The Bathing Debate

I found myself, quite perplexed, observing a rather animated discussion on the Internet — of all things, about bathing. The participants, otherwise respectable members of a Northern club, chattered away with abandon, their arguments flowing as freely as a brook in spring. To them, bathing was nothing more than a self-indulgent luxury, an exercise in mere well-being rather than a necessity of hygiene. They dismissed the notion of its practical value, reducing it to sheer vanity. Lamentable.

I pictured them, as a thought experiment, transported to the unyielding heat of Rio de Janeiro. The sun, unrelenting, bearing down upon them; the air thick with humidity, clinging to their skin like a wet woollen cloak. And then, inevitably, the scent — the ripe, unmistakable musk of human exertion, its pungency announcing itself well before its bearer appeared. A harsh yet inevitable reminder of reality, unsoftened by the forgiving chill of their northern climate.

What reigning arrogance — one I scarcely recognise — imbues these club members with the belief that they alone possess the truth? As if the world revolved around their horns. Horns, indeed, for free men do not generalise, nor do they allow pride so inflated it renders them incapable of passing through a doorway.

How utterly complacent, this blithe dismissal of the bath, spoken by those who rarely break a sweat! A luxury, indeed, to argue against washing when the very air around you keeps you unblemished. But let them stand beneath a tropical sun, let them feel the betrayal of their own bodies against their theories. Soon enough, they would understand: some truths must be felt before they can be reasoned.

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