On Love and War

Perhaps I should have titled this "On Love and War" instead. Lately I've been thinking about math and love, which might seem like a strange combination, but I think the two are quite similar. In a general way, I think there are largely two categories of romance.

The first category is of course, rather straightforward. But for me, there are some initial footguns to worry about: the prevalence of continuous fractions in nature—I mean it quite literally in a Freudian-Lacanian way—you know, situations where transference or a repetition compulsion is at play. A person who is consciously or unconsciously seeking to hastily fill a void within themselves. A person looking for themself in others. Or for someone who reminds them of a parent. A man who is looking for his ex in another woman. Or a woman who is looking for her ex in another man. And so on. This sort of search for familiarity or a particular "type", etc. Like in one of my favorite films, Vertigo. In this film, a partner tries to simulate the other's previous partner, and in the process, loses not only their own identity, but tragically, their life.

But going beyond it, with or without this issue, in this first category, we can imagine a couple going through a period of dating which includes a certain proximity. And consequently, this might bring them to move closer and closer together, until they eventually get married or live together.

And this is where I think the real romance happens, when the two meet truly face-to-face in the ordinary. They must delegate cooking, dishes, cleaning—agreeing on who does what and when, and so on. But in this situation, we are so close that we might learn we're much more like hedgehogs, and that we must overcome this by accepting each others differences, and avoid 'idealizing' the other. Or avoid desiring the other to be more like someone else, etc. We must accept our partners radically for who they are, but also who they are not.

True love, and true romance, in this way, is the absolute reconciliation and acceptance of difference, and striving to see how the other might complement them in some way.

And of course, there is the other half of the story, which for me is allowing ourselves to be challenged by the otherness, hopefully for some greater good. But this naturally implies that, even in a relationship, there are no equals. In this vein, I think a relationship has a shape. And someone must lead, much like in a dance. Or there must be, at the very least, some kind of equilibrium or cooperation; perhaps an agreed upon target trajectory. I think I've made this joke before but I like to ask a provocative question like: Are they really even friends if they don't challenge you to become more courageous and intellectually mature?

But the rub is, with such an extreme closeness, this can take a great deal of patience, discipline, and even luck. Approximately 50% of all first marriages end in divorce. And second and third marriages have an even higher failure rate.

Although I think this first category of romance is nice, it also tends to rest in the crosshairs of what I believe is the primary takeaway of psychoanalysis, which is to say: we do not always want what we think we want.

But on the other hand, when we first fall in love, we often think the worst thing that can happen is having the relationship fail. But I claim the worst that can happen is getting stuck in a deadlock in which both sides prevent the other from making progress. In this way, catastrophe is actually preferable. I also claim that, sometimes disaster is precisely the only thing that can save us. A lot of things in nature work like this.

For example, sometimes I hear people ask "How can we build a world in which there is only peace, and no war?" And the first answer is, of course, by use of cooperative efforts and practicing forgiveness or surrender towards nature. But the rub is that this is not how humans or countries tend to biologically or ecologically operate whatsoever. When a person or a country is provoked, like most animals, they tend not to forgive or surrender at all. On the contrary, they instead tend to respond with their own provocation. This leaves us with a very bitter truth and counterintuitive path to peace. And that is this: that paradoxical as it may seem, war itself tends to be a path to peace.

Another question I also once heard someone ask: "If Moloch is the god of coordination failure, who is the god of coordination?" But in both a Hegelian and Freudian way, to some extent, I think failures real name is success. We crawl and stumble before we walk, we run and trip before we learn to pace ourselves, etc. This is true in life and romance, etc. As cliche as it sounds, we often throw ourselves into situations where disaster is inevitable, in a strange way, in order to save ourselves. This is not to say that crossing a highway with a bucket on one's head makes one brave. But even in such an absurd analogy, getting hit by a car and living to tell the tale in this regard often becomes a moment of enlightenment.

Or maybe we don't learn, just like Hegel said: "We learn from history that we do not learn from history!" To bring the discourse back to continuous fractions—I have a sort of cautiousness about nature in this way. Some people fall in love in a Freudian way as I previously mentioned, which is totally natural. But I think it can also be quite tragic or disastrous. For me, the only way to experience romantic authenticity is almost in the exact opposite way. For example, I am, in a way, most moved by the beauty of a woman when she precisely does not remind me of anything else, and therefore brings me into a state of wonder. For me, there is nothing more romantic than this.

And to go a step further and make a cultural critique .. to some extent, today's media and pop culture seems to convey the message that "Oh, everything changes, therefore we must experience everything, therefore we must accept that there will be regular changes in our relationships, and love is just this temporary thing," and so on. And on the one hand, this is true. But at worst, I think this can create a culture where we might begin to see ourselves and each other as disposable and recyclable. And I claim that this is already happening at some level, that the present day cultural attitude of modernity has already changed how some people view themselves and each other, and in some regard, has made people forget how to fall in love.

Maybe I'm an old fashioned guy, but for me, love is not just a temporary act, though I know that almost all things have a beginning and an ending. But a love that never ends is sort of an ordinary miracle I believe in. When I meet a woman, I do not treat her as though she is disposable, or as if she is just a temporary moment. For me, love is a much more radical and passionate act. When I fall in love, the woman whom I love becomes all that I desire. There's an old joke that, if you're in love and already counting the days, months, or whatever, then it's already over. I think there is great truth in this joke. For me, viewing love under the aspect of eternity, rather than time, makes romance much more authentic. It's not "I love you today, but tomorrow I might not." On the contrary, it's "I love you, and you alone, no matter what, until the end."

But even this way of experiencing love doesn't guarantee insulation from danger or safety from disaster. On the contrary, it may even increase the risk of disaster. But to some extent, that's precisely my point—love and danger tend to travel together, they're very similar. It's almost impossible to have one without the other.

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The second category of romance, of course, has a similar structure to the first, but enjoys more nuance, taking lessons from psychology, as well as a different perspective of ecology, into consideration. Here I will provide a few examples. The first being from old noir cinema.

This second category of love includes what I think of as a sort of proximity. In our first example of marriage, there is a kind of obscene closeness, which in a paradoxical way, seems to sometimes undermine the very foundation of what it desires to construct. But here, in our second category of romance, we introduce proximity, and keep a deliberate distance from the object of our desire.

We can see it, we can reach out for it, we can maybe even have a brief encounter here or there, but it's elusive. We let it keep us striving. It might not give us what we want. But in a paradoxical way, this essence is what makes it so desirable.

One can imagine a scene from a noir film: A male patron takes a seat at the bar and orders a drink. A woman bartending smiles and informs the man that they are out of that particular drink. But the bartender says this in such a tone and manner that she also implies something much more nuanced, erotic, and dirty. "Oh, we are out of that drink, but there is .. something else." And though it is never fully stated, a very ambiguous eroticism exists in the implication of the exclusion of the drink, the object the patron originally desired. In this scenario, things work precisely because there is a proper distance between them. Many human relations work like this.

A second example is perhaps clearer to see. I am quite an old fashioned guy, a romantic in an anti-romantic way. Let's say I am in the wilderness watching birds. In order to experience the true beauty of a bird, I must keep, just as in the previous example, a deliberate proximity from it. The moment I get too close, I lose the bird. If I capture the bird, the entire dynamic changes and the meaning is lost.

But, if I keep a distance, the bird might playfully fly and land next to me. It might reply to my calls and so on. And we both get to experience this from our own dispositions, and we walk away having graced each others lives in some way that has avoided undermining the other.

This old fashioned Hegelian way is how I tend to see what we call woman. Maybe this will change one day, but for now, it remains the case. This is to say, I, a man, know I am unlikely to entirely understand woman, and she is equally unlikely to fully understand me. I can very well see her beauty. At times, I can dance around at a proximity, maybe compliment her, or even enjoy a brief encounter. But I know better than to get too close. I know empirically that obscene closeness will quite possibly lead to catastrophe. In this vein, I think proximity can be, in a strange way at times, much more erotic than closeness.

If you've made it this far and are still reading, you're probably thinking, "Well, it sounds like you don't believe in true love."

But on the contrary, I absolutely do. However, some people say, "Oh, well, you never know someone until you get into an intimate relationship with them." But I think almost the exact opposite is true. You never know someone until you're in that moment, and you encounter some challenging obstacle. Or maybe go through a messy breakup with them.

People do not necessarily show you who they are when things are going well. On the contrary, they show you who they are when things become troublesome. That is the moment we can see perhaps, for the first time, a person's true instincts—be them base, or rational, or what have you.

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As a closing remark, I would jokingly say that I could offer a potentially more scathing Hegelian-Lacanian critique of love. But I will mostly spare you. Instead I will just say, I believe sometimes the idea that we call "love" is actually just misplaced ambition.