The nakedness of strangers. Every time I go to the Korean Bathhouse I feel more free. I can gaze at the perfect, and differently perfect, bodies of very young women without envy. May as well envy a tree, or a rock, in its perfect ‘thing itself’-ness. And the older bodies flabby or scrawny—marked by child-bearing or overeating or heredity, or just the attrition of gravity—they move me too, with a comradely feeling of respect.