Esther Vilar must not listen to country music, or if she does, she only listens to that modern garbage that has nothing to do with rural Americans. If she did, she’d know women (like Miranda Lambert) have strong emotional responses to life and love. Vilar’s probably never been in love either, and that’s the big difference between her and the men she’s trying to reach with her God-awful book: “The Manipulated Man.”
We’re supposed to think she’s a whistle-blower. Men finally get the inside scoop on what women are thinking. (She’s certainly not trying to convince anyone by using scientific data because the book doesn’t have a single footnote and cites no statistics. No, we’re supposed to take her authority as an insider for granted, on account of her being a woman.)
When an attractive girl pulls up next to us on the highway and offers a characteristically feminine grin, she’s not a fellow companion in the game of life, admiring the air of masculinity we give off (with the aid of our sports car). Oh no! According to Vilar, something more sinister is going on.
Vilar’s woman is an unsexed harpy preying on the male sex-drive, manipulating it to her own, wicked ends. Men (especially husbands) are nothing more than the willing slaves of a life-long whore, a creature with no emotional depth or capability for abstract thought; a creature with scant physical appeal (barring what she creates through hours of primping and priming); a creature who survives luxuriously by selling compliments and the occasional sexual favor.
…with all apologies to the witch Vilar – she, despite her sex, has no clue what women are like. As a matter of fact, the more I think on it, the more convinced I am that the sexes are able to see each other clearer than they see themselves. Women are connoisseurs of men, and men of women. We’re designed to pay special attention to each other in ways that might give us the upper hand when it comes to analyzing our opposites. Women, especially, have an intuition for a man; they can tell immediately when we’re putting on airs, bluffing, or being otherwise dishonest (I know this for a fact, having had numerous schemes foiled by a watchful mother).
Why focus on all this?
Well, I was told once, by a scrawny young ex-Christian-turned-hipster, (with the initials of M.B. for those of you in the know), that if I read Vilar’s book, coupled with two others (Yockey and Spengler), that I would no longer be a Kinist, that I would reject my chivalry and take up with him in the “man-o-sphere” where he fornicates as often as possible with no regard for Holy writ.
He (and his comrades) are the only manipulated men here, as far as I can tell. Vilar is arrogant enough to suspect that men will fall for her ruse, despite her book’s constant harping on how intellectually superior we are to women; and yet, the entire time, she’s trying to “manipulate” us into rejecting traditional masculine roles, and free ourselves from these God-ordained boundaries. She wants men to give up our station as men, and become, like her: unsexed monsters.
Her book is, essentially, an attempt to make feminism sound appealing to men instead of repulsing us.
Whatever man believes her badly-written tripe has truly been “manipulated”.
I’ve read Vilar. I’ve faced the witch. And I’m still standing.