Have you read ‘In Praise of Love’?  It is a conversation with philosopher Alain Badiou.  He discussed love as a life choice to see the world through two sets of eyes.  His view of love is couched in the commitment of making a relationship work rather than in the headiness of brief passionate encounters but the concept of passion, passion as rising from the risk of failure is central to his ideas.  At the begining of the book he talks about dating sites, the kind that profile you and find you your matches based on compatibility, he disapproves. They are, he says, love without risk.

I can understand the concept of being lonely.  I also understand that it must be hard to meet people so I understand the concept of dating sites and how they must help to reach out to others.  I don’t in any way disapprove but what I noted, with a level of discomfort,  was  how each speaker expected love to come at a time when it was convenient, to fit into their schedules.

‘I find now that I am looking for something more serious.’

‘I am looking for a man who fits with my lifestyle.’

It is just me that finds that all a bit cold?  All rather self-centred.  The love,  for many of us one of the most profound experiences, should have visiting hours.  I am open to love now but only so long as it doesn’t inconvenience me.  Where is the passion?  Where is the sacrifice?  Do we all have such faint hearts that not one of us is willing to win our beloved?

I ask the question whether humanity is loosing the capacity to feel.  The theme runs time and again through science fiction that human emotion, that human passion, makes us special and yet we turn our backs on it more and more.  With passion comes pain.  It is so much easier to sit in our gilded cages, consuming the bounties of the western world, risking nothing and allowing ourselves to be anaesthetised by excess.  We live to work, to earn, to buy.  To buy things that ultimately will have no meaning and we allow the profound, the beautiful,  the visceral to pass us by. 

In search of passion and beauty and eternally idealist I leave you with a poem.


Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


Comments are closed.