The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Michael Phelps indulges Anderson Cooper in some watersports and Dexter makes a 'bitch move.' Plus: the secret of Tina Fey's scar, revealed!
Dating Advice From . . . Engineers by Steph Auteri Q. For optimal functionality, what should go into a first-date emergency kit? A. Fine wine, road flares, a snake-bite kit and Ghirardelli chocolates.
Hunchbacked,
bad-skinned, defaced, abject and generally hideous, could you love him for
his brain alone? I am not referring to my high school self (though the description is not far
off), but to the great ugly duckling of intellectual history, Socrates. While there is a long
tradition of physically repugnant philosophers (Plotinus, as I mentioned in a former
column, was leprous and nosable at some distance), Socrates' physical monstrosity is the
most legendary. No real surprise, then, that philosophy has always insisted on a
distinction, if not a conflict, between mind and body, for the better part of the guys writing
the stuff down would have loved to saw themselves off at the neck.
Yet no matter how hideous Socrates was, the boys continued to line up behind him
(or in front, as the case may have been). So what was the draw of this guy who was not
only twice their age but unbelievably self-satisfied, condescending and always on the
move? Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary: the brain. Big brain, historical brain, still-respected-after- two-millennia brain. You can imagine how comforting this idea was to
a dateless high school pedant, believing that, one day, he too might woo with cognition
alone. Ah, but then few are born with Socrates' brain (even Nietzsche, who was no
troglodyte, had a hard time getting lucky). But don't despair, in most cases, brains do
prove sexy in time. So for those of you out there who have prayed and hoped, waiting with
a candle in the window, I give you this, a parable of the pull of the perspicacious:
Alicibiades' account of trying to seduce Socrates.
* * *
From The Symposium by Plato
He and I were alone together and I thought that when there was nobody with us, I should
hear him speak the language which lovers use to their loves when they are by themselves,
and I was delighted. Nothing of the sort. He conversed as usual, and spent the day with me
and then went away. Afterwards, I challenged him to the palestra; and he wrestled and
closed with me several times when there was no one present; I fancied that I might succeed
in this manner. Not a bit. I made no way with him. Lastly, as I had failed hitherto, I
thought that I must take stronger measures and attack him boldly, and, as I had begun, not
give him up, but see how matters stood between him and me. So I invited him over to sup
with me, just as if he were a fair youth and I a designing lover. He was not easily
persuaded to come; he did, however, after a while accept the invitation, and when he came
the first time, he wanted to go away at once as soon as supper was over, and I had not the
face to detain him. The second time, still in pursuance of my design, after we had supped, I
went on conversing far into the night, and when he wanted to go away, I pretended that the
hour was late and that he better remain. So he lay down on the couch next to me, the same
on which he had supped, and there was no one about but ourselves sleeping in the
apartment.
All this may be told without shame to anyone. But what follows I could hardly tell
you if I were sober . . . For I have been bitten by something worse than a viper's tooth; I
have known in my soul, or in my heart or in some other part that worst of pangs, more
violent in ingenuous youth than any serpent's tooth, the pang of philosophy . . .
When the lamp was put out and the servants had gone away, I thought that I must be
plain with him and have no more ambiguity. So I gave him a shake and said, Socrates, are
you asleep? No, he said . . . and so without waiting I to hear more I got up, and throwing
my coat about him crept under his threadbare cloak, as the time of year was winter, and
there I lay during the whole night having this wonderful monster in my arms . . . And yet,
notwithstanding all, he was so superior to my solicitations, so contemptuous and derisive
and disdainful of my beauty -- which, really, as I fancied, had some attractions -- hear, O
judges; for judges you shall be of the haughty virtue of Socrates -- nothing more happened!
And when I arose, I did so as from the couch of a father or an elder brother.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jack Murnighan's stories appeared in the Best American Erotica editions of 1999, 2000 and 2001. His weekly column for Nerve, Jack's Naughty Bits, was collected and released as two books. He was the editor-in-chief of Nerve from 1999 to 2001, before retiring to write full time and take seriously the quest for love.
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
