I've been reading History of my Life by Giacomo Casanova for the last few weeks. It's a beautiful Everyman's edition; weighty; with it's own ribbon bookmark (always a nice touch). The content is no less beautiful. Here was one extraordinary man: a priest; a thief; magician; gambler; traveller, ultimately a wicked diarist, whose confessions read like a more lurid Pepys, with an equal eye for detail. I've already lost count of all the women he's fallen in love with. Can't remember who sang the song, maybe Ultimate Kaos - whoever they were they were shit, but the line sticks: 'I am not your Casanova.' True enough, he did sleep with scores of women (and maybe even some men) but that doesn't make him the uber libertine some would make him out to be. Unlike the Ron Jeremys, the Simon Cowells and Wilt Chamberlains* and countless others we all know and love (or despise); Casanova elevates his encounters to the level of genius. He has an affinity and a genuine adoration for the whole personality of his mistresses. He isn't a sexual predator or a fiend - and I suspect he was a lot better looking than Michael Douglas, to boot. His joy is infectious, and his intrepid pursuits of his ultimately all - too - willing darlings, will raise a universal smile for those of either sex. SEXY TIME!
* 'Wilt the Stilt' allegedly bedded 10,000 women!