On the Folly of Superiority Between the Sexes

I have never quite understood the impulse—so persistent and yet so ill-founded—that leads men and women to speak of one sex as superior to the other. Such talk strikes me not only as a category error, but also as a profound failure of imagination. It is as though one were to declare the violin superior to the piano, or the sun to the moon—not recognising that their powers are not in competition but in concert.

The sexes are not identical; thank Heaven they are not. They are not even symmetrical, as though cast in the same mould with minor adjustments. They are complementary: each possesses what the other lacks, each is weak where the other is strong, and each reaches its fullness only in union with the other. It is a great pity that modern thought, so often enamoured with notions of equality, forgets that equality does not mean sameness. A lock and a key are equal in value, but their functions are not interchangeable.

To speak of superiority between man and woman is to miss the point entirely. It is a bit like asking whether the heart is more important than the lungs. The question betrays a deeper ignorance—not of biology, but of purpose. For the design is relational. One gives what the other receives; one begins where the other ends. They are halves of a whole, reflections that find their meaning only in relation to each other.

And is it not the height of folly—indeed, of arrogance—to compare where one ought to cooperate, to boast where one ought to bless, to dominate where one was meant to delight?

When each humbly acknowledges the glory in the other, when man and woman cease to be rivals and begin to be allies, then—and only then—do we catch a glimpse of the harmony intended from the beginning: not a sameness of roles, but a oneness of purpose; not uniformity, but unity.

Ah, but when was the last time you truly let yourself go—wholly, unapologetically, gloriously yourself? Not the polished, presentable version you parade before the world, but that inner child who once laughed without permission and danced without music. I confess, for me, it was a long time ago, at one of those parties where the air is thick with the stale scent of adult concerns. The conversation meandered grimly from one sorrow to the next: sickness and scandal, the frailty of economies, the looming shadows of war and death, and the general conclusion that the world was teetering on the edge of some vast abyss.

And just when it seemed we might collectively dissolve into a puddle of solemnity, an old man—white-haired and wonderfully unbothered—rose from his chair, lifted his glass, and cried out, “Play time!”

Play time.

It was not merely a declaration but an invocation. At first, of course, the room recoiled. Whispers rustled like dry leaves—“Has he lost his senses?” “Is he drunk?” “Senility, perhaps.” You see, it is a dangerous thing in modern society to be unguardedly joyful. We have come to equate gravity with wisdom, and frolic with foolishness. But I tell you, there was more wisdom in that man’s outburst than in all our gloomy prognostications combined.

For there is something divine in the impulse to play—something that connects us to the wild joy of being alive, to the eternal laughter at the heart of the cosmos. It is the mad, inexplicable gladness that reminds us we are not machines grinding through productivity charts, nor merely minds churning through data and doubt. We are souls—souls made for wonder, mischief, and glad-hearted delight.

Too many, I fear, have forgotten the value of a little holy madness.

So let us ask ourselves—not with guilt, but with a wistful sort of hope—when was the last time we allowed joy to take the reins? When did we last leap before looking, sing before speaking, or dance when no one else heard the tune? And if it has indeed been too long, then perhaps, like that old man, it is time to stand and declare, without shame or irony, “Play time!” again.