘Tis worse.” With no further warning, Gerald, who was hanging on the gate, threw back his head and began the “Lament,” in a roaring bass.

When the song had finished, two forms merged into one, came up the walk and mounted the steps. A discreet knock sounded at the door.

“I suppose I must go down,” thought Scarlett. “After all he’s my father.” She unlocked the door and saw Rhett Butler, not a ruffle disarranged, supporting her father. The “Lament” had evidently been Gerald’s swan song for he was frankly hanging onto his companion’s arm. His hat was gone, his crisp long hair was tumbled in a white mane, his cravat was under one ear, and there were liquor stains down his shirt bosom.

“Your father, I believe?” said Captain Butler, his eyes amused in his swarthy face.

“Bring him in,” she said shortly, embarrassed at her attire, infuriated at Gerald for putting her in a position where this man could laugh at her.

The next day:

“It’s a fine way you’ve acted, Pa,” she began in a furious whisper. “Coming home at such an hour and waking all the neighbors with your singing.”

“I sang?”

“Sang! You woke the echoes singing the ‘Lament.'”

“Mother of Sorrows,” moaned Gerald, moving a thickly furred tongue around parched lips. “‘Tis little I’m remembering after the game started.”

“Game?”

“That laddybuck Butler bragged that he was the best poker player in–”

“How much did you lose?”

“Why, I won, naturally. A drink or two helps me game.”

“Look in your wallet.”

Gerald removed his wallet from his coat and opened it. It was empty and he looked at it in forlorn bewilderment.

“Five hundred dollars,” he said. [In 1863? Yikes!] “And ’twas to buy things from the blockaders for Mrs. O’Hara, and now not even fare left to Tara.”

Notice how perfectly Butler handles this, from a Game perspective. He can’t knuckle under to Scarlett’s father or he’ll seem like a wuss to Scarlett, and he can’t have that if he wants to get up her skirt. But on the other hand, he can’t challenge Gerald to a duel and kill him, or something in that vein, because he’ll really ruin his chances with Scarlett. (Yeah, chicks like bad boys, but you should probably draw the line at capping off her Dad if you want to bang her.) So Butler handles this perfectly. He draws O’Hara into a card game and takes him for all he has on him. Then he considerately escorts him home. LOL. Pitch perfect.

Also, the fact that he is sober enough to stand, while Gerald is flat-out wasted and hanging on to his arm, makes Butler look relatively in control, and therefore relatively alpha.

By the way, the Butler character was apparently based on a real dude. Wish I could have met the bastard.

Weeks later, Butler gives Scarlett a bonnet. By then, this is a big deal because the Northern Navy’s blockade is starting to make such luxuries scarce.

His black eyes sought her face and traveled to her lips.

Scarlett cast down her eyes, excitement filling her. Now, he was going to try to take liberties, just as Ellen predicted. He was going to kiss her, or try to kiss her, and she couldn’t quite make up her flurried mind which it should be. If she refused, he might jerk the bonnet right off her head and give it to some other girl.

THAT’S what she’s thinking about? It’s astounding, isn’t it? In the middle of a freakin’ war, she’s still that much of a superficial asshole! We continue:

On the other hand, if she permitted one chaste peck, he might bring her other lovely presents in the hope of getting another kiss. Men set such a store by kisses, though Heaven alone knew why. And lots of times, after one kiss they fell completely in love with a girl and made most entertaining spectacles of themselves. It would be exciting to have Rhett Butler in love with her and admitting it and begging for a kiss or a smile. Yes, she would let him kiss her.

But he made no move to kiss her.

Ha! He totally wrong-foots her there. He may be the only man on the planet who knows how to handle her.

More weeks later, a scene between Scarlett and Butler on the porch of the house where Scarlett is staying in Atlanta:

“My dear girl, the Yankees aren’t fiends. They haven’t horns and hoofs, as you seem to think. They are pretty much like Southerners.”

“Why, the Yankees would–”

“Rape you? I think not. Though, of course, they’d want to.”

“If you are going to talk vilely I shall go into the house,” she cried, grateful that the shadows hid her crimson face.

“Be frank. Wasn’t that what you were thinking?”

“Oh, certainly not!”

“Oh, but it was! No use getting mad at me for reading your thoughts. That’s what all our delicately nurtured and pure-minded Southern ladies think. They have it on their minds constantly.”

Scarlett gulped in silence, remembering that wherever two or more matrons were gathered together, in these trying days, they whispered of such happenings.

She could hear him chuckling softly. Sometimes he was odious. In fact, most of the time he was odious. It was awful for a man to know what women really thought about and talked about. [Women hate Game because it penetrates valuable female secrets.] It made a girl feel positively undressed. And no man ever learned such things from good women either. She was indignant that he had read her mind. She liked to believe herself a thing of mystery to men, but she knew Rhett thought her as transparent as glass.

After this, Butler inquires where everyone else is. Scarlett responds that they’re off running errands or whatever. (By the way, she really should not be receiving him in this situation, according to the rules of that society. But people are starting to make some allowances for the war’s disruption – your relatives can’t chaperone you if they’re fighting on the front or serving as nurses in a hospital – and Scarlett is starting to care less what the neighbors say anyway.)

“What luck,” he said softly, “to find you alone.”

Something in his voice made her heart beat pleasantly faster and she felt her face flush. She had heard that note in men’s voices often enough to know that it presaged a declaration of love. Oh, what fun! If he would just say he loved her, how she would torment him and get even with him for all the sarcastic remarks he had flung at her these past three years. She would lead him a chase that would make up for even that awful humiliation of the day he witnessed her slapping Ashley. And then she’d tell him sweetly she could only be a sister to him and retire with the full honors of war. She laughed nervously in pleasant anticipation.

“Don’t giggle,” he said, and taking her hand, he turned it over and pressed his lips into the palm. Something vital, electric, leaped from him to her at the touch of his warm mouth, something that caressed her whole body thrillingly. She had not bargained on this–this treacherous warm tide of feeling that made her want to feel his lips upon her mouth.

She wasn’t in love with him, she told herself confusedly. She was in love with Ashley. But how to explain this feeling that made her hands shake and the pit of her stomach grow cold?

He laughed softly. “Don’t pull away! I won’t hurt you!”

“Hurt me? I’m not afraid of you, Rhett Butler, or of any man in shoe leather!” she cried, furious that her voice shook as well as her hands.

“An admirable sentiment, but do lower your voice. Mrs. Wilkes might hear you. And pray compose yourself.” He sounded as though delighted at her flurry. “Scarlett, you do like me, don’t you?”

That was more like what she was expecting.

“Well, sometimes,” she answered cautiously. “When you aren’t acting like a varmint.”

He laughed again. “I think you like me because I am a varmint. You’ve known so few dyed-in-the-wool varmints in your sheltered life that my very difference holds a quaint charm for you.”

At this point C-3PO enters and announces that the hyperdrive has been fixed.

This was not the turn she had anticipated. “That’s not true! I like nice men–men you can depend on to always be gentlemanly.”

“You mean men you can always bully. It’s merely a matter of definition.”

Nice guys, read that again and take notes.

“But you do like me. Could you ever love me, Scarlett?”

“Ah!” she thought, triumphantly. “Now I’ve got him!” And she answered with studied coolness: “Indeed, no. That is–not unless you mended your manners considerably.”

“And I have no intention of mending them. So you could not love me? That is as I hoped. For while I like you immensely, I do not love you and it would be tragic indeed for you to suffer twice from unrequited love, wouldn’t it?”

“You don’t love me?”

“No, indeed. Did you hope that I did?”

“Don’t be so presumptuous!”

“You hoped! Alas, to blight your hopes! I should love you, for you are charming and talented at many useless accomplishments. But many ladies have charm and accomplishments and are just as useless as you are. No, I don’t love you. But I do like you tremendously– for the elasticity of your conscience, for the selfishness which you seldom trouble to hide, and for the shrewd practicality in you which, I fear, you get from some not too remote Irish-peasant ancestor.”

This is a clinic in negging. Note IT WOULD BE TOO MUCH except for that “I do like you tremendously.” Even with that, it’s on the edge; negs as direct as “useless” and “selfish” are dynamite. Butler pulls it off, natch. Backhanded compliment… or is it a backhanded insult? Hard to tell, thus: PLAYAH!

Peasant! Why, he was insulting her! She began to splutter wordlessly.

“Don’t interrupt,” he begged, squeezing her hand.

I don’t buy the verb “begged” here. It’s out of character. This may be a rare occasion on which Margaret Mitchell’s estrogen temporarily overwhelmed her generally excellent sense of character. That is, she may have temporarily indulged herself in a female fantasy of humbling an alpha male. NB: Women don’t actually want this; but some think they do. I’ve mentioned this before; see my post on the Alpha Trio series.

Butler continues:

“I like you because I have those same qualities in me and like begets liking. I realize you still cherish the memory of the godlike and wooden-headed Mr. Wilkes, who’s probably been in his grave these six months. But there must be room in your heart for me too. Scarlett, do stop wriggling! I am making you a declaration. I have wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you, in the hall of Twelve Oaks, when you were bewitching poor Charlie Hamilton. I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman–and I’ve waited longer for you than I’ve ever waited for any woman.”

God, this is good. Notice the subtle threat in that last sentence, delivered under the guise of a compliment: He’s saying he has waited longer for her than anyone else, but that ipso facto asserts that she’s testing the limits of his patience. Yet he does it in such a smoothly deniable way. Also, it is of course an assertion of preselection: He is saying “Other women have banged me by this point.” But again, in a smoothly deniable way. Some of the scenes between Butler and Scarlett are so spot-on, Game-wise, that it’s hard to believe they were written by Margaret Mitchell and not, say, The Chateau.

She was breathless with surprise at his last words. In spite of all his insults, he did love her and he was just so contrary he didn’t want to come out frankly and put it into words, for fear she’d laugh. Well, she’d show him and right quickly.

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

He dropped her hand and laughed so loudly she shrank back in her chair.

“Good Lord, no! Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t a marrying man?”

“But–but–what–”

He rose to his feet and, hand on heart, made her a burlesque bow. “Dear,” he said quietly, “I am complimenting your intelligence by asking you to be my mistress without having first seduced you.”

Mistress!

Her mind shouted the word, shouted that she had been vilely insulted. But in that first startled moment she did not feel insulted. She only felt a furious surge of indignation that he should think her such a fool. He must think her a fool if he offered her a proposition like that. Rage, punctured vanity and disappointment threw her mind into a turmoil and, before she even thought of the high moral grounds on which she should upbraid him, she blurted out the first words which came to her lips–

“Mistress! What would I get out of that except a passel of brats?”

And then her jaw dropped in horror as she realized what she had said. He laughed until he choked, peering at her in the shadows as she sat, stricken dumb, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth.

“That’s why I like you! You are the only frank woman I know, the only woman who looks on the practical side of matters without beclouding the issue with mouthings about sin and morality. Any other woman would have swooned first and then shown me the door.”

Scarlett leaped to her feet. “I will show you the door,” she shouted. “Get out! How dare you say such things to me! Get out and don’t ever come back here. I’ll–I’ll tell my father and he’ll kill you!”

He picked up his hat and bowed and she saw in the light of the lamp that his teeth were showing in a smile.

Oh, he was detestable! She swung round on her heel and marched into the house.

Scarlett licks her lips, thinking she’s going to get the upper hand…. and then Rhett merely proposes making her his mistress, outraging her and sharply bringing her ego to heel. Ladies and gentlemen, majah playah on the scene!

Later, when Atlanta is aflame, he is escorting her out of the city (circa page 384). But on Atlanta’s outskirts, this man, who has mocked Confederate soldiers as fools who are dying for no reason, experiences a resurgence of old southern sentiments he’d thought he’d excised from himself. He tells Scarlett he is going to abandon her so he can join the Confederate Army.

Livid, she says, “They were right! Everybody was right! You aren’t a gentleman!”

“My dear girl,” says an amused Butler, “how inadequate.”

Amused mastery AND agree-and-amplify.

Whew! There’s more red pill stuff in Gone with the Wind. But this post is pretty long as it is, and I think I’ve conveyed some of the Game-aware interactions. By the way, for deniers who doubt that Game is reality: This was written in the 1930s. By a woman. Incidentally, Butler loses his cool with Scarlett eventually, and Mitchell, whether by perceptiveness or luck, portrays the result correctly: their relationship falls apart. (This also has to do with a big shock that hits them and the fact that Scarlett’s an asshole.) And whether you’re interested in the red pill stuff or not, this is an amazing novel that everyone should read.

Red Pill in Fiction: The French Lieutenant’s Woman

Our text today is John Fowles’s The French Lieutenant’s Woman. There’s a lot to work with in this novel. I’ll focus on the Red Pill stuff and mostly ignore the much-celebrated metafiction aspects: Fowles frequently breaks the fourth wall, reminding you that you are reading a work of fiction, etc.

Warning: The rest of this post is spoilers.

Basic structure: The central dramatic impetus is provided by a standard Drama Queen playing a classic Attention Whore script, specifically, Damsel in Distress. Her goal is to suck the main male character into a Beta-Boy White Knight role, and he chomps down hard on the bait. There are two endings. In one she fucks him over totally. She gets him to break off his engagement to his fiancée, then ghosts. In the other ending, which I guess is supposed to be the happy ending, it’s the same, except that they have a child from the one time they had sex. I’m baffled as to why so many people like this.

Chapter 1 gives us the setting: The year is 1867 and the place is Lyme Regis, an English town on the ocean. Dramatic bluffs are in evidence, and the beach features a prominent landmark: a famous old stone wharf/ pier/ waterbreak/ wavebreak/ whatever.

In Ch. 2 the main male character, Charles Smithson, is walking with his fiancée Ernestina (Tina) Freeman out on the waterbreak. They notice a female figure standing on its end. She’s dressed all in black, standing at the end of this wave-battered rock protuberance, staring pensively out across the gray, wind-whipped ocean. Yes, seriously. I know this is supposed to be Victorian, but could you be any more fucking Gothic? Tina has spent more time at Lyme than Charles and, though the woman’s back is to them, Tina recognizes the figure when they are closer. She whispers to Charles that this is a woman the locals have sardonically nicknamed “Tragedy.” Was there ever a clearer set of warning bells and red flags?! There might as well be a neon sign blinking on and off above her head, saying Warning! Drama Queen Attention Whore! Charles, being a doofus, has his curiosity piqued, and when they have drawn close enough he addresses the woman. She turns toward them and the Drama Queen act begins immediately:

…it was an unforgettable face, and a tragic face. [Oh, for fuck’s sake.] Its sorrow welled out of it as purely, naturally [horseshit] and unstoppably as water out of a woodland spring. There was no artifice there [bullshit!], no hysteria [ha!], no mask [oh please!]…

As you can see already, we’re in for some hard core Drama Queen crap. Oddly the author has already told us the ironic nickname, which puts us on guard and gives us some distance on the drama stuff, and yet he does not seem to be describing this woman’s oh-so-sorrowful countenance with an air of detached irony. We’re not sure what to make of this yet. Is Fowles really intending us to believe that there is no artifice in Tragedy’s over-the-top aura of grief? Or is he describing her not as she really is, but as Charles perceives her? It’s unclear at this point, though by the end of the novel we know that Tragedy is putting up a front.

Ch. 12: A few days later Charles overtakes Tragedy out for a walk. Since they’re headed in the same direction he offers to accompany her. She replies, “I prefer to walk alone.” He makes a random remark or two about a mutual acquaintance, and

Her eyes were suddenly on his, and with a kind of despair beneath the timidity.
“Kindly allow me to go on my way alone… And please tell no one you have seen me in this place.”

Drama Queeeeeeeeeen! That last sentence is the real giveaway. “Please tell no one you have seen me in this place” indeed. That just screams, “Dramatic things are afoot! Dangerous things! I’m in trouble!”

In a way it’s clever of her, because it does three female things all at once: (1) It asserts drama. (2) It invites white knighting (“I’m in trouble!”). (3) It’s shit test, because she’s giving him an order. (No matter how politely it is phrased as a request, women always perceive themselves as giving you an order, if you comply with the request. It’s no good protesting that this is illogical and unfair, because this kind of female behavior does not come from the consciously purposeful parts of her brain.)

Later in that chapter we see another Game concept: Attempted cockblocking by post-wall biddies who never get any, and so who try to prevent others from getting any:

But the most serious accusation against Ware Commons had to do with a far worse infamy… the cart track to the Dairy and beyond to the wooded common was a de facto Lover’s Lane. It drew courting couples every summer. …Some said that after midnight more reeling than dancing took place; and the more draconian claimed that there was very little of either, but a great deal of something else.
…[O]nly a year before, a committee of ladies, generaled by [outrageous bluenose] Mrs. Poulteney, had pressed the civic authorities to have the track gated, fenced, and closed. But more democratic voices prevailed.

Ha! In your face, control freaks!

Ch. 16: Some background that Charles has heard from various people in Lyme: Tragedy – her real name is Sarah Woodruff – had been a children’s governess in a Lyme household. A French ship had grounded itself in a storm. A lieutenant on the ship, one Varguennes, had injured his leg during this incident and the household in which Sarah was a governess had taken him in while he recuperated. All this is publicly agreed information.

After that the details get hazier, but the town gossip is: When Varguennes was healed he left for another town. Sarah eventually followed him there and he seduced her, then returned to France. Thus she is a ruined woman, the French Lieutenant’s Whore, waiting futilely for her lover to return and marry her.

All this is in Charles’s mind when again he and Tragedy/ Sarah meet, in the woods overlooking the ocean. They converse and at one point she warns him, “No gentleman who cares for his good name can be seen with the scarlet woman of Lyme.” Oh for fuck’s sake! Charles points out that it would be better for her to leave Lyme, where everyone calls her the French Lieutenant’s Whore, and set up a new life somewhere else (this is 1867; there’s no Internet trail for her to worry about). Sarah replies that she can’t leave Lyme. Charles assumes she means that she’s waiting for her French dude to come back, and points out that he might not return, and if he does, he’ll track Sarah down if he really loves her.

In reply, Sarah gives Charles her account of what happened. The first part matches the local gossip, but then it diverges: The household in which Sarah was a governess had indeed taken in an injured lieutenant Varguennes. Sarah was the only one who spoke French in that household, so she was the only person with whom Varguennes could converse during his recovery. He charmed her. They were engaged.

When Varguennes was recovered he went to another town for some reason. Sarah eventually followed him there and he seduced her. Then he returned to France and weeks later Sarah got a letter from him saying that he was already married. She knows he won’t return.

According to Sarah, only Charles knows of the fatal letter. Everyone else thinks she is still clinging to hope about Varguennes’s return and their eventual marriage.

Okay, so she’s a ruined woman with a habit of standing on steep windswept bluffs, gazing morosely at the ocean. Her cloak billows out around her dramatically as she rues the sorrowful state to which she has fallen, etc.

Charles asks her, to put it in modern terms, why the fuck she’s still hanging around Lyme if she knows the guy isn’t coming back. Tragedy gives him some bullshit story about penance for her own stupidity or something like that. Her excuse was so transparently stupid and trite that it didn’t stick in my mind.

She’s just hanging around Lyme, where everyone knows she’s a “compromised woman,” with no hope of any payoff. Why? Drraaaaaaammmaaaaaaaaaa! She likes skulking around in her cloak, staring pensively out over the water, being all Tragic.

There’s a Rochefoucauld quote about women and pretense of tragedy which I really must look up. Ah, thank you Internet, here we are, maxim 233 (the number varies from edition to edition):

There is another kind [of grief] not so innocent because it imposes on all the world, that is the grief of those who aspire to the glory of a noble and immortal sorrow. After Time, which absorbs all, has obliterated what sorrow they had, they still obstinately obtrude their tears, their sighs, their groans, they wear a solemn face, and try to persuade others by all their acts, that their grief will end only with their life. This sad and distressing vanity is commonly found in ambitious women. As their sex closes to them all paths to glory, they strive to render themselves celebrated by showing an inconsolable affliction.

Rochefoucauld says, “As their sex closes to them all paths to glory…” because he was writing a few hundred years ago. But note drama queen behavior has not stopped as women’s prospects have expanded.

Ch. 18: Charles suggests that Sarah get out of Lyme, perhaps to London. Her reply:

“If I went to London, I know what I should become.” He stiffened inwardly. “I should become what so many women who have lost their honor become in great cities.” Now she turned fully towards him. Her color deepened. “I should become what some already call me in Lyme.”

LOL. Thank goodness she’s not a drama queen or anything. From the film version, which I once saw playing on a dozen screens in a store’s electronics division:

“I am… the French lieutenant’s… whore.” God, Tragedy’s such a melodramatic asshole. Meryl Streep played her to perfection, at least in the few seconds that I saw.

Now that I think of it, that may be a good way to watch this, if, due to morbid curiosity, you must: On a dozen screens at once, so you are reminded that you are just watching a movie, and thus have ironic distance on it. And since the author wrote this as meta-fiction, he could hardly complain (I mean, even if he weren’t dead).

Ch. 19: Charles speaks about Sarah with Dr. Grogan, a Lyme physician who is also familiar with her case.

Grogan: “Oh now come, is she the first young woman who has been jilted? I could tell you of a dozen others here in Lyme.”
Charles: “In such brutal circumstance?”
Grogan: “Worse, some of them. And today they’re as merry as crickets.”

Grogan tells Charles of another case and concludes, “It was as if the woman had become addicted to melancholia as one become addicted to opium. Her sadness becomes her happiness. She wants to be a sacrifical victim, Smithson.”

Ch. 21: Sarah to Charles. Pure drama queenery. She’s all like, “My shame! My sin!” Blah blah blah. At one point she actually says: “To be what I must be. An outcast.”

Ch. 25: Sarah has a messenger deliver a note to Charles. (By the way, the note is in French. I had to use Google Translate; what the hell did non-French speakers do when this was first published in 1967? Fowles, you asshole. Hmm, maybe this is another metafiction method: Suck the readers out of the story by getting them pissed off at the author.)

I waited for you all day I pray (to) you – a woman on her knees begs you to help her in her despair. I will spend the night in prayers for you. I will be, from dawn, in small barn near the sea reached by the first path to the left after the farm.

Ch. 27: After another drama-filled encounter with Tragedy, Charles consults with Grogan about her again. Grogan puts himself in Tragedy’s shoes:
“I am a young woman [who thinks] the world has done badly by me… What is worse, I have fallen in love with being a victim of fate. I have put out a very professional line in the way of looking melancholy. I have tragic eyes. I weep without explanation… [And now Charles Smithson appears.] I see he is interested in me. The sadder I seem, the more interested he appears to be. … I have but one weapon. The pity I inspire in this kind-hearted man. Now pity is a thing that takes a devil of a lot of feeding. I have fed this Good Samaritan my past and he has devoured it. So what can I do? I must make him pity my present.”

So she does something self-destructive; deliberately gets herself fired from her job. Grogan infers this based on what he knows, and later (Ch. 31, p.199) Sarah admits it.

Grogan finishes by saying that Sarah essentially has a disease of the mind. “You must think of her like that. Not as some malicious schemer.”

No schemer, my ass! That’s exactly what a man in Charles’s position should infer. And indeed, this is what turns out to be the case.

Ch. 46-7: Sarah has in an earlier chapter (start of Ch 43) sent Charles an imperious note: In its entirety: “Endicott’s Family Hotel.” That’s it, not even an initial or a date. Note the implicit command to Charles to go there and, as it were, attend her. He’s being summoned. And without even a pretense of politeness. She’s treating him the way a particularly obnoxious duchess would treat a servant. He fails this shit test, the fool, by actually going there. Though in his defense, he might think he doesn’t have a hell of a lot of choice at this point, since he has gotten himself into a situation that is thoroughly blackmailable by Victorian standards. If he ignores her, there’s a significant chance that this Drama Queen will show up at his fiancée’s house the night before their wedding and start blabbing. Or, worse, at their house a day or two after they return from their honeymoon, ruining their marriage right at its start. Charles has gotten himself into a bad position.

He and Sarah end up fucking at the perhaps inaptly-named Endicott’s Family Hotel, so at least he gets some trim out of all this. But – and there’s a reason for this detail – Charles orgasms almost immediately. The author tells us this, and I think it’s relevant, because it means that all the shit that’s about to land on Charles not only isn’t buying him a good, torrid long-term affair with lots of hot sex; it’s not even buying him one good fuck. It’s one very brief fuck, but it’s enough, we’ll eventually see, to get Sarah pregnant. Oy vey, Charles.

Afterward, he notices some blood on his penis, and figures out that Sarah had been a virgin. (In the heat of the moment he hadn’t noticed plunging through her hymen.) And now you go, with Charles, OH MY FUCKING GOD. Yup: Sarah’s entire story about being “ruined” by the Frenchman was bullshit. There was no affair, at least no sexual one. She’s not actually ruined. When Charles calls her out on this she tells him another story and while we never know if it’s true or false, I think it’s just more bullshit from a psychopathic manipulator.

Her new story is that she followed Varguennes to the new town, and before she could make contact, saw him walking out of a hotel with a woman who was unmistakably a prostitute. She knew she’d been scammed, so she turned around and went back to Lyme. At this point we don’t really know much except that Varguennes seems to actually exist – people besides Sarah have vouched for his existence – but whether there ever was any affair or engagement between him and Sarah we have no way of knowing. For that, we have only the word of a confirmed blatant liar.

Anyway Charles, like an ass, runs back to his fiancée Tina – remember her? – and confesses everything, except the identity of the other woman. Naturally Tina is in shock, and is hurt, and is livid.

In this period breach-of-promise lawsuits were still a thing. In Ch. 56, Tina’s father makes Charles, under threat of such a suit, sign a document confessing everything, and saying that he is forever excluded from being known as a gentleman, etc., and that the father may make use of said document in any way he wishes. Charles’s lawyer finds out that if Charles is ever engaged again, Tina’s father intends to show the document to the woman’s family. “He means you to remain a bachelor all your life.” This is part of what I meant when I referred above to “all the shit that’s about to land on Charles.” Even if he wants to get married, he can’t. (Red-pilled dudes who want to say “ha marriage sux anyway” should keep in mind that this was a time before Marriage 2.0 had legally stacked the deck against men.) Although he could get married in the U.S., where he spends a year or so later.

Ch. 60: Sarah has disappeared. After Charles has been gallivanting about the U.S. for a while, he gets a telegram from his lawyer saying Sarah has been found. He returns to England for this reason, the doofus. Some people never learn. He tracks Sarah down to her new abode, where she is a member – not a servant – of the household of a well-known painter. She says she’s not boinking the painter, but then, she’s a liar. Charles confronts her about being a manipulative psychopath. This is the last scene before the novel forks. The author tells us, in a metafiction aside, that he can’t decide on an ending so he’ll give us two, flipping a coin to decide which will be presented first.

Charles: “You have not only ruined my life. You have taken pleasure in doing so.”
Tragedy: “I knew nothing but unhappiness could come from such a meeting as this.”
Charles: “I think you lie. I think you reveled in the thought of my misery. …You forget I already know, to my cost, what an accomplished actress you can be when it suits your purpose.” [Oh, NOW he figures it out!]
Tragedy: “You misjudge me.” But she said it far too calmly, as if she remained proof to all his accusations; even, deep in herself, perversely savored them…
Charles: “No. It is as I say. You have not only planted the dagger in my breast, you have delighted in twisting it.” [True, but dude, you should realize that saying this just draws out the sadistic pleasure she’s getting from this little scene.]

This is where the final two alternative chapters split off.

Ending the first:
Sarah presents Charles with a girl about a year old, and tells him that she’s their daughter. That’s nice, but it’s still true that Sarah has scammed and manipulated Charles and generally fucked up his life. Furthermore, since Sarah’s such a slut and a liar, he can’t be sure the girl is really his daughter. (The author tells the reader, in the last sentence of this ending, that Charles is her father, but Charles can’t know that.) In any case he is cast, by his dalliance with Sarah, into a different life from the one had planned. He can never have any legitimate children (due to the document he wussily signed), unless he fetches a wife in another country.

Ending the second: After a few more harsh words, and having to endure another sentence or two of self-justifying bullshit from Tragedy, Charles leaves.

WTF? I’m not sure what the point of all this is. The metafiction stuff seems to have a gotten a lot of critics excited. There’s talk of Fowles having “reinvented the Victorian novel,” etc. I am unmoved by all this, and I’m a reader who likes metafiction when it’s done well. It does, though, serve as a fantastic lesson for inexperienced young men in what NOT to do with a Damsel in Distress, so there’s that.

Miscellaneous notes:

1. The writing is mostly fine qua writing. It generally keeps out of the way, with occasional words and turns of phrase that are excessively decorative – I had to look up “loxodromic” – and the deliberately shocking smashings of the fourth wall. (Per InfoGalactic, Fowles is “critically positioned between modernism and post-modernism.”) These fourth wall breaks happen frequently, and in a nuclear bomb sort of way at the end of Ch 12 and start of Ch 13. If one came to this novel expecting straight-up historical romantic fiction, one would get quite the surprise.

2. Fowles indulges in occasional little Marxist lectures. Fortunately, these tend to be either limited to a sentence or two, or relegated to footnotes (or both). I actually didn’t mind these that much. I think the reason is that the particular brand of Marxism being pimped here is the fundamentalist Ollllllld Skooooool brand; Fowles is actually interested in “economic class” as old school Marxists used that term. This “class” stuff is actually a relief from today’s point of view, now that the Left has irrevocably dived into the identity politics sewer. From today’s perspective, class-based Marxism is merely quaint; it’s not nearly as nasty as the white genocide stuff we have now. Of course, Marxism was one big genocidal rampage… but at least its adherents had enough shame or circumspection to deny that that’s what they wanted. In the context of today’s white genocide crowd, Marxism actually seems humanist in comparison.

Red Pill in Fiction: Oh My Freakin’ God Edition: Suddenly Royal

The cheesiness. Jesus, the sheer unrestrained female cheesiness. I couldn’t write anything more excessive than this. Well, maybe I could, but damn it would take effort.

Here’s one book description for Suddenly Royal by Nichole Chase:

Samantha Rousseau is used to getting her hands dirty. Working toward a master’s degree in wildlife biology while helping take care of her sick father, she has no time for celebrity gossip, designer clothes, or lazy vacations. So when a duchess from the small country of Lilaria invites her to dinner, Samantha assumes it’s to discuss a donation for the [wildlife biology?] program. The truth will change the course of her life in ways she never dreamed.

So far this is not terrible, though there’s that ominous “she has no time for celebrity gossip, designer clothes, or lazy vacations.” It’s ominous because, well, why even mention those things if they’re not on her mind? And how can you not have time for designer clothes? Not have money for them, sure, but not time? Weird. But the next paragraph… well, read:

Alex D’Lynsal is trying to keep his name clean. As crown prince of Lilaria [super-alpha], he’s had his share of scandalous headlines [bad boy], but the latest pictures have sent him packing to America and forced him to swear off women [gets a lot of (redacted), I mean female attention: preselection/social proof]—especially women in the public eye. That is, until he meets Samantha Rousseau. She’s stubborn, [Oh God, here we go] feisty, [OH MY GOD! FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!] and incredibly sexy. [OH MY FUCKIN’ GOD!!!!!!!] Not to mention heiress to an estate [because the rest of the fantasy isn’t enough] in his country, which makes her everyone’s front-page news [attention whoring wet dream].

Could you pack more female fantasies into one paragraph? This is the female equivalent of a man writing, “So I was just sitting there in the sun, reading, when Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, Paulina Porizkova (back when she was still hot), and Natalie Portman (back when she was still hot) came up to me and randomly offered to have a foursome with me for the next month. In the Bahamas. Which they’d pay for.” There’s nothing wrong with fantasizing, though men seem to have enough contact with reality that they don’t ask the world to accept their fantasies as “popular fiction.”

By the way, on the “feisty” thing: Many women have this fantasy that they’ll attract an alpha male by being “feisty” and “stubborn.” (While all the other girls fail to snag him because they’re too compliant.) I’m not sure what the psychology is here. My current best guess is that it’s snowflaking. I.e., “I’m going to stand out from the crowd by doing the opposite of what all the other girls do with alphas. I’m unique! No other girl is like me! No other girl ever thought of being ‘feisty’ before!” Gah, the triteness!

Continuing,

While Sam tries to navigate the new world of politics and wealth, she will also have to dodge her growing feelings for Alex. Giving in to them means more than just falling in love; it would mean accepting the weight of an entire country on her shoulders. [Oh, how very reluctant I am to become a princess by marriage, and then eventually – note he’s the crown prince – a Queen!]

Here’s a slightly shorter description at Amazon, which I’ll provide without comment so you can get the full effect of sentences like She’s stubborn, feisty, and incredibly sexy.

Samantha Rousseau is used to getting her hands dirty. Working on a master’s degree in wildlife biology while helping take care of her sick father, she has no time for celebrity gossip, designer clothes, or lazy vacations. So when a duchess from the small country of Lilaria invites her to dinner, Samantha assumes it’s to discuss a donation for the program. The truth will change the course of her life in ways she never dreamed . . . [ellipses in original]

As crown prince of Lilaria, Alex D’Lynsal has had his share of scandalous headlines, but the latest pictures in the press have sent him packing to America and forced him to swear off women. That is, until he meets Samantha Rousseau. She’s stubborn, feisty, and incredibly sexy. Not to mention heiress to an estate in his country, which makes her everyone’s front-page news. While Sam tries to navigate her new world of politics and wealth, she will also have to dodge her growing feelings for Alex. Giving in to them means more than just falling in love; it would mean accepting the weight of an entire country on her shoulders.

That substance dripping down your computer screen is pure, undiluted estrogen.

Ignoring the risk of Death By Cheese, I don’t really object to any of this, though it is mildly annoying that porn for men is accurately called “porn,” while porn for women is called “romance.”

That and the word feisty. Please, God, no. Send that word back to the fetid hell in which it, savvy, sassy, and quirky were spawned.

The Godfather

I just saw The Godfather again. I finally understand the reputation of Marlon Brando. God, he’s good. He absolutely disappears into Vito Corleone.

You almost have to pity Al Pacino, whose performance probably would have gotten him the Best Actor Oscar, if not for Brando’s astounding performance, not only in the same year, but in the same film! I think what makes it more impressive to me now is that I understand that Brando was already a star, was already MARLON BRANDO!!! when this movie came out. Given that, it must have been hard, or so one would think, to make himself disappear into a role. (When I’ve seen this before, I just thought of Brando as that guy who played the godfather (and Jor-El in Superman), so seeing him as the godfather didn’t seem especially noteworthy.) But making 65-year-old mob boss exist is even more impressive when it also requires making FAMOUS MOVIE STAR go away.

This is what people mean when they talk about an iconic performance.

It was also fun watching it with my son, who has never seen it before, and who suddenly started to get certain pop culture references – e.g., Mr. Big in Zootopia – that had never registered before. And “This movie,” I told him, “is why whenever there’s a mob movie now, at least one of the characters has to talk in a rasp.” It’s unavoidable somehow; Brando just permanently changed the way that that kind of character is done. A mob boss that doesn’t speak with a wheeze!? Impossible! He can’t really be a mob boss! THAT’S how iconic this performance was: It changed the territory.

Let’s not forget that Pacino is awesome as Michael Corleone. He sells it perfectly; it’s as if the script was written for him. The film opens in the second half of 1945. Michael is a veteran of World War II who has just returned from the fighting. We are told that he is regarded as a war hero. At first Michael intends to stay out of the mob stuff. Early in the movie his girlfriend asks him about a business deal his father conducted. When Michael’s attempt to dodge the question fails, he tells her: “Luca Brazi held a gun to the man’s head and my father told him that either his brains or his signature would be on the contract.” (This is the first time we hear the phrase, “made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”) She is appalled, of course, but he tells her, “That’s my family, Kay, not me.”

That resolve doesn’t last. After another mafia family makes an attempt on his father’s life, Michael is switched on.

Visiting his father at the hospital one night after his father is shot, he realizes that the bodyguards have all mysteriously vanished. He calls for backup and conscripts the lone nurse on duty to help him move the bed in which his father is lying to another room. When a well-wisher shows up, Michael presses him into service to stand at the hospital’s front door with Michael. “Put your hand in your pocket,” he instructs the man, “as if you have a gun.” Soon a car full of what are obviously assassins slowly rolls up to the entrance, sees Michael and the other man standing alertly, watching them, apparently armed, and rolls past.

When it’s over the well-wisher tries to light a cigarette. He can’t; his hands are shaking too much. Michael helps him light it. His hands are rock steady.

This is the first time we see Michael handling a stressful, high-stakes situation with calm and competence. It is perfectly believable because his father’s life is at stake, pressing him to rise to the occasion. The extra detail of his backstory as a veteran isn’t necessary, but makes it even more plausible.

During this episode Michael learns that a Police Captain is cooperating with the rival mafia family to kill Vito Corleone.

Later Michael confers with other Corleone family members and urges killing the cop and the head of the other family, Sollozzo. “If we can get a weapon into a meeting with them,” he says, “I’ll kill them both.”

They laugh.

“Where does it say you can’t kill a cop?” Michael asks.

“Come on, Mikey,” says consigliere Tom Hagan.

“No, seriously,” Michael responds. “A corrupt cop. ‘A cop who got mixed up with the mob and got what he deserved.’ That’s a good story. We have newspapers on our payroll, right?”

And suddenly everyone realizes that Michael has seen an aspect of the situation that they missed. This is another key moment. We’ve just seen Michael be cool and courageous under pressure. Now we see him out-thinking everyone else, and people who are more experienced with this sort of thing than him. And though it’s not obvious, since they’re not present, Michael is also out-thinking Sollozzo and the cop, who plainly think they’re untouchable due to the cop’s involvement. They find out otherwise.

A meeting is arranged, a weapon smuggled in, and Michael kills the cop and Sollozzo.

This precipitates a gang war. Meanwhile Michael flees to Italy to escape retaliation and possible arrest. In Italy not much important happens, for the purposes of this review. But there is one subtle little stiletto of a line of dialogue that will slip right by you if you’re not careful. In Italy, Michael has two bodyguards. As they walk through one sparsely-populated Italian town, Michael asks them where all the men are. The casual reply is,

“They’re all dead from vendettas.”

Given what is going on back home in the US, this is an ominous sentence.

Years later, Michael has returned to the US and gotten involved in the family business. While this review is not one of my “red pill in fiction” posts, I have to note that the writers show some intriguing red-pill awareness in these scenes. In particular, they show an alpha male crashing through everyone else’s frame and forcing them to respond to his frame.

Here are a couple of examples:

Michael wants to take the Corleone Family legit within five years. Part of this plan involves moving the family from New York to Nevada. He assigns Tom Hagan to head to Nevada first to start moving on the business arrangements. Tom wants to stay with the rest of the family in New York, but the tail effects of the gang war are still occurring, and Michael tells him, “You’re not a war time consigliere.”

Hagan: “Maybe I could help here.”
Michael: “You’re out, Tom.”

Boom! This is how it is. Michael doesn’t try to convince, persuade, argue, or debate. He just uses his authority. Hagan doesn’t argue. He can’t, really.

Later Michael himself travels to Nevada. He meets with Moe Greene, an old long-distance business partner of the Corleones. Greene owns a casino that was originally bankrolled by the Corleones. Michael tells Greene he’s going to buy the casino from him.

Greene can’t freakin’ believe it: “You don’t buy me out; I buy you out! I know you got chased out of New York by the other families and that’s why you’re here in Vegas.”

This is not true, as we later see very vividly, but Michael doesn’t argue. His response:

“We’ll meet again tomorrow. Think about a price.”

And he leaves.

That’s alpha frame. NB: don’t try to use this in your own life unless you actually have the ability to have people killed if they oppose you. In order to act that alpha and get away with it, you actually have to have that kind of power.

Red Pill in Fiction: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

The female porn Romance novel Every Rose has its Thorn has the following description:

Amanda has a problem: She’s attracted to a guy who is all wrong for her! Why does this keep happening!?

Amanda always seems to attract the wrong kind of man. She’s a leather-clad biker chick who deals drugs for a living. Bob is a mild-mannered actuary in a life insurance company. But Amanda just can’t resist HOLD IT.

You’ve never read anything like that on the back of a “Romance” novel, nor will you. (I made it up.) If you’re a red pill denier, ask yourself why.

Women being attracted to bad boys, to dangerous men, is a real thing. It’s not a crazy theory that some nutter PUAs made up. Thus we have the standard Romance description that is, of course, the reverse of the way I wrote it, something like

Amanda has a problem: She’s attracted to a guy who is all wrong for her! Why does this keep happening!?

Amanda always seems to attract the wrong kind of man. She’s a mild-mannered actuary in a life insurance company. Bob is a leather-clad biker who deals drugs for a living. But Amanda just can’t resist his rugged good looks and aura of excitement.

But things come to a head when Bob is accused of killing a rival drug dealer. He swears to Amanda that he’s innocent and was framed. But Amanda’s not sure she can trust him, especially after he cheated on her and lied about it.

The police don’t believe him either, due to his previous arrests, and now Bob says he needs Amanda’s help to prove his innocence.

Is Amanda’s lover a killer? The stakes are the highest as she is unwittingly drawn into a world of increasingly dangerous blah blah.

Anyway, you get the point. You could write this stuff in your sleep. One of these fictional book descriptions speaks the truth about what attracts women. The other is so far off that when you read it you blurted “Wait, what?”

This is why the red pill will become the conventional wisdom sooner or later (it’s already made huge strides in that direction). Sooner or later, the truth will out.