![]() ![]() ![]() The older they get, the more awareness children acquire of the often indefinable but rarely undetectable sonar of the sexual selves of the adults around them. The impulse towards and away from it sits at the root of enough of the cataclysms that shake and shape our lives as to warrant a far deeper degree of attention than the titillating/slightly embarrassed/deeply embarrassed/hygienically challenged digression from the main event that it’s frequently consigned to.Īfter all, sex runs right through our lives. Sex isn’t everything, of course, but it’s certainly something. What I mean is that I find it hard to rouse any interest in art or literature that relegates the life of the body to some lesser status than the goings-on of the mind or emotions. ![]() Quite the contrary the world is already overstuffed with cliched recreations of the blunt and bland doings of the flesh. Not that every work of art need preoccupy itself with meditations on the subject or be confined to representations of the various physical acts. I’m generally left a bit cold by art with no sex in it. ![]()
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