I just like the company of beautiful women. I have a weakness in

Hear now the words of the musician Eric Clapton, who confessed with a mixture of candor and humility: “I just like the company of beautiful women. I have a weakness in that department.” At first, these words may seem light, even playful, as though one were admitting to a guilty pleasure of the heart. Yet if we look more closely, we find in them the eternal struggle between desire and discipline, between the soul’s higher calling and the heart’s restless yearning. It is the voice of a man acknowledging not only his delight but also his vulnerability. For to name something as a weakness is to recognize both its sweetness and its peril.

The origin of this confession lies in the life of Clapton himself, a man whose songs poured from deep wells of passion, loss, and longing. His art was often entangled with his loves, his heartbreaks, and his pursuit of beauty. The women who passed through his life were not mere adornments; they were muses, sources of both inspiration and turmoil. Thus, when he speaks of the “company of beautiful women,” he speaks as one who has lived with fire—knowing both its warmth and its power to consume.

This struggle is not his alone, but one that humanity has known since the dawn of time. Recall the tale of Paris of Troy, who, swayed by beauty, chose Aphrodite’s promise of Helen over wisdom or power. That choice, born of desire, led to the burning of a thousand ships and the ruin of a great city. Beauty has always been both gift and danger: it inspires poetry, music, and love, yet it can also blind the eyes of judgment and bend the will of the strong. Clapton’s words, though personal, echo this ancient truth—that the heart, unguarded, may become both exalted and undone by its longings.

Yet there is something admirable in his honesty. He does not cloak his desire in excuses, nor does he disguise it with lofty words. He calls it simply a weakness. In that confession lies a measure of wisdom: for the ancients taught that the first step toward mastery is to know oneself. To name one’s weakness is not to be defeated by it, but to bring it into the light, where it may be understood and, perhaps, tempered. Clapton reminds us that even the mighty, even those who touch the heights of art and fame, carry within them vulnerabilities that must be reckoned with.

The meaning for us, then, is not to scorn desire, nor to indulge it blindly, but to walk the middle path. Beauty is a gift of the divine, a reminder of life’s splendor, a force that can awaken the soul to joy and creativity. But unchecked desire becomes enslavement, pulling one from purpose, scattering one’s energy, and leading to regret. The lesson is to honor beauty without becoming its captive, to delight in companionship without losing the sovereignty of the self.

Therefore, let us take the lesson: examine your own weaknesses, and name them with honesty. Do not despise them, for they are part of what makes you human. But do not worship them either, lest they rule over you. Instead, turn weakness into awareness, awareness into wisdom, and wisdom into strength.

Practically, this means learning to pause when passion stirs, to measure its cost as well as its sweetness. Seek balance: delight in beauty, but cultivate discipline; cherish companionship, but hold fast to your deeper calling. For desire, like fire, must be tended—neither extinguished nor allowed to burn uncontrolled. In this balance lies freedom, and in freedom, the power to love more deeply and live more fully.

So, when Clapton admits, “I have a weakness in that department,” let us hear not only the words of one man, but the echo of humanity’s eternal struggle. Beauty will always beckon, desire will always stir, but the wise will learn to walk with both joy and restraint. And thus, what might be a weakness can become, in time, a source of strength and understanding.