I'm a bachelor in the old sense of the word, meaning I flirt, I

The celebrated costume designer William Ivey Long, a man who dressed the dreams of Broadway and gave fabric to imagination, once said: “I’m a bachelor in the old sense of the word, meaning I flirt, I have very many close relationships, but then I come home and like to read my book.” In this elegant confession lies a truth as old as civilization itself — that there are souls who live richly among others, yet keep a quiet sanctuary within themselves. It is the voice of one who loves connection but treasures solitude, who delights in the dance of life yet returns to the silence of reflection.

To call oneself a bachelor in the old sense is to invoke a way of being that predates the modern notion of loneliness. In earlier centuries, the bachelor was not simply unmarried, but a scholar, an artist, or a wanderer — a man devoted to the pursuits of the mind and spirit. The medieval term baccalaureus referred to one who had begun his intellectual journey but had not yet reached mastery. In this light, Long’s words carry the echo of that tradition: the bachelor not as one avoiding love, but as one cultivating inner freedom. His flirtations and friendships are the color of life; his solitude, the page upon which those colors find meaning.

This dual existence — of engagement and retreat — is one the ancients knew well. Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor, spent his days surrounded by power, counsel, and conflict. Yet in his private writings, later known as Meditations, he spoke often of returning to “the inner citadel,” that quiet fortress within where a man renews his clarity and peace. Like Marcus, William Ivey Long finds his refuge not in withdrawal from the world, but in balance with it. To flirt is to acknowledge the beauty of connection; to read is to commune with eternity. Both acts are expressions of vitality — one outward, one inward.

The great Renaissance artist Leonardo da Vinci lived much the same way. He dined among nobles and philosophers, delighted in conversation, and yet would often vanish into the solitude of his notebooks, filling pages with inventions, sketches, and thoughts. His life, like Long’s, was not defined by isolation but by rhythm — the movement between society and self. The bachelor’s art, then, is not in the avoidance of love, but in the mastery of presence: to give freely to the world, and yet remain whole in one’s solitude.

Long’s reflection also carries a subtle defiance against the pressures of modern companionship. In a world that measures fulfillment through partnership, he reclaims the dignity of solitude. His statement is not a rejection of intimacy but a celebration of independence — the understanding that peace does not depend on another’s presence, but on one’s harmony with oneself. This is not loneliness; it is liberty. It is the joy of knowing that one’s own company, illuminated by a good book and a quiet evening, is enough.

Yet his admission of “many close relationships” reminds us that solitude need not mean detachment. The heart that enjoys friendship and flirtation is not cold, but generous — one that delights in connection without demanding possession. This is the art of emotional maturity, the wisdom to love lightly, without burdening others with the weight of completion. It is an old wisdom, one practiced by the sages and poets who understood that love, to be pure, must begin with self-contentment.

So, my listener, take this teaching as a gentle guide for your own life. Let the words of William Ivey Long remind you that balance is the truest form of fulfillment. Engage with the world — laugh, connect, flirt, share — but do not forget the quiet sanctum of your own spirit. Cherish your solitude as the ground where your joy regenerates. And when the world grows loud, return home — to your book, your thoughts, your peace. For in the end, the wise do not choose between society and solitude; they weave the two together into a life both vibrant and serene, both connected and free.