MEDITATION ON LOVE
by
ROBERT J. LEWIS
___________________________________
So much
has been said and written on the subject of love, we are forced
to conclude the subject is inexhaustible, that whatever the truth
of love may be, it can only be grasped or approached asymptotically.
It seems that in our daily lives, from gossip to romance novels
and decades long soap operas, we can't get enough of hearing about,
reading about, or watching people fall in (and out of) love.
If we
can agree our attraction to violent sports (boxing, Formula I,
bullfighting) is related to our innate morbid curiosity about
death, we are at least as intrigued by love and its innumerable
manifestations because, unlike death, we can experience love and
come back and tell. But however numerous the tellings and tales,
as well as advances in psychology, anthropology and genetics (mapping
the brain), we are still no closer to understanding how love's
mysterious operations move us, which predicts our abiding fascination
with the love lives of others – from our closest friends
to the erstwhile lost tribes in Borneo and the Amazon.
In Thomas
Mann's The Magic Mountain, the chapter entitled “Research,”
the author, attempting to deconstruct the meaning of love, examines
in painstaking detail the evolution of life from the single cell
to man as he is physically and emotionally constituted, but at
the end of all his searching and deep analysis he still can't
explain what is a kiss.
French
philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty describes love as a feeling
that carries us towards someone else.
In the
ever expanding universe of the cheap romance novel, great quantities
of forests have been cut and ink spilled trying to distinguish
between love and desire. But for an unsurpassed rendering of the
difference, one only has to turn to Marcel Proust, in Time
Regained, whose protagonist, after a 20-year absence, is
invited to a social gathering where he is able to reconnect with
people he once saw on a daily basis, and rudely finds himself
caught unaware how everyone has aged. With the precision of a
mortician, he records, as if for legal deposition, how age has
eaten away at everyone's youth, including women he formerly loved,
but upon seeing them again he realizes it wasn't their person
that he loved, but their physical attributes, irrevocably stolen
by time, and like a tree shorn of its leaves, what remains is
the naked form or the essential woman whom he only now realizes
never interested him, that he mistook the emotion of love for
his love of the woman's physical charm and appeal, her beauty
and sensuality.
In trying
to wrap our minds around the essence of love, Proust travels us
far, but perhaps not far enough, so we ask: What is the truth
of love?
We begin
on a cautionary note, recognizing that disclosing the meaning
or truth of love may be as next to impossible as rationalizing
our aesthetic judgments. To help us climb this precipice whose
summit we cannot see, whose many pathways resemble a maze more
than a destination, we will conflate Plato (the dialectic method)
and personal experience with the small expectation
of
trying to say something about love that hasn't already been immortalized
in poetry and prose, and song and dance.
Plato
proposes that to arrive at the truth or essence of anything, such
as a table, we must take away everything that doesn't properly
belong to it so that what remains are its essential properties
which, when initially identified as such (before the word table
existed), compelled its inventor or discoverer to attach the name
(table) to the new object because it had become a viable (meaningful)
entity in the world, much like when a child is birthed its parents
instinctively want to name him or her. When something appears
or is made to appear out of nothingness, or indifference or sameness,
we must name it, in a ceremony that is as sacred as the meaning
that is invested in it.
So as
a practical exercise, from our table we can remove its tablecloth,
tea cups and candle that rest on its surface, as well is texture,
colour and design, and the table is still a table. But if we remove
the legs, the table loses its tableness.
To help
us remove from love all that doesn't properly belong to it, we
advert to the fictional character Blind Boy, blind since birth,
just turned 15, who has never been in love, whose hands have never
touched the female body. Completely outside his purview is the
notion of a beautiful face, a sexy body, smooth skin, or anything
about the female anatomy. Of the female body, he only knows what
he knows of his own body (arms, neck, ears, legs), but when he
hears his friends describe a shapely leg, it means nothing to
him.
One day
Blind Boy is introduced to Girl I, they get to know each other,
and in due time Blind Boy falls in love. He doesn't know if Girl
I weighs 250 or 110 pounds, and if after the fact he should find
out, it won't make any difference because he has already fallen
in love. Since his feelings have nothing to do with Girl I's physical
appearance, what attracts him to her are her thoughts and feelings
about life, family, and her experiences in the world as they reflect
her virtues and values. He has never touched or tasted her, but
has come to know and connect to her through her voice, which means
what he loves about her cannot be separated from her voice. If
for some reason he couldn't bear to be in the presence of her
speaking voice, all of her other lovable qualities might not be
sufficient for him to pass the threshold of falling in love, and
the same could be said of smell. So it is through the voice Girl
I has revealed herself to Blind Boy and caused him to fall in
love.
Let us
hypothesize that Girl I has a twin, Girl II, where everything
is the same except the voice. Blind Boy will quite naturally fall
in love with the voice that pleases him most. And the same will
hold if he prefers 45-year-old Woman I's voice more than 15-year-old
Girl I's voice.
Again
let us hypothesize that Girl I has a male twin, Boy I, where everything
is the same except Boy I's voice pleases him more than Girl I's
voice. Since Blind Boy (presumed heterosexual) doesn't know who
is male and female, he will of course fall in love with Boy I,
and for a time (we cannot command ourselves not to love) he will
continue to love Boy I, despite their unlike sexual orientation.
That Blind Boy, helplessly in love, might decide to subordinate
his heterosexuality (The Crying Game) is a game changer
that falls outside the scope of this straight and narrow essay.
But in a typical life situation where everything is the same and
Girl I speaks in a normal female voice and Boy I speaks in a normal
male voice, Blind Boy will fall in love with Girl I, which means
prior to falling in love, or a priori, he, being male,
is psycho-physiologically disposed to identify and be attracted
to that which is primordially female, which in Blind Boy's case
is revealed -- prior to speech -- through the sound of the voice,
its gender specific pitch and emoting patterns.
Since
love is a feeling that carries someone over to another, in the
absence of any physical stimuli, it is the positive valence of
the voice through which the essential person comes to be known
that makes the bond possible. Blind Boy cannot fall in love with
a mute. But Blind Boy can never be led astray by a woman's physical
attributes, he can never confuse love for lust. The woman who
is loved by Blind Boy is loved for who she is. Unlike some men,
who, when their women lose their bloom and shapeliness, lose interest,
Blind Boy is immune to the ravages time will have on the woman
with whom he is still in love. If the divorce rate in the western
world is in the 45% range, I suspect it is significantly lower
among blind couples.
The affairs
of Blind Boy have surely illuminated certain aspects of the truth
and nature of love, but at the end of the candlelight dinner are
we any closer to divulging the essence of love, or formulating
a mathematical equation or construct that would enable us to describe
or reconstruct the bond that connects two people? Based on Blind
Boy's experiences, the only thing we can state with any assurance
is that the love or feeling that connects two people has no physical
properties. The bond or love that connects Blind Boy to his beloved
will not be diminished in the slightest degree whether he is separated
from her by ten miles or the distance light travels in a year,
and this will hold true for an indeterminate interval (the time
of mourning) should death steal her from him.
What
Blind Boy teaches us about love is that the precious feelings
love gathers and engenders are completely separate from sexual
attraction, which is why the elderly, even when no longer physically
attracted to each other, can still be very much in love. Women,
emotionally more intelligent and evolved then men, are more accepting
of sexual infidelity because they understand that love can survive
varying degrees of promiscuity provided there is no emotional
infidelity. What men fear when their women lust after other men
is that at anytime lust may turn into love.
Despite
Blind Boy's unique and telling perspective on love -- one that
honours both the boy and the emotion – there isn't much
we can add to Merleau-Ponty's reductive (phenomenological) observation
that “love is an impulse that carries me towards someone
else.”
We take
funereal note that while the noble profession of philosopher is
in its death throes, and on university syllabuses everywhere philosophy
has been beaten down to make room for the more pragmatic disciplines
(marketing, management, administration), it has always been and
remains Plato's philosopher king who is most qualified to precisely
render our emotional life by saying only what can be said –
and no more.