Heaven is not won, unless dropping the seed-shell of my public face is winning. Tennyson emerged from one of his trances to say that the loss of personality is the only true life.
To be liked, please other people. (People like us when we please them.)
To be loved, please yourself. For this, indifference is required. (Praise and criticism are two ends of the same pencil.)
Beauty is utterly indifferent.
Only a few are glamorous. Glamour is innate, an endowment, as every charism is. Men who strive to be glamorous are merely affected. Orchids don’t try to be glamorous; they just are.
Glamour is derived from grammar. Before the masses knew how to read, Latin was glamorous. It was a secret knowledge; only the priests knew it. Now everyone knows how to read. So the churches are closed and falling down. Stained glass windows have had their day. Glamour has moved on.
Miles Davis was glamorous. You could not take your eyes off him. His glamour cast a spell. His Bitches Brew was glamour’s answer to doo-wop.
Davis liked his ladies and his heroin. Glamour is careless, even reckless, but it is also connected. It arrives on the scene like an unshelled secret. “Don’t play what’s there,” Davis said. “Play what’s not there.” Improvise. Play what you don’t know.
Glamour’s first rule: To be who you are, you have to be like nobody else.
Soul needs a body to express itself.
Christ needs a Jesus.