Looking for that Quiver

The trouble with love is that it encompasses so many different emotions—everything from passion to companionship. When we break up with someone, it’s relatively easy to replace the passion, but companionship is unique, and its absence causes a pain that never goes away. It’s like death or divorce.

Regarding the desire for passion, I love the phrase: “Looking for that quiver.” Although, to my mind, it is friendship that ties the bonds of monogamy—and thus I place a great value on it: in general, and especially in romance. After all, when the dishes have been broken and your wok now has an indentation in the shape of your head, who is going to help pick up the pieces—a lover or a friend?

Sex is a wonderful thing—a splendidly animalistic remedy to our world of culture and logic—and yet I fear the chaos that comes with it, and the emptiness that can arise when one overindulges in it. I wish I had an answer to the question of reconciling the passion of new affairs with the satisfaction of a deep romance—but I do not. The two lives simply do not coexist harmoniously. In my view, Homo sapiens is not a monogamous animal. There are species of birds that choose one mate in life. How many people do you know (apart from Alfred Hitchcock) who have had one sexual partner?

I often hear people recount stories of cheating and betrayal with the all-encompassing moral at the end: infidelity is proof of apathy. Basically: “If she could go to bed with him, [in this case it was her teacher] she obviously doesn’t love me anymore.” And then, after a few moments of contemplation: “And come to think of it, I don’t love her either.” This conclusion, albeit unsurprising, strikes me as curious. Is infidelity born of the absence of love or the presence of lust? Granted, in either case the situation is wrought with problems; but are those problems our fault? Who is to blame? I’ve read that when a man betrays a woman, she inevitably despises him and blames herself. In theory, men imagine they will cast away the dirty harlot who strays from his bed. In reality, they react no differently than women.

Romance is the invisible fire that draws us near. It is the curve of a woman’s lips, the silky waves of her hair or the supple swell and recess of her bosom. Looking down on that selfsame body sprawled out on the sullied sheets of your bed, contorted and spent as if it had been pummeled, and not running away in fright: this is love. Watching that body fatten, sag, wrinkle and finally collapse: this is true love. To my mind, love is abhorrent. Why else do we laud those who attempt to live with it? Those who chase after romance never amount to more than hedonists. We envy your frivolity, but our envy, like your romances, quickly fades. Stand forward you souls who live for love, and we shall behold heroes. We are fascinated by you as we are fascinated by all martyrs.