Chapter no 4

The Art of Seduction

Appear to Be an Object of Desire —Create Triangles

Few are drawn to the person whom others avoid or neglect; people gather around those who have already attracted interest. We want what other people want. To draw your victims closer and make them hungry to possess you, you must create an aura of desirability—of being wanted and courted by many. It will become a point of vanity for them to be the preferred object of your attention, to win you

away from a crowd of admirers. Manufacture the illusion of

popularity by surrounding yourself with members of the opposite sex

—friends, former lovers, present suitors. Create triangles that stimulate rivalry and raise your value. Build a reputation that

precedes you: if many have succumbed to your charms, there must be a reason.

Let me tell you about a gentleman I once knew who, although he was of pleasing appearance and modest behavior, and also a very capable warrior, was not so outstanding as regards any of these

qualities that there were not to be found many who were his equal and even better. However, as luck would have it, a certain lady fell very deeply in

love with him. She saw that he felt the same way, and as her love grew day by day, there not being any way for them to speak to each other, she revealed her sentiments to another lady, who she

hoped would be of service to her in this affair. Now this lady neither in rank nor beauty was a whit

inferior to the first; and it came about that when

she heard the young man (whom she had never seen) spoken of so affectionately, and came to

realize that the other woman, whom she knew was extremely discreet and intelligent, loved him beyond words, she straight away began to imagine that he must be the most handsome, the wisest, the most discreet of men, and, in short, the man most worthy of her love in all the world. So, never having set eyes on him, she fell in love with him so passionately that she set out to win him not for her friend but for herself. And in this she succeeded with little effort, for indeed she was a woman more to be wooed than to do the wooing. And now listen to the splendid sequel: not long afterward it happened that a letter which she had written to her lover fell into the hands of another woman of

comparable rank, charm, and beauty; and since she, like most women, was curious and eager to learn secrets, she opened the letter and read it. Realizing that it was written from the depths of passion, in the most loving and ardent terms, she was at first moved with compassion, for she knew very well from whom the letter came and to whom it was addressed; then, however, such was the

power of the words she read, turning them over in her mind and considering what kind of man it must be who had been able to arouse such great love,

she at once began to fall in love with him herself; and the letter was without doubt far more effective than if the young man had himself written it to her.

And just as it sometimes happens that the poison prepared for a prince kills the one who tastes his

food, so that poor woman, in her greediness, drank the love potion prepared for another. What more is there to say? The affair was no secret, and things so developed that many other women besides,

partly to spite the others and partly to follow their example, put every care and effort into winning

this man’s love, squabbling over it for a while as boys do for cherries.

—BALDASSARE CASTIGLIONE, THE BOOK OF THE COURTIER, TRANSLATED BY

GEORGE BULL

Creating Triangles

One evening in 1882, the thirty-two-year-old Prussian philosopher Paul Rée, living in Rome at the time, visited the house of an older woman who ran a salon for writers and artists. Rée noticed a newcomer there, a twenty- one-year-old Russian girl named Lou von Salomé, who had come to Rome on holiday with her mother. Rée introduced himself and they began a conversation that lasted well into the night. Her ideas about God and morality were like his own; she talked with such intensity, yet at the same time her eyes seemed to flirt with him. Over the next few days Rée and

Salomé took long walks through the city. Intrigued by her mind yet confused by the emotions she aroused, he wanted to spend more time with her. Then, one day, she startled him with a proposition: she knew he was a close friend of the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, then also visiting Italy. The three of them, she said, should travel together—no, actually live together, in a kind of philosophers’ ménage à trois. A fierce critic of Christian morals, Rée found this idea delightful. He wrote to his friend about Salomé, describing how desperate she was to meet him. After a few such letters, Nietzsche hurried to Rome.

Rée had made this invitation to please Salomé, and to impress her; he also wanted to see if Nietzsche shared his enthusiasm for the young girl’s ideas. But as soon as Nietzsche arrived, something unpleasant happened:

the great philosopher, who had always been a loner, was obviously smitten with Salomé. Instead of the three of them sharing intellectual conversations together, Nietzsche seemed to be conspiring to get the girl alone. When Rée caught glimpses of Nietzsche and Salomé talking without including him, he felt shivers of jealousy. Forget about some philosophers’ ménage à trois:

Salomé was his, he had discovered her, and he would not share her, even

with his good friend. Somehow he had to get her alone. Only then could he woo and win her.

Madame Salomé had planned to escort her daughter back to Russia, but

Salomé wanted to stay in Europe. Rée intervened, offering to travel with the Salomés to Germany and introduce them to his own mother, who, he promised, would look after the girl and act as a chaperone. (Rée knew that his mother would be a lax guardian at best.) Madame Salomé agreed to this proposal, but Nietzsche was harder to shake: he decided to join them on their northward journey to Rée’s home in Prussia. At one point in the trip,

Nietzsche and Salomé took a walk by themselves, and when they came back, Rée had the feeling that something physical had happened between them. His blood boiled; Salomé was slipping from his grasp.

Finally the group split up, the mother returning to Russia, Nietzsche to his summer place in Tautenburg, Rée and Salomé staying behind at Rée’s home. But Salomé did not stay long: she accepted an invitation of Nietzsche’s to visit him, unchaperoned, in Tautenburg. In her absence Rée was consumed with doubts and anger. He wanted her more than ever, and was prepared to redouble his efforts. When she finally came back, Rée vented his bitterness, railing against Nietzsche, criticizing his philosophy, and questioning his motives toward the girl. But Salomé took Nietzsche’s side. Rée was in despair; he felt he had lost her for good. Yet a few days later she surprised him again: she had decided she wanted to live with him, and with him alone.

At last Rée had what he had wanted, or so he thought. The couple setded in Berlin, where they rented an apartment together. But now, to Rée’s dismay, the old pattern repeated. They lived together but Salomé was courted on all sides by young men. The darling of Berlin’s intellectuals, who admired her independent spirit, her refusal to compromise, she was constantly surrounded by a harem of men, who referred to her as “Her Excellency.” Once again Rée found himself competing for her attention.

Driven to despair, he left her a few years later, and eventually committed suicide.

In 1911, Sigmund Freud met Salomé (now known as Lou Andreas- Salomé) at a conference in Germany. She wanted to devote herself to the psychoanalytical movement, she said, and Freud found her enchanting, although, like everyone else, he knew the story of her infamous affair with

Nietzsche (see page 46, “The Dandy”). Salomé had no background in

psychoanalysis or in therapy of any kind, but Freud admitted her into the inner circle of followers who attended his private lectures. Soon after she joined the circle, one of Freud’s most promising and brilliant students, Dr. Victor Tausk, sixteen years younger than Salomé, fell in love with her.

Salomé’s relationship with Freud had been platonic, but he had grown extremely fond of her. He was depressed when she missed a lecture, and would send her notes and flowers. Her involvement in a love affair with Tausk made him intensely jealous, and he began to compete for her attention. Tausk had been like a son to him, but the son was threatening to steal the father’s platonic lover. Soon, however, Salomé left Tausk. Now her friendship with Freud was stronger than ever, and so it lasted until her death, in 1937.

Interpretation. Men did not just fall in love with Lou Andreas-Salomé; they were overwhelmed with the desire to possess her, to wrest her away from others, to be the proud owner of her body and spirit. They rarely saw her alone; she always in some way surrounded herself with other men. When

she saw that Rée was interested in her, she mentioned her desire to meet Nietzsche. This inflamed Rée, and made him want to marry her and to keep him for himself, but she insisted on meeting his friend. His letters to

Nietzsche betrayed his desire for this woman, and this in turn kindled Nietzsche’s own desire for her, even before he had met her. Every time one of the two men was alone with her, the other was in the background. Then, later on, most of the men who met her knew of the infamous Nietzsche affair, and this only increased their desire to possess her, to compete with Nietzsche’s memory. Freud’s affection for her, similarly, turned into potent desire when he had to vie with Tausk for her attention. Salomé was intelligent and attractive enough on her own account; but her constant strategy of imposing a triangle of relationships on her suitors made her desirability intense. And while they fought over her, she had the power, being desired by all and subject to none.

Most of the time we prefer one thing to another

because that is what our friends already prefer or because that object has marked social significance. Adults, when they are hungry, are just like children in that they seek out the foods that

others take. In their love affairs, they seek out the man or woman whom others find attractive and abandon those who are not sought after. When we say of a man or woman that he or she is desirable, what we really mean is that others desire them. It is not that they have some particular quality, but

because they conform to some currently modish model.

—SERGE MOSCOVICI, THE AGE OF THE CROWD:A HISTORICAL TREATISE ON MASS

PSYCHOLOGY, TRANSLATED BY J. C. WHITEHOUSE

It will be greatly to your advantage to entertain the lady you would win with an account of the number of women who are in love with you, and of the decided advances which they have made to you;

for this will not only prove that you are a great

favorite with the ladies, and a man of true honor, but it will convince her that she may have the

honor of being enrolled in the same list, and of being praised in the same way, in the presence of your other female friends. This will greatly delight her, and you need not be surprised if she testifies her admiration of your character by throwing her arms around your neck on the spot.

—LOLA MONTEZ, THE ARTS AND SECRETS OF BEAUTY, WITH HINTS TO GENTLEMEN

ON THE ART OF FASCINATING

Our desire for another person almost always involves social considerations: we are attracted to those who are attractive to other people. We want to possess them and steal them away. You can believe all the sentimental nonsense you want to about desire, but in the end, much of it

has to do with vanity and greed. Do not whine and moralize about people’s selfishness, but simply use it to your advantage. The illusion that you are desired by others will make you more attractive to your victims than your beautiful face or your perfect body. And the most effective way to create that illusion is to create a triangle: impose another person between you and your victim, and subtly make your victim aware of how much this other person wants you. The third point on the triangle does not have to be just

one person: surround yourself with admirers, reveal your past conquests— in other words, envelop yourself in an aura of desirability. Make your

targets compete with your past and your present. They will long to possess you all to themselves, giving you great power for as long as you elude their grasp. Fail to make yourself an object of desire right from the start, and you will end up the sorry slave to the whims of your lovers—they will abandon you the moment they lose interest.

[A person] will desire any object so long as he is convinced that it is desired by another person

whom he admires.

—RENÉ GIRARD

Keys to Seduction

We are social creatures, and are immensely influenced by the tastes and desires of other people. Imagine a large social gathering. You see a man

alone, whom nobody talks to for any length of time, and who is wandering around without company; isn’t there a kind of self-fulfilling isolation about him? Why is he alone, why is he avoided? There has to be a reason. Until

someone takes pity on this man and starts up a conversation with him, he will look unwanted and unwantable. But over there, in another corner, is a woman surrounded by people. They laugh at her remarks, and as they

laugh, others join the group, attracted by its gaiety. When she moves around, people follow. Her face is glowing with attention. There has to be a reason.

[René] Girard’s mimetic desire occurs when an individual subject desires an object because it is desired by another subject, here designated as the

rival: desire is modeled on the wishes or actions of another. Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe says that “the basic hypothesis upon which rests Girard’s famous analysis [is that] every desire is the desire of the

other (and not immediately desire of an object), every structure of desire is triangular (including

the other—mediatoror model—whose desire desire imitates), every desire is thus from its inception tapped by hatred and rivalry; in short, the origin of desire is mimesis—mimeticism—and no desire is ever forged which does not desire forthwith the death or disappearance of the model or exemplary character which gave rise to it.

—JAMES MANDRELL, DON JUAN AND THE POINT OF HONOR

In both cases, of course, there doesn’t actually have to be a reason at all. The neglected man may have quite charming qualities, supposing you ever talk to him; but most likely you won’t. Desirability is a social illusion. Its source is less what you say or do, or any kind of boasting or self- advertisement, than the sense that other people desire you. To turn your

targets’ interest into something deeper, into desire, you must make them see you as a person whom others cherish and covet. Desire is both imitative (we like what others like) and competitive (we want to take away from others what they have). As children, we wanted to monopolize the attention of a parent, to draw it away from other siblings. This sense of rivalry pervades human desire, repeating throughout our lives. Make people compete for

your attention, make them see you as sought after by everyone else. The aura of desirability will envelop you.

Your admirers can be friends or even suitors. Call it the harem effect.

Pauline Bonaparte, sister of Napoleon, raised her value in men’s eyes by

always having a group of worshipful men around her at balls and parties. If she went for a walk, it was never with one man, always with two or three. Perhaps these men were simply friends, or even just props and hangers-on; the sight of them was enough to suggest that she was prized and desired, a woman worth fighting over. Andy Warhol, too, surrounded himself with the most glamorous, interesting people he could find. To be part of his inner

circle meant that you were desirable as well. By placing himself in the

middle but keeping himself aloof from it all, he made everyone compete for his attention. He stirred people’s desire to possess him by holding back.

Practices like these not only stimulate competitive desires, they take aim at people’s prime weakness: their vanity and self-esteem. We can endure feeling that another person has more talent, or more money, but the sense that a rival is more desirable than we are—that is unbearable. In the early eighteenth century, the Duke de Richelieu, a great rake, managed to seduce a young woman who was rather religious but whose husband, a dolt, was often away. He then proceeded to seduce her upstairs neighbor, a young

widow. When the two women discovered that he was going from one to the other in the same night, they confronted him. A lesser man would have fled, but not the duke; he understood the dynamic of vanity and desire. Neither woman wanted to feel that he preferred the other. And so he managed to

arrange a little ménage à trois, knowing that now they would struggle between themselves to be the favorite. When people’s vanity is at risk, you can make them do whatever you want. According to Stendhal, if there is a woman you are interested in, pay attention to her sister. That will stir a triangular desire.

Your reputation—your illustrious past as a seducer—is an effective way of creating an aura of desirability. Women threw themselves at Errol Flynn’s feet, not because of his handsome face, and certainly not because of his acting skills, but because of his reputation. They knew that other women had found him irresistible. Once he had established that reputation, he did not have to chase women anymore; they came to him. Men who believe that a rakish reputation will make women fear or distrust them, and should be

played down, are quite wrong. On the contrary, it makes them more attractive. The virtuous Duchess de Montpensier, the Grande Mademoiselle of seventeenth-century France, began by enjoying a friendship with the rake Lauzun, but a troubling thought soon occurred to her: if a man with Lauzun’s past did not see her as a possible lover, something had to be wrong with her. This anxiety eventually pushed her into his arms. To be part of a great seducer’s club of conquests can be a matter of vanity and pride.

We are happy to be in such company, to have our name broadcast as this man or woman’s lover. Your own reputation may not be so alluring, but you must find a way to suggest to your victim that others, many others, have found you desirable. It is reassuring. There is nothing like a restaurant full of empty tables to persuade you not to go in.

It’s annoying that our new acquaintance likes the boy. But aren’t the best things in life free to all? The sun shines on everyone. The moon, accompanied by countless stars, leads even the

beasts to pasture. What can you think of lovelier than water? But it flows for the whole world. Is love alone then something furtive rather than

something to be gloried in? Exactly, that’s just it—

I don’t want any of the good things of life unless people are envious of them.

—PETRONIUS, THE SATYRICON, TRANSLATED BY J. P. SULLIVAN

A variation on the triangle strategy is the use of contrasts: careful exploitation of people who are dull or unattractive may enhance your desirability by comparison. At a social affair, for instance, make sure that your target has to chat with the most boring person available. Come to the rescue and your target will be delighted to see you. In The Seducer’s Diary, by Søren Kierkegaard, Johannes has designs on the innocent young Cordelia. Knowing that his friend Edward is hopelessly shy and dull, he

encourages this man to court her; a few weeks of Edward’s attentions will make her eyes wander in search of someone else, anyone else, and Johannes

will make sure that they settle on him. Johannes chose to strategize and maneuver, but almost any social environment will contain contrasts you can make use of almost naturally. The seventeenth-century English actress Nell Gwyn became the main mistress of King Charles II because her humor and unaffectedness made her that much more desirable among the many stiff and pretentious ladies of Charles’s court. When the Shanghai actress Jiang Qing met Mao Zedong, in 1937, she did not have to do much to seduce him; the other women in his mountain camp in Yenan dressed like men, and were decidedly unfeminine. The sight alone of Jiang was enough to seduce Mao, who soon left his wife for her. To make use of contrasts, either develop and display those attractive attributes (humor, vivacity, and so on) that are the scarcest in your own social group, or choose a group in which your natural qualities are rare, and will shine.

The use of contrasts has vast political ramifications, for a political figure must also seduce and seem desirable. Learn to play up the qualities that your rivals lack. Peter II, czar in eighteenth-century Russia, was arrogant and irresponsible, so his wife, Catherine the Great, did all she could to seem modest and dependable. When Vladimir Lenin returned to Russia in 1917 after Czar Nicholas II had been deposed, he made a show of decisiveness and discipline—precisely what no other leader had at the time. In the American presidential race of 1980, the irresoluteness of Jimmy Carter

made the single-mindedness of Ronald Reagan look desirable. Contrasts are eminently seductive because they do not depend on your own words or self- advertisements. The public reads them unconsciously, and sees what it

wants to see.

Finally, appearing to be desired by others will raise your value, but often how you carry yourself can influence this as well. Do not let your targets

see you so often; keep your distance, seem unattainable, out of their reach. An object that is rare and hard to obtain is generally more prized.