Well, I am nearly 300 pages into Ulysses by James Joyce and every once in a while I google a word, like thewless or mavrone when I run across it on a page. I also, for the fun of it, googled “How to win a woman’s heart” when I ran across that phrase center stashed in a paragraph.
Yes, that is an answer, one of many, which is offered by a male to other males online.
I tell you, if hypnosis was the answer, then we won’t probably all be reading, or looking forward to reading, Molly Bloom’s soliloquy. What fun would that be if it spouted a load of macho heroics, dictated, at us?
Hypnosis. When exactly, because the timeline of this idea is a little vague to me, is a man supposed to hypnotize a woman to win her heart? When he meets her for the first time, or when he’s managed to persuade her into going out with him? Because in the first place, if she’s not keen on going out with him, then I doubt he’ll have the opportunity to hypnotize her, and if she doesn’t feel like going out with him, then he’d have to hypnotize her to get her to go out with him.
But then, what kind of hypnosis are we talking about?
Clean slate now, let’s forget the hypnosis hypothesis because it’s a pretty dumb idea after all. How long does a man want to win a woman’s heart? What if he forgets to snap his brawny fingers?
And furthermore, why should a woman act hypnotized to hook a man?
I recently ran into an acquaintance who happened to be out on a date; her doe eyes wide, her sensors tapping overtime in the dark sussing her first time beau out. She looked kind of well, hypnotized, because there was a man sitting next to her who was supposed to open a door for her and not openly fart in the car. It was as if she was listening for a sentence that would soon whisper over the breeze to her, “I adore you. Your eyes are like stars. Your breasts like moist sponge cakes.” And I could tell she wasn't quite sure she was heading for the till to buy the idea if she happened to hear it. That kind of hypnotized, the unsure type of wide eyed hypnosis of a first date.
A well-meaning friend of my parents used to hand me, aged 13 and onwards up, all sorts of romance novels. I suspect she had a notion that my ideas of romance were not being suitably developed. I would dutifully read Mary Stewart and cohorts and report back. My book reports were the type of “Set in Ireland, Leopold meets Molly and spends a lot of time in the dunes with her admiring nature and discussing empirical plans in the art world. She's wearing her crimson silk garters. He’s got it all, he’s set to succeed and all he needs is the right woman beside him, one that he can exploit from time to time. They will conquer the world together because Molly has a good head on her shoulders and can manage the paychecks and definitely chose the right kind of quality serge curtains to last a lifetime.”
Then there was the one set in Jamaica, or the one set in France with butter toned heroes etc. After a while I didn’t and still don’t want to read any more about hypnotized heroines. Instead I am enjoying the likes of Ulysses, a motivational story of which the ancient tale never quite spoke to me so much as now.