'The Old Woman' by Auguste Rodin 1884-85 |
"The Double Standard of Aging" by
Susan Sontag. Saturday Review, September
23, 1972.
“How old are you?” The person asking the question is anybody. The
respondent is a woman, a woman “of a certain age,” as the French might say
discreetly. That age might be anywhere from her early twenties to her late
fifties. If the question is impersonal – routine information requested when she
applies for a driver’s license, a credit card, a passport – she will probably
force herself to answer truthfully. Filling out a marriage license application,
if her future husband is even slightly her junior, she may long to subtract a
few years; probably she won’t. Competing for a job, her chances often partly
depend on being the “right age,” and if hers isn’t right, she will lie if she
thinks she can get away with it. Making her first visit to a new doctor,
perhaps feeling particularly vulnerable at the moment she’s asked, she will
probably hurry through the correct answer. But if the question is only what
people call personal – if she’s asked by a new friend, a casual acquaintance, a
neighbor’s child, a co-worker in an office, store, factory – her response is
harder to predict. She may side-step the question with a joke or refuse it with
playful indignation. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to ask a woman her
age?” Or, hesitating a moment, embarrassed but defiant, she may tell the truth.
Or she may lie. But neither truth, evasion, nor lie relieves the unpleasantness
of that question. For a woman to be obliged to state her age, after “a certain
age” is always a miniature ordeal.
If the question comes from a woman, she will feel less threatened than
if it comes from a man. Other women are, after all, comrades in sharing the
same potential for humiliation. She will be less arch, less coy. But she probably
still dislikes answering and may not tell the truth. Bureaucratic formalities
excepted, whoever asks a woman this question – after “a certain age” – is ignoring
a taboo and possibly being impolite or downright hostile. Almost everyone
acknowledges that once she passes an age that is, actually quite young, a woman’s
exact age ceases to be a legitimate target of curiosity. After childhood the
year of a woman’s birth becomes her secret, her private property. It is
something of a dirty secret. To answer truthfully is always indiscreet.
The discomfort a woman feels each time she tells her age is quite
independent of the anxious awareness of human mortality that everyone has, from
time to time. There is a normal sense in which nobody, men and women alike,
relishes growing older. After thirty-five any mention of one’s age carries with
it the reminder that one is probably closer to the end of one’s life than to
the beginning. There is nothing unreasonable in that anxiety. Nor is there any
abnormality in the anguish and anger that people who are really old, in their
seventies and eighties, feel about the implacable waning of their powers,
physical and mental. Advanced age is undeniably a trial, however stoically it
may be endured. It is a shipwreck, no matter with what courage elderly people
insist on continuing the voyage. But the objective, sacred pain of old age is
of another order than the subjective, profane pain of aging. Old age is a
genuine ordeal, one that men and women undergo in a similar way. Growing older
is mainly an ordeal of the imagination – a moral disease, a social pathology –
intrinsic to which is the fact that it afflicts women much more than men. It is
particularly women who experience growing older (everything that comes before one is actually old) with such
distaste and even shame.
The emotional privileges this society confers upon youth stir up some
anxiety about getting older in everybody. All modern urbanized societies –
unlike tribal, rural societies – condescend to the values of maturity and heap
honors on the joys of youth. This revaluation of the life cycle in favor of the
young brilliantly serves a secular society whose idols are ever-increasing
industrial productivity and the unlimited cannibalization of nature. Such a
society must create a new sense of the rhythms of life in order to incite
people to buy more, to consume and throw away faster. People let the direct
awareness they have of their needs, of what really gives them pleasure, be
overruled by commercialized images of
happiness and personal well-being; and, in this imagery designed to stimulate
ever more avid levels of consumption, the most popular metaphor for happiness
is “youth.” (I would insist that it is a metaphor, not a literal description.
Youth is a metaphor for energy, restless mobility, appetite; for the state of “wanting.”)
This equating of well-being with youth makes everyone naggingly aware of exact
age – one’s own and that of other people. In primitive and pre-modern societies
people attach must less importance to dates. When lives are divided into long
periods with stable responsibilities and steady ideals (and hypocrisies), the
exact number of years someone has lived becomes a trivial fact; there is hardly
any reason to mention, even to know, the year in which one was born. Most
people in nonindustrial societies are not sure exactly how old they are. People
in industrial societies are haunted by numbers. They take an almost obsessional
interest in keeping the score card of aging, convinced that anything above a
low total is some kind of bad news. In an era in which people actually live
longer and longer, what now amounts to the latter two-thirds of everyone’s life is shadowed by a poignant
apprehension of unremitting loss.
The prestige of youth afflicts everyone in this society to some degree.
Men, too, are prone to periodic bouts of depression about aging – for instance,
when feeling insecure or unfulfilled or insufficiently rewarded in their jobs.
But men rarely panic about aging in the way women often do. Getting older is
less profoundly wounding for a man, for in addition to the propaganda for youth
that puts both men and women on the defensive as they age, there is a double
standard about aging that denounces women with special severity. Society is
much more permissive about aging in men, as it is more tolerant of the sexual
infidelities of husbands. Men are “allowed” to age, without penalty, in several
ways that women are not.
This society offers even fewer rewards for aging to women than it does
to men. Being physically attractive counts much more in a woman’s life than in
a man’s, but beauty, indentified, as it is for women, with youthfulness, does
not stand up well to age. Exceptional mental powers can increase with age, but
women are rarely encouraged to develop their minds above dilettante standards.
Because the wisdom considered the special province of women is “eternal,” an
age-old, intuitive knowledge about the emotions to which a repertoire of facts,
worldly experience, and the methods of rational analysis have nothing to
contribute, living a long time does not promise women an increase in wisdom
either. The private skills expected of women are exercised early and, with the
exception of a talent for making love, are not the kind that enlarge with
experience. “Masculinity” is identified with competence, autonomy, self-control
– qualities which the disappearance of youth does not threaten. Competence in
most of the activities expected from men, physical sports excepted, increases
with age. “Femininity” is identified with incompetence, helplessness,
passivity, noncompetitiveness, being nice. Age does not improve these
qualities.
Middle-class men feel diminished by aging, even while still young, if
they have not yet shown distinction in their careers or made a lot of money.
(And any tendencies they have toward hypochondria will get worse in middle age,
focusing with particular nervousness on the specter of heart attacks and the
loss of virility.) Their aging crisis is linked to that terrible pressure on
men to be “successful” that precisely defines their membership in the middle class.
Women rarely feel anxious about their age because they haven’t succeeded at
something. The work that women do outside the home rarely counts as a form of
achievement, only as a way of earning money; most employment available to women
mainly exploits the training they have been receiving since early childhood to
be servile, to be both supportive and parasitical, to be unadventurous. They
can have menial, low-skilled jobs in light industries, which offer as feeble a
criterion of success as housekeeping. They can be secretaries, clerks, sales
personnel, maids, research assistants, waitresses, social workers, prostitutes,
nurses, teachers, telephone operators – public transcriptions of the servicing
and nurturing roles that women have in family life. Women fill very few
executive posts, are rarely found suitable for large corporate or political
responsibilities, and form only a tiny contingent in the liberal professions
(apart from teaching). They are virtually barred from jobs that involve an
expert, intimate relation with machines or an aggressive use of the body, or
that carry any physical risk or sense of adventure. The jobs this society deems
appropriate to women are auxiliary, “calm” activities that do not compete with,
but aid, what men do. Besides being less well paid, most work women do has a
lower ceiling of advancement and gives meager outlet to normal wishes to be
powerful. All outstanding work by women in this society is voluntary; most
women are too inhibited by the social disapproval attached to their being
ambitious and aggressive. Inevitably, women are exempted from the dreary panic
of middle-aged men whose “achievements” seem paltry, who feel stuck on the job
ladder or fear being pushed off it by someone younger. But they are also denied
most of the real satisfactions that men derive from work – satisfactions that
often do increase with age.
The double standard about aging shows up most brutally in the
conventions of sexual feeling, which presuppose a disparity between men and
women that operates permanently to women’s disadvantage. In the accepted course
of events a woman anywhere from her late teens through her middle twenties can
expect to attract a man more or less her own age. (Ideally, he should be at
least slightly older.) They marry and raise a family. But if her husband starts
an affair after some years of marriage, he customarily does so with a woman
much younger than his wife. Suppose, when both husband and wife are already in
their late forties or early fifties, they divorce. The husband has an excellent
chance of getting married again, probably to a younger woman. His ex-wife finds
it difficult to remarry. Attracting a second husband younger than herself is
improbable; even to find someone her own age she has to be lucky, and she will
probably have to settle for a man considerably older than herself, in his
sixties or seventies. Women become sexually ineligible much earlier than men
do. A man, even an ugly man, can remain eligible well into old age. He is an
acceptable mate for a young, attractive woman. Women, even good-looking women,
become ineligible (except as partners of very old men) at a much younger age.
Thus, for most women, aging means a humiliating process of gradual
sexual disqualification. Since women are considered maximally eligible in early
youth, after which their sexual value drops steadily, even young women feel
themselves in a desperate race against the calendar. They are old as soon as
they are no longer very young. In late adolescence some girls are already
worrying about getting married. Boys and young men have little reason to
anticipate trouble because of aging. What makes men desirable to women is by no
means tied to youth. On the contrary, getting older tends (for several decades)
to operate in men’s favor, since their value as lovers and husbands is set more
by what they do than how they look. Many men have more success romantically at
forty than they did at twenty or twenty-five; fame, money, and above all, power
are sexually enhancing. (A woman who has won power in a competitive profession
or business career is considered less, rather than more desirable. Most men
confess themselves intimidated or turned off sexually by such a woman,
obviously because she is harder to treat as just a sexual “object.”) As they
age, men may start feeling anxious about actual sexual performance, worrying
about a loss of sexual vigor or even impotence, but their sexual eligibility is
not abridged simply by getting older. Men stay sexually possible as long as
they can make love. Women are at a disadvantage because their sexual candidacy
depends on meeting certain much stricter “conditions” related to looks and age.
Since women are imagined to have much more limited sexual lives than
men do, a woman who has never married is pitied. She was not found acceptable,
and it is assumed that her life continues to confirm her unacceptability. Her
presumed lack of sexual opportunity is embarrassing. A man who remains a
bachelor is judged much less crudely. It is assumed that he, at any age, still
has a sexual life – or the chance of one. For men there is no destiny equivalent
to the humiliating condition of being an old maid, a spinster. “Mr.,” a cover
from infancy to senility, precisely
exempts men from the stigma that attaches to any woman, no longer young, who is
still “Miss.” (That women are divided into “Miss” and “Mrs.,” which calls
unrelenting attention to the situation of each woman with respect to marriage,
reflects the belief that being single or married is much more decisive for a
woman that it is for a man.)
For a woman who is no longer very young, there is certainly some relief
when she has finally been able to marry. Marriage soothes the sharpest pain she
feels about the passing year. But her anxiety never subsides completely, for
she knows that should she re-enter the sexual market at a later date – because of
divorce, or the death of her husband, or the need for erotic adventure – she must
do so under a handicap far greater than any man of her age (whatever her age may be) and regardless of
how good-looking she is. Her achievements, if she has a career, are no asset.
The calendar is the final arbiter.
To be sure, the calendar is subject to some variations from country to
country. In Spain, Portugal and the Latin American countries, the age at which
most women are ruled physically undesirable comes earlier than in the United
States. In France it is somewhat later. French conventions of sexual feeling
make a quasi-official place for the woman between thirty-five and forty-five.
Her role is to initiate an inexperienced or timid young man, after which she
is, of course, replaced by a young girl. (Colette’s novella Cheri is the best-known account in
fiction of such a love affair; biographies of Balzac relate a well-documented
example from real life.) This sexual myth does make turning forty somewhat easier
for French women. But there is no difference in any of these countries in the
basic attitudes that disqualify women sexually much earlier than men.
Aging also varies according to social class. Poor people look old much
earlier in their lives than do rich people. But anxiety about aging is
certainly more common, and more acute, among middle-class and rich women than
among working-class women. Economically disadvantaged women in this society are
more fatalistic about aging; they can’t afford to fight the cosmetic battle as
long or as tenaciously. Indeed, nothing so clearly indicates the fictional
nature of this crisis than the fact that women who keep their youthful
appearance the longest – women who lead unstrenuous, physically sheltered
lives, who eat balanced meals, who can afford good medical care, who have few
or no children – are those who feel the defeat of age most keenly. Aging is
much more a social judgment than a biological eventuality. Far more extensive
than the hard sense of loss suffered during menopause (with which increased
longevity, tends to arrive later and later) is the depression about aging,
which may not be set off by any real event in a woman’s life, but is a
recurrent state of “possession” of her imagination, ordained by society – that is,
ordained by the way this society limits how women feel free to imagine
themselves.
There is a model account of the aging crisis in Richard Strauss’s
sentimental-ironic opera Der
Rosenkavalier, whose heroine is a wealthy and glamorous married woman who
decides to renounce romance. After a night with her adoring young lover, the
Marschallin has a sudden, unexpected confrontation with herself. It is toward
the end of Act I; Octavian has just left. Alone in her bedroom she sits at her
dressing table, as she does every morning. It is the daily ritual of
self-appraisal practiced by every woman. She looks at herself and, appalled,
begins to weep. Her youth is over. Note that the Marschallin does not discover,
looking in the mirror, that she is ugly. She is as beautiful as ever. The
Marschallin’s discovery is moral – that is, it is a discovery of her
imagination; it is nothing she actually sees.
Nevertheless, her discovery is no less devastating. Bravely, she makes her
painful, gallant decision. She will arrange for her beloved Octavian to fall in
love with a girl his own age. She must be realistic. She is no longer eligible.
She is now “the old Marchallin.”
Strauss wrote the opera in 1910. Contemporary operagoers are rather
shocked when they discover that the libretto indicates that the Marschallin is
all of thirty-four years old; today the role is generally sung by a soprano
well into her forties or in her fifties. Acted by an attractive singer of
thirty-four, the Marschallin’s sorrow would seem merely neurotic, or even
ridiculous. Few women today think of themselves as old, wholly disqualified
from romance, at thirty-four. The age of retirement has moved up, in line with
the sharp rise in life expectancy for everybody in the last few generations. The
form in which women experience their
lives remains unchanged. A moment approaches inexorably when they must resign
themselves to being “too old.” And that moment is invariably – objectively –
premature.
In earlier generations the renunciation came even sooner. Fifty years
ago a woman of forty was not just aging but old, finished. No struggle was even
possible. Today, the surrender to aging no longer has a fixed date. The aging
crisis (I am speaking only of women in affluent countries) starts earlier but
lasts longer; it is diffused over most of a woman’s life. A woman hardly has to
be anything like what would reasonably be considered old to worry about her
age, to start lying (or being tempted to lie). The crises can come at any time.
Their schedule depends on a blend of personal (“neurotic”) vulnerability and
the swing or social mores. Some women don’t have they first crisis until
thirty. No one escapes a sickening shock upon turning forty. Each birthday, but
especially those ushering in a new decade – for round numbers have a special
authority – sounds a new defeat. There is almost as much pain in the
anticipation as in the reality. Twenty-nine has become a queasy age ever since
the official end of youth crept forward, about a generation ago, to thirty.
Being thirty-nine is also hard; a whole year in which to meditate in glum
astonishment that one stands on the threshold of middle age. The frontiers are
arbitrary, but not any less vivid for that. Although a woman on her fortieth
birthday is hardly different from what she was when she was still thirty-nine,
the day seems like a turning point. But long before actually becoming a woman
of forty, she has been steeling herself against the depression she will feel.
One of the greatest tragedies of each woman’s life is simply getting older; it
is certainly the longest tragedy.
Aging is a movable doom. It is a crisis that never exhausts itself,
because the anxiety is never really used up. Being a crisis of the imagination
rather than of “real life,” it has the habit of repeating itself again and
again. The territory of aging (as opposed to actual old age) has no fixed
boundaries. Up to a point it can be defined as one wants. Entering each decade –
after the initial shock is absorbed – an endearing desperate impulse of
survival helps many women to stretch the boundaries to the decade following. In
late adolescence thirty seems the end of life. At thirty, one pushes the
sentence forwards to forty. At forty, one still gives oneself ten more years.
I remember my closest friend in college sobbing on the day she turned
twenty-one. “The best part of my life is over. I’m not young anymore.” She was
a senior, nearing graduation. I was a precocious freshman, just sixteen.
Mystified, I tried lamely to comfort her, saying that I didn’t think twenty-one
was so old. Actually, I didn’t
understand at all what could be demoralizing about turning twenty-one. To me,
it meant only something good: being in charge of oneself, being free. At
sixteen, I was too young to have noticed, and become confused by, the
peculiarly loose, ambivalent way in which this society demands that one stop
thinking of oneself as a girl and start thinking of oneself as a woman. (In
American that demand can now be put off to the age of thirty, even beyond.) But
even if I thought her distress was absurd, I must have been aware that it would
not simply be absurd but quite unthinkable in a boy turning twenty-one. Only women worry about age with that degree
of inanity and pathos. And, of course, as with all crises that are inauthentic
and therefore repeat themselves compulsively (because the danger is largely fictive,
a poison in the imagination), this friend of mine when on having the same
crisis over and over, each time as if for the first time.
I also came to her thirtieth birthday party. A veteran of many love
affairs, she had spent most of her twenties living abroad and had just returned
to the United States. She had been good-looking when I first knew her; now she
was beautiful. I teased her about the tears she had shed over being twenty-one.
She laughed and claimed not to remember. But thirty, she said ruefully, that
really is the end. Soon after, she married. My friend is now forty-four. While
no longer what people call beautiful, she is striking-looking, charming and
vital. She teaches elementary school; her husband, who is twenty years older
than she, is a part-time merchant seaman. They have one child, now nine years
old. Sometimes, when her husband is away, she takes a lover. She told me
recently that forty was the most upsetting birthday of all (I wasn’t at that
one), and although she has only a few years left, she means to enjoy them while
they last. She has become one of those women who seize every excuse offered in
any conversation for mentioning how old they really are, in a spirit of bravado
compounded with self-pity that is not too different from the mood of women who
regularly lie about their age. But she is actually fretting much less about
aging than she was two decades ago. Having a child, and having one rather late,
past the age of thirty, has certainly helped to reconcile her to her age. At
fifty, I suspect, she will be ever more valiantly postponing the age of
resignation.
My friend is one of the more fortunate, sturdier casualties of the
aging crisis. Most women are not as spirited, nor as innocently comic in their
suffering. But almost all women endure some version of this suffering: A
recurrent seizure of the imagination that usually begins quite young, in which
they project themselves into a calculation of loss. The rules of this society
are cruel to women. Brought up to be never fully adult, women are deemed
obsolete earlier than men. In fact, most women don’t become relatively free and
expressive sexually until their thirties. (Women mature sexually this late,
certainly much later than men, not for innate biological reasons but because
this culture retards women. Denied most outlets for sexual energy permitted to
men, it takes many women that long to
wear out some of their inhibitions.) The time at which they start being
disqualified as sexually attractive persons is just when they have grown up
sexually. The double standard about aging cheats women of those years, between
thirty-five and fifty, likely to be the best of their sexual life.
That women expect to be flattered often by men, and the extent to which
their self-confidence depends on this flattery, reflects how deeply women are
psychologically weakened by this double standard. Added on to the pressure felt
by everybody in this society to look young as long as possible are the values
of “femininity,” which specifically identify sexual attractiveness in women
with youth. The desire to be the “right age” has a special urgency for a woman
it never has for a man. A much greater part of her self-esteem and pleasure in
life is threatened when she ceases to be young. Most men experience getting
older with regret, apprehension. But most women experience it even more
painfully: with shame. Aging is a man’s destiny, something that must happen
because he is a human being. For a woman, aging is not only her destiny.
Because she is that more narrowly defined kind of a human being, a woman, it is
also her vulnerability.
To be a woman is to be an actress. Being feminine is a kind of theater,
with its appropriate costumes, décor, lighting, and stylized gestures. From
early childhood on, girls are trained to care in a pathologically exaggerated
way about their appearance and are profoundly mutilated (to the extent of being
unfitted for first-class adulthood) by the extent of the stress put on presenting
themselves as physically attractive objects. Women look in the mirror more
frequently than men do. It is, virtually, their duty to look at themselves – to
look often. Indeed, a woman who is not narcissistic is considered unfeminine.
And a woman who spends literally most of
her time caring for, and making purchases to flatter her physical appearance is
not regarded in this society as what she is: a kind of moral idiot. She is
thought to be quite normal and is envied by other women whose time is mostly
used up at jobs or caring for large families. The display of narcissism goes on
all the time. It is expected that women will disappear several times in an
evening – at a restaurant, at a party, during a theater intermission, in the
course of a social visit – simply to check their appearance, to see that
nothing has gone wrong with their make-up and hairstyling, to make sure that
their clothes are not spotted or too wrinkly or not hanging properly. It is
even acceptable to perform this activity in public. At the table in a
restaurant, over coffee, a woman opens a compact mirror and touches up her
make-up and hair without embarrassment in front of her husband or her friends.
All this behavior, which is written off as normal “vanity” in women,
would seem ludicrous in men because of the relentless pressure on women to
maintain their appearance at a certain high standard. What makes the pressure
even more burdensome is that there are actually several standards. Men present
themselves as face-and-body, a physical whole. Women are split, as men are not,
into a body and a face – each judged by somewhat different standards. What is
important for a face is that it be beautiful. What is important for a body is
two things, which may even be (depending on fashion and taste) somewhat
incompatible: first that it be desirable and second, that it be beautiful. Men
usually feel sexually attracted to women much more because of their bodies than
their faces. The traits that arouse desire – such as fleshiness – don’t always
match those that fashion decrees as beautiful. (For instance, the ideal woman’s
body promoted in advertising in recent years is extremely thin: the kind of
body that looks more desirable clothed than naked.) But women’s concern with
their appearance is not simply geared to arousing desire in men. It also aims
at fabricating a certain image by which, as a more indirect way of arousing
desire, women state their value. A woman’s value lies in the way she represents herself, which is much more
by her face than her body. In defiance of the laws of simple sexual attraction,
women do not devote most of their attention to their bodies. The well-known “normal”
narcissism that women display – the amount of time they spend before the mirror
– is used primarily in caring for the face and hair.
Women do not simply have faces, as men do; they are identified with
their faces. Men have a naturalistic relation to their faces. Certainly they
care whether they are good-looking or not. They suffer over acne, protruding
ears, tiny eyes; they hate getting bald. But there is a much wider latitude in
what is esthetically acceptable in a man’s face than what is in a woman’s. A
man’s face is defined as something he basically doesn’t need to tamper with;
all he has to do is keep it clean. He can avail himself of the options for
ornament supplied by nature: a beard, a mustache, longer or shorter hair. But
he is not supposed to disguise himself. What he is “really” like is supposed to
show. A man lives through his face; it records the progressive stages of his
life. And since he doesn’t tamper with his face, it is not separate from but is
completed by his body – which is judged attractive by the impression it gives
of virility and energy. By contrast, a woman’s face is potentially separate
from her body. She does not treat it naturalistically. A woman’s face is the
canvas upon which she paints a revised, corrected portrait of herself. One of
the rules of this creation is that the face not
show what she doesn’t want it to show. Her face is an emblem, an icon, a flag.
How she arranges her hair, the type of make-up she uses, the quality of her
complexion – all these are signs, not of what she is “really” like, but of how
she asks to be treated by others, especially men. They establish her status as
an “object.”
For the normal changes that age inscribes on every human face, women
are much more heavily penalized than men. Even in early adolescence, girls are
cautioned to protect their faces against wear and tear. Mothers tell their
daughters (but never their sons): You look ugly when you cry. Stop worrying.
Don’t read too much. Crying, frowning, squinting, even laughing – all these
human activities make “lines.” The same usage of the face in men is judged
quite positively. In a man’s face lines are taken to be signs of “character.”
They indicate emotional strength, maturity – qualities far more esteemed in men
than women. (They show he has “lived.”) Even scars are often not felt to be
unattractive; they too can add “character” to a man’s face. But lines of aging,
any scar, even a small birthmark on a woman’s face, are always regarded as
unfortunate blemishes. In effect, people take character in men to be different
from what constitutes character in women. A woman’s character is thought to be
innate, static – not the product on her experience, her years, her actions. A
woman’s face is prized so far as it remains unchanged by (or conceals the
traces of) her emotions, her physical risk-taking. Ideally, it is supposed to
be a mask – immutable, unmarked. The model woman’s face is Garbo’s. Because
women are identified with their faces much more than men are, and the ideal
woman’s face is one that is “perfect,” it seems a calamity when a woman has a disfiguring
accident. A broken nose or a scar or a burn mark, is a terrible psychological
wound to a woman; objectively, it diminishes her value. (As is well known, most
clients for plastic surgery are women.)
Both sexes aspire to a physical ideal, but what is expected of boys and
what is expected on girls involves a very different moral relation to the self.
Boys are encouraged to develop their
bodies, to regard the body as an instrument to be improved. They invent their
masculine selves largely through exercise and sport, which harden the body and
strengthen competitive feelings; clothes are of only secondary help in making
their body attractive. Girls are not particularly encouraged to develop their
bodies through any activity, strenuous or not; and physical strength and
endurance are hardly valued at all. The invention of the feminine self proceeds
mainly through clothes and other signs that testify to the very effort of girls
to look attractive, to their commitment to please. When boys become men, they
may go on (especially if they have sedentary jobs) practicing a sport or doing
exercises for a while. Mostly they leave their appearance alone, having been
trained to accept more or less what nature has handed out to them. (Men may
start doing exercises again in their forties to lose weight, but for reasons of
health – there is an epidemic fear of heart attacks among the middle-aged in
rich countries – not for cosmetic reasons.) As one of the norms of “femininity”
in this society is being preoccupied with one’s physical appearance, so “masculinity”
means not caring very much about one’s
looks.
This society allows men to have a much more affirmative relation to
their bodies than women have. Men are more “at home” in their bodies, whether
they treat them casually or use them aggressively. A man’s body is defined as a
strong body. It contains no contradiction between what is felt to be attractive
and what is practical. A woman’s body, so far as it is considered attractive,
is defined as a fragile, light body. (Thus, women worry more than men do about
being overweight.) When they do exercises, women avoid the ones that develop
the muscles, particularly those in the upper arms. Being “feminine” means
looking physically weak, frail. Thus, the ideal woman’s body is one that is not
of much practical use in the hard work of this world, and one that must
continually be “defended.” Women do not develop their bodies, as men do. After
a woman’s body has reached its sexually acceptable form by late adolescence,
most further development is viewed as negative. And it is thought irresponsible
for women to do what is normal for me: simply leave their appearance alone.
During early youth they are like to come as close as they ever will to the
ideal image – slim figure, smooth firm skin, light musculature, graceful
movements. Their task is to try to maintain that image, unchanged, as long as
possible. Improvement as such is not the task. Women care for their bodies –
against toughening, coarsening, getting fat. They conserve them. (Perhaps the fact that women in modern societies
tend to have a conservative political outlook than men originates in their
profoundly conservative relation to their bodies.)
In the life of women in this society the period of pride, of natural
honesty, of unself-conscious flourishing is brief. Once past youth women are
condemned to inventing (and maintaining) themselves against the inroads of age.
most of the physical qualities regarded as attractive in women deteriorate much
earlier in life than those defined as “male.” Indeed, they perish fairly soon
in the normal sequence of body transformation. The “feminine” is smooth,
rounded, hairless, unlined, soft, unmuscled – the look of the very young;
characteristics of the weak, of the vulnerable; eunuch traits, as Germaine
Greer has pointed out. Actually, there are only a few years – late adolescence,
early twenties – in which it can be had without touching-up and covering-up.
After that, women enlist in a quixotic enterprise, trying to close the gap
between the imagery put forth by society (concerning what is attractive in a
woman) and the evolving facts of nature.
Women have a more intimate relation to aging than men do, simply
because one of the accepted “women’s” occupations is taking pains to keep one’s
face and body from showing the signs of growing older. Women’s sexual validity
depends, up to a certain point, on how well they stand off these natural
changes. After late adolescence women become the caretakers of their bodies and
faces, pursuing an essentially defensive strategy, a holding operation. A vast
array of products in jars and tubes, a branch of surgery, and armies of
hairdressers, masseuses, diet counselors, and other professionals exist to
stave off, or mask, developments that are entirely normal biologically. Large
amounts of women’s energies are diverted into this passionate, corrupting
effort to defeat nature: to maintain an ideal, static appearance against the
progress of age. The collapse of the project is only a matter of time.
Inevitably, a woman’s physical appearance develops beyond its youthful form. No
matter how exotic the creams or how strict the diets, one cannot indefinitely
keep the face unlined, the waist slim. Bearing children takes its toll: the
torso becomes thicker; the skin is stretched. There is no way to keep certain
lines from appearing, in one’s mid twenties, around the eyes and mouth. From
about thirty one, the skin gradually loses its tonus. In women this perfectly
natural process is regarded as a humiliating defeat, while nobody finds
anything remarkably unattractive in the equivalent physical changes in men. Men
are “allowed” to look older without sexual penalty.
Thus, the reason that women experience aging with more pain than men is
not simply that they care more than men about how they look. Men also care
about their looks and want to be attractive, but since the business of men is
mainly being and doing, rather than appearing, the standards for appearance are
much less exacting. The standards for what is attractive in a man are
permissive; they conform to what is possible or “natural” to most men
throughout most of their lives. The standards for women’s appearance go against
nature, and to come anywhere near approximating them takes considerable effort
and time. Women must try to be beautiful. At the least, they are under heavy
social pressure not to be ugly. A woman’s fortunes depend, far more than a man’s,
on being at least “acceptable” looking. Men are not subject to this pressure.
Good looks in a man is a bonus, not a psychological necessity for maintaining
normal self-esteem.
Behind the fact that women are more severely penalized than men are for
aging is the fact that people, in this culture at least, are simply less
tolerant of ugliness in women than in men. An ugly woman is never merely
repulsive. Ugliness in a woman is felt by everyone, men as well as women, to be
faintly embarrassing. And many features or blemishes that count as ugly in a
woman’s face would be quite tolerable on the face of a man. This is not, I
would insist, just because of the esthetic standards for men and women are
different. It is rather because the esthetic standards for women are much
higher, and narrower, than those proposed for men.
Beauty, women’s business in this society, is the theater of their
enslavement. Only one standard of female beauty is sanctioned: the girl. The great advantage men have is
that our culture allows to standards of male beauty: the boy and the man. The
beauty of a boy resembles the beauty of a girl. In both sexes it is a fragile
kind of beauty and flourishes naturally only in the early part of the
life-cycle. Happily, men are able to accept themselves under another standard
of good looks – heavier, rougher, more thickly built. A man does not grieve
when he loses the smooth, unlined, hairless skin of a boy. For he has only
exchanged one form of attractiveness for another: the darker skin of a man’s
face, roughened by daily shaving, showing the marks of emotion and the normal
lines of age. There is no equivalent of this second standard for women. The
single standard of beauty for women dictates that they must go on having clear
skin. Every wrinkle, every line, every grey hair, is a defeat. No wonder that
no boy minds becoming a man, while even the passage from girlhood to early
womanhood is experienced by many women as their downfall, for all women are
trained to want to continue looking like girls.
This is not to say there are no beautiful older women. But the standard
of beauty in a woman of any age is how far she retains, or how she manages to
simulate, the appearance of youth. The exceptional woman in her sixties who is
beautiful certainly owes a large debt to her genes. Delayed aging, like good
looks, tends to run in families. But nature rarely offers enough to meet this
culture’s standards. Most of the women who successfully delay the appearance of
age are rich, with unlimited leisure to devote to nurturing along nature’s
gifts. Often they are actresses. (That is, highly paid professionals at doing
what all women are taught to practice as amateurs.) Such women as Mae West,
Dietrich, Stella Adler, Dolores Del Rio, do not challenge the rule about the
relation between beauty and age in women. They are admired precisely because
they are exceptions, because they
have managed (at least so it seems in photographs) to outwit nature. Such
miracles, exceptions made by nature (with the help of art and social
privilege), only confirm the rule, because what makes these women seem
beautiful to us is precisely that they do not look their real age. Society
allow no place in our imagination for a beautiful old woman who does look like
an old woman – a woman who might be like Picasso at the age of ninety, being
photographed outdoors on his estate in the south of France, wearing only shorts
and sandals. No one imagines such a woman exists. Even the special exceptions –
Mae West & Co. – are always photographed indoors, cleverly lit, from the
most flattering angle and fully, artfully clothed. The implication is they
would not stand closer scrutiny. The idea of an old woman in a bathing suit
being attractive, or even just acceptable looking, is inconceivable. An older
woman is, by definition, sexually repulsive – unless, in fact, she doesn’t look
old at all. The body of an old woman, unlike that of an old man, is always understood
as a body that can no longer be shown, offered, unveiled. At best, it may
appear in costume. People still feel uneasy, thinking about what they might see
if her mask dropped, if she took off her clothes.
Thus, the point for women of dressing up, applying make-up, dyeing
their hair, going on crash diets, and getting face-lifts is not just to be
attractive. They are ways of defending themselves against a profound level of
disapproval directed towards women, a disapproval that can take the form of
aversion. The double standard about aging converts the life of women into an
inexorable march toward a condition in which they are not just unattractive,
but disgusting. The profoundest terror of a woman’s life is the moment
represented in a statue by Rodin called Old
Age: a naked old woman, seated, pathetically contemplates her flat,
pendulous, ruined body. Aging in women is a process of becoming obscene
sexually, for the flabby bosom, wrinkled neck, spotted hands, thinning white
hair, waistless torso, and veined legs of an old woman are felt to be obscene.
In our direst moments of the imagination, this transformation can take place
with dismaying speed – as in the end of Lost
Horizon, when the beautiful young girl is carried by her lover out of
Shangri-La and, within minutes, turns into a withered, repulsive crone. There
is no equivalent nightmare about men. This is why, however much a man may care
about his appearance, that caring can never acquire the same desperateness it
often does for women. When men dress according to fashion or now even use
cosmetics, they do not expect from clothes and make-up what women do. A
face-lotion or perfume or deodorant or hairspray, used by a man, is not part of
a disguise. Men, as men, do not feel the need to disguise themselves to fend
off morally disapproved signs of aging, to outwit premature sexual
obsolescence, to cover up aging as obscenity. Men are not subject to the barely
concealed revulsion expressed in this culture against the female body – except in
its smooth, youthful, firm, odorless, blemish-free form.
One of the attitudes that punish women most severely is the visceral
horror felt at again female flesh. It reveals a radical fear of women installed
deep in this culture, a demonology of women that has crystallized in such
mythic caricatures as the vixen, the virago, the vamp, and the witch. Several
centuries of witch-phobia, during which one of the cruelest extermination
programs in Western history was carried out, suggest something of the extremity
of this fear. That old women are repulsive is one of the most profound esthetic
and erotic feelings in our culture. Women share it as much as men do.
(Oppressors, as a rule deny oppressed people their own “native” standards of
beauty. And the oppressed end up being convinced that they are ugly.) How women are psychologically damaged by this
misogynistic idea of what is beautiful parallels the way in which blacks have
been deformed in a society that has up to now defined beautiful as white.
Psychological tests made on young black children in the United States some
years ago showed how early and how thoroughly they incorporate the white
standard of good looks. Virtually all the children expressed fantasies that
indicated they considered black people to be ugly, funny looking, dirty,
brutish. A similar kind of self-hatred infects most women. Like men, they find
old age in women “uglier” than old age in men.
This esthetic taboo functions, in sexual attitudes, as a racial taboo.
In this society most people feel an involuntary recoil of the flesh when
imagining a middle-aged woman making love with a young man – exactly as many
whites flinch viscerally at the thought of a white woman in bed with a black
man. The banal drama of a man of fifty who leaves a wife of forty-five for a
girl-friend of twenty-eight contains no strictly sexual outrage, whatever
sympathy people may have for the abandoned wife. On the contrary. Everyone “understands.”
Everyone knows that men like girls, that young women often want middle-aged
men. But no one “understands” the reverse situation. A woman of forty-five who
leaves a husband of fifty for a lover of twenty-eight is the makings of a
social and sexual scandal at a deep level of feeling. No one takes exception to
a romantic couple in which the man is twenty years or more the woman’s senior.
The movies pair Joanne Dru and John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe and Joseph Cotton,
Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant, Jane Fonda and Yves Montard, Catherine Deneuve
and Marcello Mastroianni; as in actual life, these are perfectly plausible,
appealing couples. When the age difference runs the other way, people are
puzzled and embarrassed and simply shocked. (Remember Joan Crawford and Cliff
Robertson in Autumn Leaves. But so
troubling is this kind of love story that it rarely figures in the movies, and
then only as the melancholy history of a failure.) The usual view of why a
woman of forty and a boy of twenty, or a woman of fifty and a man of thirty,
marry is that the man is seeking a mother, not a wife; no one believes the
marriage will last. For a woman to respond erotically and romantically to a man
who, in terms of his age, could be her father is considered normal. A man who
falls in love with a woman, however attractive she may be, is old enough to be
his mother is thought to be extremely neurotic (victim of an “Oedipal fixation”
is the fashionable tag), if not mildly contemptible.
The wider the gap in age between partners in a couple, the more obvious
is the prejudice against women. When old men, such as Justice Douglas, Picasso,
Strom Thurmond, Onassis, Chaplin and Pablo Casals, take brides thirty, forty,
fifty years younger than themselves, it strikes people as remarkable, perhaps
an exaggeration – but still plausible. To explain such a match, people
enviously attribute some special virility and charm to the man. Though he can’t
be handsome, he is famous; and his fame is understood as having boosted his
attractiveness to women. People imagine that his young wife, respectful of her
elderly husband’s attainments, is happy to become his helper. For the man a
late marriage is always good public relations. It adds to the impression that,
despite his advanced age, he is still to be reckoned with; it is the sign of a
continuing vitality presumed to be available as well to his art, business
activity, or political career. But an elderly woman who married a young man
would be greeted quite differently. She would have broken a fierce taboo, and
she would get no credit for her courage. Far from being admired for her
vitality, she would probably be condemned as predatory, willful, selfish,
exhibitionistic. At the same time she would be pitied, since such a marriage
would be taken as evidence that she was in her dotage. If she had a
conventional career or were in business or held public office, she would quickly
suffer from the current of disapproval. Her very credibility as a professional
would decline, since people would suspect that her young husband might have an
undue influence on her. Her “respectability” would certainly be compromised.
Indeed, the well-known old women I can think of who dared such unions, if only
at the end of their lives – George Eliot, Colette, Edith Piaf – have all
belonged to that category of people, creative artists and entertainers, who
have special license from society to behave scandalously. It is thought to be a
scandal for a woman to ignore that she is old and therefore too ugly for a
young man. Her looks and a certain physical condition determine a woman’s
desirability, not her talents or her needs. Women are not supposed to be “potent.”
A marriage between an old woman and a young man subverts the very ground rule
of relations between the two sexes, that is: whatever the variety of
appearances, men remain dominant. Their claims come first. Women are supposed
to be the associates and companions of men, not their full equals – and never
their superiors. Women are to remain in the state of a permanent “minority.”
The convention that wives should be younger than their husbands
powerfully enforces the “minority” status of women, since being senior in age
always carries with it, in any relationship, a certain amount of power and
authority. There are no laws on the matter, of course. The convention is obeyed
because to do otherwise makes one feel as if one is doing something ugly or in
bad taste. Everyone feels intuitively the esthetic rightness of a marriage in
which the man is older than the woman, which means that any marriage in which
the woman is older creates a dubious or less gratifying mental picture. Everyone
is addicted to the visual pleasure that women give by meeting certain esthetic
requirements from which men are exempted, which keeps women working at staying
youthful-looking while men are left free to age. On a deeper level everyone
finds the signs of old age in women esthetically offensive, which conditions
one to feel automatically repelled by the prospect of an elderly woman marrying
a much younger man. The situation in which women are kept minors for life is
largely organized by such conformist, unreflective preferences. But taste is
not free, and its judgments are never merely “natural.” Rules of taste enforce
structures of power. The revulsion against aging in women is the cutting edge
of a whole set of oppressive structures (often masked as gallantries) that keep
women in their place.
The ideal state proposed for women is docility, which means not being
fully grown up. Most of what is cherished as typically “feminine” is simply
behavior that is childish, immature, weak. To offer so low and demeaning a
standard of fulfillment in itself constitutes oppression in an acute form – a sort
of moral neo-colonialism. But women are not simply condescended to by the
values that secure the dominance of men. They are repudiated. Perhaps because
of having been their oppressors for so long, few men really like women (though they love individual
women), and few men ever feel really comfortable or at ease in women’s company.
This malaise arises because relations between the two sexes are rife with
hypocrisy, as men manage to love those they dominate and therefore don’t
respect. Oppressors always try to justify their privileges and brutalities by
imagining that those they oppress belong to a lower order of civilization or
are less than fully “human.” Deprived of part of their ordinary human dignity,
the oppressed take on certain “demonic” traits. The oppressions of large groups
have to be anchored deep in the psyche, continually renewed by partly
unconscious fears and taboos, by a sense of the obscene. Thus, women arouse not
only desire and affection in men but aversion as well. Women are thoroughly
domesticated familiars. But, at certain times and in certain situations, they
become alien, untouchable. The aversion men feel, so much of which is covered
over, is felt most frankly, with least inhibition, toward the type of woman who
is most taboo “esthetically,” a woman who has become – with the natural changes
brought about by aging – obscene.
Nothing more clearly demonstrates the vulnerability of women than the
special pain, confusion, and bad faith with which they experience getting
older. And in the struggle that some women are waging on behalf of all women to
be treated (and treat themselves) as full human beings – not “only” as women –
one of the earliest results to be hoped for is that women become aware,
indignantly aware, of the double standard about aging from which they suffer so
harshly.
It is understandable that women often succumb to the temptation to lie
about their age. Given society’s double standard, to question a woman about her
age is indeed often an aggressive act, a trap. Lying is an elementary means of
self-defense, a way of scrambling out of the trap, at least temporarily. To
expect a woman, after “a certain age,” to tell exactly how old she is – when she
has a chance, either through the generosity of nature or the cleverness of art,
to pass for being somewhat younger than she actually is – is like expecting a
landowner to admit that the estate he has put up for sale is actually worth
less than the buyer is prepared to pay. The double standard about aging sets
women up as property, as objects whose value depreciates rapidly with the march
of the calendar.
The prejudices that mount against women as they grow older are an
important arm of male privilege. It is the present unequal distribution of
adult roles between the two sexes that gives men a freedom to age denied to
women. Men actively administer the double standard about aging because the “masculine”
role awards them the initiative in courtship. Men choose; women are chosen. So
men choose younger women. But although this system of inequality is operated by
men, it could not work if women themselves did not acquiesce in it. Women
reinforce it powerfully with their complacency, with their anguish, with their
lies.
Not only do women lie more than men do about their age but men forgive them
for it, thereby confirming their own superiority. A man who lies about his age
is thought to be weak, “unmanly.” A woman who lies about her age is behaving in
a quite acceptable “feminine” way. Petty lying is viewed by men with
indulgence, one of a number of patronizing allowances made for women. It has
the same moral unimportance as the fact that women are often late for
appointments. Women are not expected to be truthful, or punctual, or expert in
handling and repairing machines, or frugal, or physically brave. They are
expected to be second-class adults, whose natural state is that of a grateful
dependence on men. And so they often are, since that is what they are brought
up to be. So far as women heed the stereotypes of “feminine” behavior, they cannot behave as fully responsible,
independent adults.
Most women share the contempt for women expressed in the double
standard about aging – to such a degree that they take their lack of
self-respect for granted. Women have been accustomed so long to the protection
of their masks, their smiles, their endearing lies. Without this protection,
they know, they would be more vulnerable. But in protecting themselves as
women, they betray themselves as adults. The model corruption in a woman’s life
is denying her age. She symbolically accedes to all those myths that furnish
women with their imprisoning securities and privileges, that create their
genuine oppression, that inspire their real discontent. Each time a woman lies
about her age she becomes an accomplice in her own underdevelopment as a human
being.
Women have another option. They can aspire to be wise, not merely nice;
to be competent, not merely helpful; to be strong, not merely graceful; to be
ambitious for themselves, not merely for themselves in relation to men and
children. They can let themselves age naturally and without embarrassment,
actively protesting and disobeying the conventions that stem from this society’s
double standard about again. Instead of being girls, girls as long as possible,
who then age humiliatingly into middle-aged women, they can become women much
earlier – and remain active adults, enjoying the long, erotic career of which
women are capable, far longer. Women should allow their faces to show the lives
they have lived. Women should tell the truth.
[1972]
Susan Sontag was born in New York City on January 16, 1933, grew up in
Tucson, Arizona, and attended high school in Los Angeles. She received her B.A.
from the College of the University of Chicago and did graduate work in
philosophy, literature, and theology at Harvard University and Saint Anne’s
College, Oxford.
Her books, all published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, include four
novels, The Benefactor, Death Kit, The Volcano Lover, and In America; a
collection of short stories, I, etcetera; several plays, including Alice in Bed
and Lady from the Sea; and nine works of nonfiction, starting with Against
Interpretation and including On Photography, Illness as Metaphor, Where the
Stress Falls, Regarding the Pain of Others, and At the Same Time. In 1982, FSG
published A Susan Sontag Reader.
Ms. Sontag wrote and directed four feature-length films: Duet for
Cannibals (1969) and Brother Carl (1971), both in Sweden; Promised Lands
(1974), made in Israel during the war of October 1973; and Unguided Tour
(1983), from her short story of the same name, made in Italy. Her play Alice in
Bed has had productions in the United States, Mexico, Germany, and Holland.
Another play, Lady from the Sea, has been produced in Italy, France,
Switzerland, Germany, and Korea.
Ms. Sontag also directed plays in the United States and Europe, including
a staging of Beckett's Waiting for Godot in the summer of 1993 in besieged
Sarajevo, where she spent much of the time between early 1993 and 1996 and was
made an honorary citizen of the city.
A human rights activist for more than two decades, Ms. Sontag served
from 1987 to 1989 as president of the American Center of PEN, the international
writers’ organization dedicated to freedom of expression and the advancement of
literature, from which platform she led a number of campaigns on behalf of
persecuted and imprisoned writers.
Her stories and essays appeared in newspapers, magazines, and literary
publications all over the world, including The New York Times, The New Yorker,
The New York Review of Books, The Times Literary Supplement, Art in America,
Antaeus, Parnassus, The Threepenny Review, The Nation, and Granta. Her books
have been translated into thirty-two languages.
Among Ms. Sontag's many honors are the 2003 Peace Prize of the German
Book Trade, the 2003 Prince of Asturias Prize, the 2001 Jerusalem Prize, the
National Book Award for In America (2000), and the National Book Critics Circle
Award for On Photography (1978). In 1992 she received the Malaparte Prize in
Italy, and in 1999 she was named a Commandeur de l'Ordre des Arts et des
Lettres by the French government (she had been named an Officier in the same
order in 1984). Between 1990 and 1995 she was a MacArthur Fellow.
Ms. Sontag died in New York City on December 28, 2004.
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