Actually, love is a pursuit of language. A constant and continuous pursuit. In the language of love, misunderstandings are most common. When we speak the language of love, it only seems to us that we speak it, because one almost invariably speaks the language of one’s own; from oneself, about oneself and for oneself; the other person is nothing but a sound-creating device of oneself: to hear oneself better and to increase our pleasure when hearing the language of oneself. Therefore, we rarely speak the language of love. The language of love unfolds outwardly so as to echo inwardly and to revert, duplicated, triplicated, quadrupled outwardly, to the Other, turned into an ear. The language of love uses the external to accumulate inwardly; its uprooted ears caress the belly of its self-sufficiency speaking ad infinitum. The language of love is a bridge, the language of one’s own is a wall.
The language of love, that is, its cellophane substitute, make use of the language that comes from outside. It is the language of the trained flattery, of the trained caressing and calculation, referring to the divine and inter-gender law; it is the language of patriarchal economics and solipsistic super capitalism. It is the language does not caress genuinely and does not cut either. Its skin is slippery: cold when necessary, hot when profitable, but mostly lukewarm and rough. The stomach of such a language is insensitive, its heart is hollow.
To speak about love and to speak love.
The language of love does not usurp a voice, perhaps it prefers to give voice. Its speech organ is the ear. The external one, as well as the internal one which gives space for the growth of what is being heard, and the opportunity to sing out there. It sings with the voice of tenderness, and also, sometimes concurrently, with the voice of a knife, blunt and rugged, so that it tears apart while cutting when it demans love to the bone. Or off the bone.
Sometimes our languages – the languages of nations and states – are nothing but a frightened escape from the language of love. Or else we may think that languages themselves are the languages of love, and we cling to them intensely, since in our languages love keeps evading. As a result, we end up despising all other languages and begin hating them. And sometimes, too often, we begin to kill. Because our languages are only now and then the language of love.
And to do love.
Happy love has no history.
Denis de Rougemont