Oh god, what a slimy, patronising, pseudo-intellectual “romantic” De Botton was. The fact this book was published at all, let alone accoladed, says everything about how society dismisses the immature, condescending treatment of women by men.
I shuddered through the entirety of the book. I’ve met these kinds of men before in academia - those soft, overly-analytical men who hide their blatant disregard for female intellect through over-romanticisation of them and unspoken digs about how she doesn’t rise to his standards, intellectually and aesthetically.
Chloe, the poor woman subjected to this relationship in De Botton’s life, is scrutinised by this self-loving, self-proclaimed philosopher for her choices of jam, her reading material, her shoes, and her CLEAR inability to reach his intellectual depths. Of COURSE, the jam is about Marxism; the fact she questioned him so sternly about it sent him into a rage (followed by a self-pitying cry alone in a room).
Her style choices clearly symbolise a psychological incompatibility - my god, what do I see in her - he asks himself in yet another one of his continuous ego-stroking “philosophical” delvings. He was so disturbed by her choice of shoes that he instigated yet another toxic and meaningless fight which turns “comically” physical.
Oh dear, it seems like we have another Byronic, middle-class “romantic” who’s frustrated that the women in this world aren’t meeting the standards set by Rossetti’s paintings. But I thought life imitated art - cried the young “philosopher”.
And then, then, while reading a Cosmo magazine (something which Botton clearly turns his nose up at), she has the AUDACITY to ask him to turn down his beloved Bach which he’s playing. How DARE she want silence to read in - how dare she put her desire to read this filthy, contemporary, uneducated source of literature above listening to a master of ART. She clearly doesn’t understand.
Yet, he holds onto her and doesn’t know why. She’s clearly inferior to him in every sense of the word. Perhaps it’s their “endearing” teasing of one another that keeps them together (albeit the digs are somewhat on the nose and are clearly rooted in unspoken distastes they have about one another, but the health of this dialogue isn’t brought into question).
To add spice to the relationship, they each follow the method of making the other one jealous (philosophically sound sir, your Cambridge professors would be proud at the depth of thought you gave to this method). But he feels a deep sense of lack in his relationship because Chloe isn’t everything he wants her to be (damn women for being so imperfect), so he (admittedly) incites fights with her, removes himself emotionally and physically from her and plays mind games - as any great, academic philosopher would, you know. They teach that at Cambridge
Then, pièce de résistance of emotional manipulation, he “terroristically sulks” against the “immoral” Chloe who had rejected the clear love and comfort he gave to her in abundance, he pens a suicide note and overdoses on Vitamin C tablets.
He gleefully imagines Chloe’s distraught reaction to his death, and how she would blame herself for ‘not understanding’ him. But he survived (obviously), which is fortunate, as he realised much later that he would have been “too dead to derive any pleasure from the melodrama of my extinction”. What a lovely chap. How the women weren’t throwing themselves at him after this I have no idea.
Perhaps I’ve got a bias towards this type of character, but De Botton is emblematic of thousands of self-professed “intellectual” men out there. Obviously, not all, but as someone who has been around a lot of them (platonically), I know the type they are. They love themselves too much to love another - they’re infatuated with their own perceptions, knowledge, academic credits and status to see past the reflection in the water and acknowledge anyone else.
These men bemoan that no one understands them, that everyone else at university is too juvenile to engage in the high arts with them, and they daydream of smoking cigarettes out of a Parisian window whilst a naked woman in black and white lies awaiting their lover - because she has nothing else to do but lie there, pining for him.
These men like to shoe-horn in philosophical theories into the list of reasons why they’re single, despite being hopelessly romantic, and name drop poets and authors they relate to. They think they are charming, irresistible, unimaginably more intelligent than any woman could ever comprehend and magnetic. When, in reality, intelligent people stay miles away from these needy, egoistic, dripping men, as their very poeticism which they pride themselves so highly on comes across as so inauthentic and inorganic that it makes our skin shudder and we gag, just a little bit, before picking up another book and looking elsewhere.
#notallmen, but not going to lie, De Botton does you dirty in this book.