When I say that all woman are dazzling beauties, they object. This one’s nose is too large… the hips of another are too wide, perhaps the breast of a third, they are too small. But I see these women for how they truly are: Glorious… radiant, spectacular and perfect because I am not limited by my eyesight. Women react on me the way that they do Don Octavio because they sense that I search out the beauty that dwells within them until it overwhelms everything else. And then they cannot avoid their desire: to release that beauty and envelop me in it.
Every woman is a mystery waiting to be solved, but a woman hides nothing from a true lover. Her skin color can tell us how to proceed. A hue like the blush of a rose, pink and pale, and she must be coaxed to open her petals with a warmth like the sun. The pale and dappled skin of a redhead calls for the lust of a wave crashing to the shore so we may stir up what lies beneath her and bring up the foamy delight of love to the surface. Although there is no metaphor that truly describes making love to a woman, the closest is playing a rare musical instrument. I wonder…does a Stradivarius violin feel the same rapture as the violinist when he coaxes a single perfect note from its heart?
There are only four questions of value in life, Don Octavio: What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for? And what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.
Don Juan DeMarco (Johnny Depp)
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