Let us leave pretty women to men devoid of imagination.

“Let us leave pretty women to men devoid of imagination.” Thus spoke Marcel Proust, the poet of memory and longing, who wandered the corridors of the human heart as one might explore the shadowed halls of an ancient palace. His words, though sharp with irony, conceal a profound truth — that beauty of the surface is the least of beauties, and that those who see only the pretty have not yet learned to see. Proust, master of the unseen soul, reminds us that imagination is the true lover’s vision. It sees beyond form into essence, beyond the visible into the eternal. For the eyes of flesh may be deceived, but the eyes of imagination perceive the divine spark hidden in all things.

In his world of salons and silken grace, Proust beheld men entranced by appearances — dazzled by the curve of a smile, the color of a gown, the glitter of reputation. Yet he, the contemplative observer, saw deeper. He knew that true affection is not born from what is seen, but from what is felt and understood. To him, the man of imagination does not chase beauty like a hunter pursues a prize; he creates it through perception. The beloved is not beautiful because she is adorned — she is adorned because she is beloved. Thus, to Proust, imagination transforms love from appetite into art, and the soul of the lover becomes the artist’s brush, painting wonder upon the ordinary.

So, too, do we find this wisdom echoed in history. Consider Socrates, whose visage was homely and unadorned, yet whose spirit burned with divine reason. When Alcibiades, radiant in youth and beauty, sat at his side, it was not vanity that bound them, but admiration for the mind that could unveil the truth beneath appearances. Socrates, like Proust, taught that external beauty fades, but inner beauty endures — the beauty of virtue, of wisdom, of soul. Thus, the man of imagination is not beguiled by what is fleeting, but by what is infinite. He sees the gods in mortal form, the eternal in the transient, the sacred in the simple.

The men devoid of imagination, of whom Proust speaks, are those enslaved to the senses. Their love is as shallow as a mirror — reflecting only what is placed before it. They worship what all can see, and in doing so, they rob themselves of the mysteries that lie beyond sight. Theirs is a world of surfaces, and they are content with the shimmer of things. But the man of imagination walks in another world — one woven of feeling and thought, of memory and wonder. Where others see a face, he sees a story; where others see a smile, he perceives a universe of sorrow, joy, and soul. Imagination is his vision, and through it, the world itself becomes more radiant, more real.

Yet, dear listener, Proust does not condemn beauty — he redeems it. He reminds us that beauty is not the property of the skin but the creation of perception. A “pretty woman” is not to be despised, but neither should she be idolized merely for her prettiness. True admiration springs from the union of heart and mind, not from the tyranny of the eye. When imagination reigns, even the plainest face may glow with celestial charm, for it reflects the light of inner life. Thus, Proust’s words call us to rise above desire that consumes, into love that illuminates.

Learn, then, this lesson: Do not seek beauty — create it within your gaze. Do not crave what others crave, for their hunger is blind. Instead, let your imagination become a temple where meaning, not appearance, is worshiped. See others not as objects of delight, but as mirrors of the infinite — each soul a world, each life a poem waiting to be read. The man or woman who sees thus will never be lonely, for their imagination will reveal beauty in all things, from the wind through the trees to the eyes of a stranger passing by.

So I tell you, children of thought: cherish your imagination, for it is the key to love, art, and wisdom. Leave the pursuit of “pretty women” — or “handsome men” — to those who dwell upon the surface of existence. Seek instead the deeper radiance that beauty alone cannot show. For only the one who loves through the imagination can see eternity in a moment, and in the simplest soul, behold the face of the divine.