There are few spectacles more tragic—or more divine—than the slow, incandescent erosion of a gifted soul. Mr. Burton, the 2025 cinematic meditation on the life of Richard Burton, is not merely a film, nor even a biographical retelling—it is a grand threnody to the soul of man burdened with greatness. And in the hands of Harry Lawtey, that burden becomes a thing of unspeakable majesty.

The modern biopic, more often than not, leans toward an unwholesome gluttony. It gorges itself on costume, scandal, and period furniture, believing that verisimilitude lies in mimicry and plot. But Mr. Burton does something entirely different—something braver and more sacred. It looks not at what Richard Burton did, but who he became beneath the armour of theatrical success and tabloid fame. It trades narrative for revelation, choosing to illuminate not the chronology of a life, but the contours of a soul at war with itself.

At the heart of this ecclesiastical venture stands Harry Lawtey, whose performance is not a portrayal, but a transfiguration. There is no artifice, no strain, no desperate thespian showboating. Rather, Lawtey descends—yes, descends—into the infernal crevices of Burton’s torment, bringing back with him the fire of a man who could command Lear with the voice of a god, yet crumbled like dust before his own reflection. Lawtey’s eyes alone, in moments of silence, achieve more than most entire scripts manage with armies of words. He has not studied Burton to impersonate him; he has become Burton to understand him. This, I daresay, is not acting. This is theology.

But let us speak honestly about what Mr. Burton dares to depict: the unbearable paradox of genius. Burton, as presented here, is no hero. He is no villain either. He is a man—flesh and folly, thunder and ruin. He drinks not only from bottles but from the poisoned chalice of his own fame. He hungers, not for applause, but for absolution. The film does not sanctify him, nor does it crucify him; it reveals him. It allows him to remain unsolved, unredeemed, and therefore unforgettably human.

The film’s direction, far from overreaching, shows the wisdom of restraint. The camera lingers not to flatter but to confess. Scenes unfold not with orchestral grandeur, but with the hush of liturgy. We are given time—not to consume Burton, but to contemplate him. The cinematography understands darkness—not merely as an absence of light, but as the necessary cradle in which certain truths must be born. The script, elegant and sparse, often withholds more than it delivers, inviting the viewer into that rarest of cinematic experiences: listening.

It would be an injustice, however, to speak only of Burton the man, or Lawtey the vessel. One must also consider Mr. Burton as an argument against our age’s obsession with clarity. In a world that demands every story be neat, every personality either saint or scoundrel, this film dares to suggest that the most vital lives are those that remain unresolved. It reminds us that the human being is not a thesis to be proven, but a psalm to be wrestled with.

What Lawtey achieves here will be studied—must be studied—for decades to come. Not for its technique (though it is rich with it), nor for its resemblance (though it is uncanny), but for its courage. He has looked into the abyss of a man both beloved and broken, and rather than flinch or romanticise, he has remained. And in doing so, he has given us not simply Richard Burton, but a mirror into ourselves.

In the final analysis, Mr. Burton is not about fame or theatre or self-destruction. It is about the divine terror of being known—by others, by history, by Providence, and most of all, by oneself. It is a film one does not watch, but survives. And when the last scene fades, what remains is not applause, nor even sorrow, but silence—the kind of silence one finds in old churches and ruined cathedrals. The silence of something holy having passed through.

A bloody fucking miraculous feat, indeed, if I may be forgiven the phrase.

THE WORLD THAT FORGOT ITS SOUL

An Essay on the Erosion of Civilisation by Materialism, Greed, and the Modern Self

The media proclaims, with all the hyperbolic despair of a Shakespearean chorus, that London is no longer safe. It mourns, with equal dramatic flourish, that Bangalore has lost its lustre. Yet I ask, with the simplicity of plain reason: how does a city lose its honour or identity? What is a city, if not a theatre of the human will—a collection of stone and steel, made animate only by the virtues or vices of its inhabitants? When a city falls into moral disrepair, it is not the pavement that cracks first, but the conscience of the people who walk upon it. The collapse of civilisation begins not with bomb blasts or economic downturns, but with the quiet corrosion of the soul.

Let us, then, put aside this melodramatic blaming of places and examine the players. The men and women who inhabit our cities are angry—no longer righteously indignant, but recklessly inflamed. Their wrath is not the moral fire of justice but the scorched earth of ungoverned desire. They dwell in a world that has systematically unlearned the discipline of restraint, the wisdom of silence, and the beauty of sufficiency. Their minds are daily shaped not by truth, nor even by tradition, but by the ceaseless grind of media and machinery that glorify possession and scorn reflection.

This is not a new affliction. It is simply the oldest human temptation dressed in modern attire. From the golden calves of Sinai to the palaces of Versailles, from the East India Company’s ravenous trade routes to the advertising billboards of Times Square, mankind has never lacked for idols. The only difference now is that the idols are not merely outside us—they have taken up residence within. Greed, once a sin, is now called ambition. Selfishness, once a vice, is now rebranded as self-care. The soul, once the compass of civilisation, is now dismissed as an inconvenience—unscientific, unverifiable, and thus expendable.

This is the peculiar triumph of modernity: the belief that the human being is complete without the soul. That progress is possible without virtue. That happiness is the accumulation of things, and not the cultivation of character. But this doctrine, seductive though it is, produces not joy but frenzy. The modern man is perpetually chasing more—more money, more influence, more spectacle—yet finds himself emptier with every acquisition. He mistakes velocity for vitality, and in doing so, reduces life to a transaction.

And what, precisely, has this pursuit of materialism achieved? We have built taller towers, yet grown too afraid to speak from the pulpit of truth. We have stitched the world together with fibre-optic cables, yet remain more alienated than ever before. We have turned knowledge into data, and data into profit, but our wisdom lies buried under metrics. There is more communication, and less communion; more consumption, and less contentment.

History, that stern tutor of nations, warns us what becomes of civilisations that forget their metaphysical foundations. The Roman Empire did not collapse merely because of barbarian invasions—it rotted from within, first morally, then institutionally. Its elite became obsessed with luxury; its citizens with bread and circuses. Athens, too, which once gave the world Socrates and Sophocles, degenerated into a mob ruled by sophistry and spectacle. In both cases, the decline of thought preceded the decline of order. The death of the inner life preceded the death of the public square.

Today we are witnessing a similar implosion, only clothed in corporate jargon and digital glamour. The modern man has learned to monetise everything except meaning. We have learned to colonise space, but cannot govern our own impulses. The true danger of our time is not nuclear war, nor even ecological disaster—it is the hollowing out of humanity. For a world without restraint is like a ship without ballast: swift, impressive, and fatally unstable.

Let us now ask, what is the antidote? Can this march toward oblivion be arrested? It can—but only by a renaissance of the soul. We must once more teach our children to distinguish between want and need, between pleasure and goodness, between influence and integrity. We must recover the idea that a human being is not merely a consumer but a creature made in the image of something higher than himself. We must reclaim the vocabulary of the sacred—words like duty, honour, sacrifice, and truth—not as relics of a dusty past, but as the cornerstones of any future worth living.

There must also be a reawakening of humility, that forgotten virtue which once tethered empires to conscience. It is humility that teaches us that not all opinions are equal, that wisdom does not reside in noise, and that to be civilised is not merely to be efficient but to be reverent. For civilisation, properly understood, is the outward form of inward grace. Strip away that grace, and all you have left is a skeleton of buildings and a chaos of appetites.

If we are to be saved—not merely as cities but as a species—we must relearn how to think, how to feel, and above all, how to be human. And this, I fear, cannot be legislated by governments nor engineered by technology. It begins in the quiet places: in literature and liturgy, in art and taciturnity, in the difficult but necessary work of self-examination. It begins in the refusal to participate in the hysteria of acquisition. It begins in every choice to seek truth over trend, meaning over comfort, and community over ego.

The world will not be saved by policies alone, but by persons. Let each man become a citadel of sanity. Let each woman reclaim her sacred worth. Then, perhaps, our cities may again be clothed with honour—not because of what they contain, but because of what their people have remembered.

Let them remember this: a civilisation is not a place, but a posture of the soul.

Less than ten minutes before the wheels left tarmac,
two hundred and forty-two lives
sat fastened in foetal seats,
tea cooling in plastic cups,
thumbs twitching over glowing screens,
minds rehearsing office slides, forgotten birthdays,
lovers’ texts left on “read.”
No one knew. Not a single soul.
Their names were already trembling
on the lip of silence,
already being whispered
by that most impartial registrar—Death.

Below, on solid ground,
the humdrum went on unbothered—
medical students scribbling dosages
in sterile halls; a nurse munching chips by the stairwell;
a professor grumbling over unpaid grants.
The kind of banal day that never earns poetry—
until it ends in pulverised concrete
and bones like chalk beneath metal.

And all it took—was a glitch perhaps.
A burnt wire. A bolt forgotten.
A breath’s-worth of mechanical betrayal,
and entire galaxies—
entire futures—collapsed into dust.
Just like that.
Without preface. Without justice.

And we? The voyeurs,
the obituary-scrollers and newsfeed-mourners?
We return to our cockfights—
scrapping over flags and fictions,
over castes that claim heaven,
creeds that damn,
borders drawn by drunks on old colonial maps.
We raise walls, chant slogans,
lynch in the name of gods
who have long stopped listening.

We forget that gravity is godless.
That fire has no ideology.
That death does not check your documents—
it cannot pronounce your surname.
You could be rich as the richest man,
or a lad unlawfully dragged by uniformed boots.
It ends the same:
flesh surrenders, eyes stare blankly,
history books close.

What does one say to the mother in Kerala
whose son studying in Kyiv
came home zipped in foreign silence?
Or to the boy in Raqqa
who lost all four limbs,
but not his stammering faith
in the idea of peace?
What does one say to the girl in Gaza
drawing flowers in the rubble
while drones carve thunder in the sky?

We keep saying “never again”
while building higher fences.
We light candles and call it healing.
We post flags in our bios—
a Palestinian one,
then a Ukrainian,
then whatever’s trending next.

But let’s speak plainly:
We are a species drunk on division.
We are magicians of forgetting.
We weep for strangers
only when they burn on camera.
We feel compassion
only when corpses come in clusters.

And yet, every now and then,
death, in all its calm arithmetic,
pulls the rug from beneath us.
It reminds us
that we are not kings of permanence—
we are tenants on borrowed time.

We will all die.
The bigots and the bridge-builders.
The tyrants and the poets.
Those with blue passports
and those without country.
The ones who plant bombs,
and the ones who plant tomatoes.

And when we die,
our bodies will not request
a caste certificate.
They will not need Aadhaar.
They will not demand veneration.
They will rot. Gloriously. Democratically.
They will join the honest loam.

So what, then, is the point
of all this tribal madness?
Why do we lace our short, stupid lives
with so much hatred and hubris?

Isn’t it time we bowed
before our shared frailty?
Isn’t it time we asked—
what if kindness is the only thing
that survives the wreckage?

For in the end,
when the smoke has cleared,
and all that’s left is bone,
you will not know
whether the hand you held in death
believed in your god,
or spoke your language,
or cheered for your side.

You will only know
that it, too, was trying
to hold on.
Just like you.

Some among you may not find your way to poetry with ease or instinct, and so, in the spirit of clarity and fellowship, I have endeavoured to render in prose what I sought to express in verse.

Less than ten minutes before take-off, 242 souls sat strapped into their seats—some sipping tea, others scrolling through their phones, a few perhaps fretting over unfinished work or mundane family squabbles. Not one of them knew they were living their last ordinary moments. Not one had an inkling that their names were already being whispered by death.

And down below, on solid ground, medical students and staff were caught in the most routine of routines—classrooms, corridors, coffee breaks—utterly oblivious to the fact that their lives were about to be obliterated in seconds, without warning, without reason.

All it takes is one unfeeling mechanical failure, and just like that—entire worlds collapse.

Yet we, the rest of us, continue to live under the grand illusion of permanence. We cling to flags, fight over imaginary lines on maps, draw blood over caste, creed, class, skin, and surname—knowing full well that the grave swallows us all the same. Muslim or Christian, rich or poor, Brahmin or Dalit, soldier or civilian—it doesn’t matter to fire or steel or gravity. Death doesn’t check your documents.

We go to war for power, kill for pride, alienate in the name of tradition—and for what? So our names can outlive us in history books written by men just as doomed? All our bigotries, posturing, and tribal loyalties are flattened in the face of a single crash—an indifferent plume of smoke rising from the earth as if to say: None of it mattered.

And when such a tragedy does occur, we weep. We call them “innocent lives lost.” We share posts. We light candles. And then, like clockwork, we go right back to hating, hoarding, dividing—forgetting that the same death waits at our doorstep.

Is this the best of what we are? Must it always take unspeakable grief to remind us of our shared fragility? Must we always need a body count to feel compassion for strangers?

The cruel irony is this: we spend our lives trying to be separate—by borders, beliefs, birthrights—but in death, we are finally, and completely, the same.

My dear friends!

In these curious and restless times, I have found it valuable of note — and somewhat disheartening — to distinguish how swiftly and thoughtlessly the civilisation rushes to weave the same tired narrative whenever it finds an individual, especially one past a certain age, spouseless and at harmony with their solitary station. The human brain, particularly the one that has not yet ripened into the fullness of self-knowledge, seems ever eager to reduce every unmapped life to one simple and shallow explanation: that it must be the effect of some entanglement of sexual perplexity or a timid dread of companionship. It is, I must say, the fixation of stunted and immature intellects, who — in their own struggle to understand contentment — cannot help but gauge all lives against the yardstick of their own fidgety preoccupations.

On Solitude and Self-Possession

But for those of us whose romanticisms have long since outgrown such infantile narcissism, there exists a rather different state — a habitation of hushed happiness, and of security rooted not in another’s approval, but in the unshakable ground of being unworried with oneself. I daresay the truly self-possessed man has little need to make haste in the matter of mortal attachments. He is neither starved for endearment nor alarmed by privacy, but rather lives as one who is whole, and alleviated.

The Modern Dilemma of Commitment

Now, the present-time has set before the male species — if I may call it that — a new dilemma, though it is scarcely a novel instinct. Even in the days of our forebears, the reluctance of men to pledge themselves to the bond of marriage was no oddity. The difference now, perhaps, is that we live in a more molten and unmoored life span, in which the reasons for such reluctance are not only more varied but more openly spoken of. Loneliness, or ambiguity about one’s own pining, is seldom the true culprit. No, the real guardians at the gate are caution and careful discernment — those two old sentinels, continually standing watch over the kernel of discerning men.

The Shifting Roles of Man and Woman

When one surveys the progress as pragmatically as one can — and I reckon there are few better ways to approach it — the roles assigned to man and woman were, from the dawn of earthly existence, carved out by both nature and necessity. The man, provider and protector; the woman, nurturer and keeper of hearth and home. An elementary and enduring blueprint. But alas, this pattern has not escaped the edgy hand of recent revision.

The Legacy of Liberation

One cannot speak of such things without acknowledging the great rupture brought about by the women’s liberation movement and the financial independence it has since afforded. This shift — understandable, even necessary — has, however, torn through the delicate fabric of centuries-old order. To say it plainly: women, having long endured the heavy hand of repression, sought dignity, and rightly understood that dignity, in this current culture, would require both education and economic self-sufficiency. And so they armed themselves with qualifications, with keenness, and with ambition. But somewhere along this steep ascent, many seem to have lost their footing — caught, as it were, between two spheres: unclear whether their latitude lies in the corridors of enterprise or the placid chambers of the home. This bewilderment, born of divided loyalties, has sown not only dissatisfaction but a fracture in the once harmonious, if imperfect, union between the sexes.

The Mirage of Self-Help

I often encounter the well-meaning theories of self-help sages and writers, promising the reader that should they do this, or refrain from that, their spirits will be rewarded, their lives transformed. But the veracity, as any seasoned soul can tell you, is rather less mechanical: nothing happens until it is meant to happen, and no amount of anxious striving can accelerate the arrival of what is not yet appointed. Much of what parades itself under the banner of self-improvement is little more than the bright packaging of contemporary commerce — a clever masquerade for the oldest game of all: selling hope to the impatient.

A Word on My Own Case

Permit me, if you will, to speak without adornment of my own case, as I am, an open book—unsealed and unguarded. By the standards of the coterie into which I was born, I am considered rather too old to be unwed, and yet my direction has not been hindered by confusion over my cravings. I am as settled in my preference as I have ever been, and my temperament leans firmly and unambiguously toward women. The reason for my retreat sprawls elsewhere, and it is neither shrouded in mystery nor deserving of gossip. 

Inheritance and Ambition

While my father, a barrister by profession, elected to live his life much as he pleased — according to no standard but his own — I must confess, with no lesser measure of gratitude, that both he and my mother bestowed upon me all that a child could be reasonably given: not merely the security of several roofs, scattered generously across continents, nor merely the untroubled ease that comes from unending reservoir of wealth, but more significantly, a heritage — a lineage — which I carry not with vanity but with immense honour.

And yet, the crux of the circumstance is this: I could not reconcile myself to the idea of merely existing as a beneficiary of such a pedigree. There stirred within me a desire, as deep as it was unwavering, to fashion for myself a legacy that would not be borrowed but built — not an inheritance to be spent, but a life’s labour to be earned. And as one must, at some juncture, confront the unavoidable possibility between living as a full-time paramour or a full-time creator, I chose the latter — not from coldness of compassion, but from a conviction that to create was, for me, the more honest and enduring trail.

My Early Influences and Reflections

The conditions of my infancy moulded my cognitive abilities, as they must for every man. My father, though from an aristocratic line and an heir to considerable wealth, saw no urgency in applying himself to effort. He drifted through life absorbed by his own interests, with little thought for the example a father might set for his son. My mother, herself the daughter of an illustrious family, found herself forced into an unfamiliar role — setting aside her own pursuits in order to anchor the family amidst my father’s disinterest. And thus, the child who descried this drama unfold within the walls of his own home came to associate temporal relationships with dissonance and discord. As a result, I retreated into the safe and solitary stronghold of my own mind — a spot I came to know as my ‘mind palace’ — where conflict could not reach me. And this, I believe, is at the mettle of many a man’s temperament: they do not shun love, but they do loathe dissension.

Brotherhood Beyond Blood

With no fortune passed down, and no father to blaze the wake before me, I began from the barest foundations. And what I lacked in bequest I was most fortuitous to find in social fellowship. I joined hands, with my childhood friend, as my business partner — a man whose loyalty, character, and devotedness have proven graver and truer than the bonds of mere blood. What I feel for him is not born of sentimentality, but of mirrored hardship and tested trust — the kind of brotherhood that does not require ceremony to be known as sacred.

On Slander and the Judgment of Others

He has stood by me with a steadfastness few souls could ever match — more, indeed, than any other family I have known. And as for those who, in the smallness of their natures and the idleness of their tongues, imagine they might assassinate my character by slight and sluggish insinuation, I can only suggest they are grievously mistaken. For I have long since ceased to concern myself with the fickle approval of the world. The judgment of strangers, or of those who exhibit themselves as convivial connections but possess neither gravity nor fidelity, matters not at all upon me. My compass is set by the recognition of who truly matters in my life — and the constancy of those few roots is all the assurance I have ever needed.

On Society’s Expectations and the Matter of “Settling Down”

Of course, it would be naïve to imagine that such a life could remain untouched by the sharp little stones of slander. There are always those who, lacking sufficient work for their own mentalities, make the affairs of others their primary occupation. 

It was put to me, rather presumptuously I might add, by certain members of my extended family — those whose association with wisdom is perhaps more casual than their acquaintance with social expectation — that now, having tasted the fruits of success in a measure beyond what many might dare to imagine, the time has arrived for me to “settle down.”

How does one even respond to such dull-witted counsel? There exists no universal schedule for human fulfilment, no clock by which all must live their lives in identical sequences. Every man is shaped by different priorities, and every soul is drawn by different longings. My own, I imagine, have never been dictated by the baser appetites which seem to hold so many others captive. Physical needs — if they have ever held sway at all — have long since retreated to the placid recesses of life’s concerns. In reality, and at the risk of sounding snobbish (though I would call it nothing but normal and measured observation), I have always been possessed of an awareness rather more mature than the absurd trivialities which swirl about me.

Regarding My Father

And there are others, in the same breath, who ask — with the same feeble curiosity — whether I harbour any lingering misgiving toward my father. To that, I must answer firmly and without a flicker of doubt: no. Life, as I have learned, is a long and winding road where each of us must choose the path upon which we walk. He chose his; I, mine. And for that, there is neither resentment nor regret — only the laconic acceptance that each man lives by his own purpose.

Idle Whispers and the Price of Aloofness

I have grown accustomed to the idle whispers that question the attributes of my aloofness, or suggest, in that knowing tone peculiar to the envious and the ignorant, that my life must be shaped by some hidden secret, some supposed divergence from the ‘straight path.’ These rumours, I regard as I would the buzzing of a fly: an irritant, but no real concern. My world is wider, and my company, more evolved than such pettiness can comprehend.

A Disinterest in the Common Circle

I must confess, too, that I have never belonged to those chattering circles — the cliques of common and uninspired souls — nor would I ever stoop to find a place amongst them. Their approval is of no consequence to me, for their world is one I neither envy nor seek to enter.

The Weight of True Veneration

The statistic is plain sailing: to venerate a woman — truly, wholly, and without reserve — is no light task. It asks for one’s time, one’s presence, and above all, one’s concord of cognisance. I once gave such tenderness, and for no small stretch of years. Eight long, to be exact. But when the juncture came to choose between the gentle succours of an itch that had grown wearied and the invitation to forge the life I had envisioned, I selected the second. The woman, once bright and light of gusto, grew disconcerted, and the closeness which had once felt like home began to weigh like an anchor on the psyche. Affection is no remedy for the absence of understanding, and it was with no bitterness, but a contented canon, that I set her free, and myself along with her. And thus I have remained — not unready for a swain, but unwilling to settle for its pale imitation.

The Unapologetic Truth of Experience

I have conveyed these thoughts before, and on occasion have been met with disapproval, particularly when I have spoken candidly of my father. But fact, if it is to possess any real worth, must be spoken comprehensibly, even when it grates against the sensibilities of polite society. If the telling of it causes discomfort, so be it. Better an uncomfortable factuality than a pleasant lie.

A Life Aimed to Outlast

I have walked a road not barren of ardour, but deliberately designed by the endowment to set up enough that would outlast me. That is, in the end, the breadth of my story.

The Perils of Premature Partnership

I have observed the fates of many who, in the heady fervour of youth, leapt headfirst into matrimony, only to find themselves ensnared by a silent suffocation — trapped in the lovely, but loveless, golden cage of mistaken partnership. And I have perceived others — slower to bind themselves, or perhaps simply more fortunate — find, later in life, an intimacy founded not on passion alone, but on features acceptably exceptional: mutual mentality, levelled laughter, and that abiding equanimity which even time cannot undo.

Lessons from Friends and Fellow Wanderers

I have had the privilege of knowing dear friends whose lives bear out this exactitude. Some married late, some embraced solitude, but all have taught me this: amorousness, if it is to mean anything, must be favoured freely, not out of fear or duty, but out of the sheer, unforced joy of finding a kindred quintessence.

The Currency of Time

For myself, I have learned to value time as the rarest of currencies. To spend it upon one unready, or unworthy, would be the greatest waste — for her, and for me. And so I wait, with the calm and patient trust that the Author of all things will write this chapter as beautifully as He has written the rest.

The Quiet Conviction of Awaiting Love

When the hour is ripe, I am convinced, she will appear — an embodiment whose warmth is as open and unblemished as the one I offer in return. Until then, I am at peace.

The Balanced Soul

Nor have I let the imbalances of my childhood embitter me. I have questioned myself, as every sincere man must: Was it the foreboding of fidelity that kept me footloose and fancy free? Was I, perhaps, adrift between an ancient belief in man as provider and woman as homemaker — a belief fast becoming an anomaly in this modern generation? But no. My resolve, when tested, gave no such answer. I knew then, and I know now: when the heart and head both say ‘yes,’ and the same music stirs in another, then — and only then — will the bond be made.

A Friend’s Remark and the Nature of Waiting

A friend once espied that I must be missing out on life for want of a wife. I wonder, do I truly believe that life, had it been shared, would have offered more than it already has? Perhaps. But until the one who means something appears, I can see no cause to trouble myself over what has not yet come to pass. She further asked, with no little exasperation, whether I was always so pedantic. I had no answer for her, save this: we possess no real control over the present moment, much less over the unseen future. The wisest way, it seems to me, is to outline one’s life with intention but never to let oneself drift aimlessly — for it is only dead fish that are carried along by the current. The living make their own way.

On Commitment and the Wise Man’s Caution

I do not think men display a phobia for commitment. The sagacious ones — the ones sharpened by life’s more exacting lessons — have simply learned to avoid foolish hurriedness. They know the weight of expectations, the toll of misplaced propensity, and so they tread vigilantly. And while the morale must never be shielded beyond all feeling, neither must it be handed over at the first flutter of fancy. One must be open, but not obliging; cautious, but not cold.

The Trouble with Intelligence in Modern Courtship

I came across an article recently, declaring that intelligent men are more strenuous suitors — that the more inquisitive the self, the more troublesome it becomes for others. Perhaps there is some accuracy in it, but I suspect the subject is more nuanced than the writers allow. Intelligence, after all, does tend to distance one from the multitudes — not out of pride, but out of a merciful mismatch in wavelength. Yet the truly enlightened man is not difficult by disposition, only particular about where he places his trust. His foresight is his strength, not his flaw. When applied with reverence and attention, this foresight becomes the very safeguard that preserves the sanctity of allegiance.

The Cost of the Wrong Bond

And so I leave you with this: it is neither bafflement nor qualm that keeps some men solitary. It is, quite simply, the clarity of knowing that the wrong bond costs more than loneliness ever will. Those who wait do so not out of helplessness, but by choice — the still, deliberate choice of a man who prefers to build his house upon rock rather than upon sand.

Yours, 

always in thought and in truth,

F

P.S. For the dimwits at the back — I am straight. And no, I don’t let the clod between my legs do the contemplating for me. 

And even if I were not made in the manner the world deems ‘straight,’ I should harbour no shame nor disquiet on the laws of nature; for at the end, we are all — each and every one — human souls. Love, in its staunchest system, is neither a contrivance of humanity nor a staple subject to the governance of men. It is a faculty bestowed, not commanded; an adherence of the leaning that flows where it will, and suitably so, for it is no more within our jurisdiction to domineer its passage than it is to regulate the rising of the sun.