It’s said that men are the romantic sex. Guilty as charged, your honor. But we can handle it because our compartmentalizing brain lets us understand the full reality of female hypergamy and still not wallow in naturalistic nihilism.
There is a popular blog that sometimes goes into male-female mechanics. It’s hosted by an intelligent writer, a widower who ruefully reminds his readers that women are aroused by violence against them. He’s right, and such insights literally save lives and nations. Yet the Red Pill, like any pill, can be overdosed on. I find an excessive dwelling on soulless biomechanics repellent, like trying to live our one life with eyes compulsively fixed on the movement of a myriad insect legs in the grass.
You’ll find a more complete picture about men and women — of all places — in Milo’s critique of Jordan Peterson:
There is such a thing as the Chaotic feminine Peterson recognizes. She is the Whore of Babylon, rather than the Heavenly Bride. But Jordan only sees the Whore. This is a fundamental failing in his mythological structure: he doesn’t see the Ordering Feminine—the Lady as Heavenly City who gives a home to her groom. Men are constantly asking feminists to be more honest about male virtue. They have to do women the same courtesy. Peterson doesn’t, and can’t.
See this clip, which shows highlights from Love Story (1970):
The movie is loaded with anachronisms, starting with the female lead’s ball-busting Second Wave feminism. And yet, “nothing human is alien to me.” When Jennifer Cavilleri barrages Oliver Barrett IV with hostile questions, you don’t see liberals of their era, you see a lower class girl attracted to a handsome upper class suitor.
One of the things I liked about the movie is its visuals of the northern climate. If nothing else, the scenes of our protagonists frolicking in the snow make you look forward to winter.
The dude, Oliver, is me in one particular way: in his earnestness. I married a girl with a lighter shade of the same lovely brown hair as that actress. She and I visited New England about a decade after I lived there. Saw a bunch of new things, also checked out my old haunts. As we’re driving back home, she looks at me and says “I think we’re bringing a son home with us.” Nine months later, our baby boy was born.