Day 47: Tuesday
Good morning Zak,
So a while back I posted this word-cloud representing the frequencies of individual words in the love poetry of Cino da Pistoia.
My point in posting this was to illustrate Pistoia’s great obsession with death. Morte is one of the most common words in his poems. But Pistoia is by no means alone in this. Many love poets have a similar morbid fixation. The tendency can be traced all the way back to the beginning of love itself.
Love began around 1100 A.D. Before that, it wasn’t really a thing. Seriously. I mean there was such a thing as friendship or erotic passion or fondness or charity… But “romantic love”? The notion of some kind of noble or ennobling passion for which one should make great sacrifices—that more or less began in Languedoc around the turn of the second millennium.
“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
Could someone please tell me what on earth that line is supposed to mean?
Anyway, for as long as love has existed, the sentiment has almost always been accompanied by a sort of psychotic preoccupation with death. Even the troubadours—the first true “love poets” in the modern sense—were like this: if Freud were somehow able to transcend the threshold of time and sit one of these guys down for a free word-association test, no doubt the pairing between the words amors and mortz would be as natural as it is automatic.
“And Rudel knew that she who embraced him was the countess. And immediately he regained his sense of hearing and smelling, and he praised God that He had sustained his life until he had seen her. And then he died in her arms.”
The association remains deeply engrained in our subconscious even today:
“To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
to let it go.”
-Mary Oliver, from “In Blackwater Woods”
So that’s weird, isn’t it?
Anyway, Zak, you raise a good question:
“If we love others in part because there is potential to become beautiful and they are not yet there, how and when do we engage them in change?”
So basically, if we take poets seriously when they say that love is supposed to be some kind of transformative experience, how does that transformation actually work in practice?
The internet is full of opinions. I don’t offer you an answer here because I don’t have one. All I can say is that the collective wisdom of Western poets throughout history tells us that love is a kind of death. Some people like to call it a petite mort. However petite or not this poetical death really is, the concept creates something of a paradox: poetical death is also the (pro)creative impetus of new human life.
It’s not at all strange that romantic love suddenly became the central topic driving most Western literature after the middle ages. Really, the sentiment embodies everything our society ever wanted out of a story. Writing a good story is about having a vision and being willing to suffer for it. Pursuing life, even at the cost of death. That’s what the heroes in every epic have done since the dawn of man. It’s also likely what we humans will continue to do for as long as this crazy little adventure of ours keeps us turning the pages.
Well, we’ll also continue to do other things… we’ll probably also keep pooping.