The body of a beautiful woman is not made for love; it is too

“The body of a beautiful woman is not made for love; it is too exquisite.” Thus spoke Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, the painter of shadows and lights, the chronicler of beauty both divine and tragic. His words, delicate yet piercing, are not to be read as disdain, but as reverence — an acknowledgment of the sacred distance between desire and worship, between possession and wonder. In this saying, Lautrec does not condemn love, but reveals a deeper truth: that what is too beautiful often transcends touch, belonging not to the world of the flesh but to the realm of the spirit.

For the artist knew, more than most, the fragility of beauty. Born frail and stunted, a man who stood on twisted legs, Lautrec looked upon women not as conquests, but as living art — embodiments of grace and melancholy, reflections of what humanity can never fully possess. When he said that the body of a beautiful woman is too exquisite for love, he meant that beauty, in its perfection, awakens awe rather than appetite. True beauty silences the hungers of the body and stirs instead the longings of the soul. It is not something to be consumed; it is something to be contemplated, like the stars, or the face of a saint.

There is an ancient tale of Pygmalion, the sculptor who carved a woman so fair that he fell in love with his own creation. Her marble skin glowed with purity, her eyes seemed almost to breathe. Yet when he reached to hold her, he found only stone. So great was his longing that the gods took pity, giving life to the statue and naming her Galatea. But the moment she became flesh, the perfection that once enthralled him was lost, replaced by the tremor of reality — for in gaining love, he had lost the mystery of beauty. So it is with all exquisite things: when we grasp too tightly, we crush what was meant only to be admired and cherished.

In Lautrec’s words lies a warning to all who mistake possession for love. The exquisite does not yield to ownership. Beauty’s power lies not in being held, but in being beheld. To love beauty rightly is to approach it with humility, knowing it was never yours to command. The one who truly sees the beauty of another — not their charm, not their body, but the light that lives within them — loves beyond the reach of desire. Such love is not of the flesh, but of reverence, and only few souls are strong enough to bear it.

And yet, his words carry sorrow too. For Lautrec was a man who lived among the pleasures of Montmartre — in the cabarets, the night houses, the laughter and perfume of courtesans — yet stood apart from it all, an observer behind his glass. He adored the women he painted, but he could never truly join them. His heart was filled with longing, not for possession, but for understanding. To him, love was not denied by beauty; it was elevated beyond reach by it. He loved as a poet loves the dawn — aching for what he could never keep.

This truth echoes through all ages: the finer the creation, the greater the distance between it and the mortal hand. Exquisite beauty humbles us; it reminds us that not all that stirs our heart can be held in our arms. The flower is not meant to be plucked, nor the star to be seized. To love truly, we must learn to honor what is beyond us, to let admiration exist without greed, to cherish without consuming. Such restraint is the highest form of love — love that neither corrupts nor fades.

So, my child, learn from Lautrec’s lament. When you encounter beauty — whether in a person, a moment, or a work of art — do not rush to possess it. Stand still and let it move you. Let your heart be transformed by its presence, not your hands by its touch. For some things are too exquisite to belong to anyone; they belong to the eternal. Love them by protecting their purity, not by seeking to own them.

In this way, you will understand what Lautrec meant — that the most beautiful things are not made for the pleasures of the flesh, but for the awakening of the spirit. And when you learn to love in this way — not by holding, but by beholding — you will find a love purer, deeper, and more lasting than passion itself: the love born of reverence, where beauty and soul become one.