rates similar to those seen in Western countries. When asked the reason for the divorce, the commonest answer is, We didn't get along.
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What do women want? None of us can speak for all women, or for more than one woman, really, but we can hazard a mad guess that a desire for emotional parity is widespread and profound. It doesn't go away, although it often hibernates under duress, and it may be perverted by the restrictions of habitat or culture into something that looks like its opposite. The impulse for liberty is congenital. It is the ultimate manifestation of selfishness, which is why we can count on its endurance.
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When intelligent and articulate women have created the men of their dreams, as the great female novelists of history have done, the men read like the men of many women's dreams, for they are men who love women of strength and intelligence, who do not want their women emotionally and intellectually spayed and chastened. Charlotte Brontë gave us Jane Eyre and Edward Rochester, two well-matched blades of fire, tit for tat down the checklist of debits and credits. She is plain, thin, and pale. He is ugly, "a Vulcan a real blacksmith, brown, broad-houldered." He is rich, self-possessed, and worldly but bordering on middle-aged. She is poor, provincial, and alone but has youth in her favor and, more to the point, a rich inner life. Rochester's love for her is stirred when he sees her watercolors of fabulous Blakean landscapes. "And who taught you to paint wind?" he demands. "Where did you see Latmos? For this is Latmos." Each lover is scorchingly bright, and glad of the other's depth and quickness. Charlotte Brontë wants her heroine to come to her mate in full strength, in the purity of desire and self-invention. She even throws in an inheritance for Jane three quarters of the way through the novel, to liberate her from any need of Rochester beyond the man of him. Oh, they are equals all right, for though Rochester towers over Jane physically, he is perpetually getting himself injured and calling on her small, pale frame to help prop him up.
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Jane Eyre is fiction, Mack the Knife the archetypal smoldering poster puff. The throngs of us who have loved her and lusted onanistically after him, though, are flesh-and-bloody phenotypes. We and our fantasies are the fruit of evolution, and we are waiting to be known. It all begins with the first small, sly bite. You will come back for more.
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