Stories about love

It is difficult for me to speak about the types of love I have experienced, no matter how much I emphasize their memory. For the language of love, impossible and inappropriate, and immediately suggestive if it wants to be more direct, is merely soaring in the realm of metaphors. And considering its uniqueness, I only accept it using the first-person pronoun. Nevertheless, I will speak here about a kind of philosophy of love... about renewed births, through the experience of love that is repeated so it can be renewed... considering it (the experience of love) as the necessary condition for the constant renewal of that life and its survival? I admit that the particular fate of the types of love I have lived through—and perhaps it should be said: the particular fate of my hidden personal fragility behind the mask of wakefulness—leads to the exacerbation of that imbalance in my discourse before the experience of love, which is characterized by a spiral intertwining between sexuality and intertwined ideals... And although I have emphasized in love what it represents as a focal point of contradictions and ambiguities—namely, both the infinity of meaning and its disappearance—it is because, in this form of love’s non-perishing state, I can also listen to it more keenly. In the impulsiveness of the lover, personal identities lose their boundaries, and at the same time, the precision of reference and meaning in the lover’s discourse diminishes... Do we all speak about the same thing when we talk about love? And what exactly are we talking about? To me, the attempt to speak about love seems different from living it, but it is no less suffering and ecstatic pleasure. So is it foolish to talk about it? It is rather a kind of madness. The danger of the discourse of love and the discourse of the lover mainly stems from the suspicion of its subject, without a doubt. Indeed, what exactly are we talking about? Julia Kristeva