The history of civilization is the history of man’s effort to enrich the
simple world he was presented with. He transforms handsome but
monotonous primeval forests into complicated cities furnished with
bathrooms and radios; he builds music up from a few primitive sounds to
the elaborate symphony; in eating he progresses from the rending of raw
meat and the consumption of wild berries to a dreamy dinner at
Paillard’s. And you may be sure that he would have done the same with
the sex-relationship had he been able. Alas, there he was baffled! The
facts of sex are immutably simple. There are so few things that one can
do. Heroic efforts have been made to increase on these, but, though many
men have given their whole lives to the cause, without avail. New meats
and vegetables for the table were continually being invented or
discovered--_foie gras_, the grapefruit, the alligator pear; no
satisfactory new ways of love were possible. Even so, man was not
defeated. On the contrary, he won a great moral victory. The facts of
sex were unalterably simple, but the atmosphere of thought and emotion
surrounding those facts he discovered to be a luxuriant tropical forest.
Three thousand years of thrilling exploration have not exhausted its
richness or exorcized its dangers--for the forest breeds monsters as
well as gods, and men have been lost and have gone mad there. In fact,
in this rich region one may find anything one looks for (besides
startling surprises), from harpies to shapes of serene loveliness. It is
a Swiss-Family-Robinson kind of forest, save for the delightful
uselessness of the discoveries.
To this world pornography belongs. But it is not an earnest-minded art,
and so does not concern itself with either the beauties or the horrors,
both of which its mocking, reasonable, eighteenth-century nature finds
excessive, but with all the minor mysteries of the wood--the fantastic
tricks and illusions, the dainty mischievous sprites, the malicious
imps who make faces from behind trees then vanish with a burst of clear
laughter.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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