Abstract

On Remembrance of things past chapter “The Prisoner”, Proust argues that “perhaps, love may not be any else than a propagation of those whirlwinds that affect our souls in consequence of an emotion”. And, he continues at some pages forward, “love frequently does not take bodies as its object, in spite of an emotion, either fear of losing it or uncertainty of finding it are fused into it. And such an anxiety encloses great affinity to bodies. It adds to them a quality that overwhelms beauty itself, that is the reason why we use to see men who desperately love women we consider ugly, in spite of the beautiful ones. The wings of those beings, beings on the run, are tied up by their nature and our enquiries. Besides, their looks seem to accuse they are going to fly, in contrast to ours [...] Why unions to women we snatch are less longer than unions to other women is explained if we take as a cause that all of our love is either the fear of not acquiring them or the concern of watching them go” Proust speaks about a certain love he is willing to own, about love he is willing to dominate. Such a love is based on a desire of that which one is in lack of. Such a love takes more form us into the beloved one than what takes from the beloved one himself. That is why he claims at the end of Swann’s way: “¡each time I think I have wasted best years of my life, I have wished death and I have felt the greatest love in my whole existence, it all for a woman I did not like, a woman who was not my type!” As I read those statements, the same questions come to my head. What might we think about them –if there is something to be thought, furthermore, is thinking of love possible and, if it is, what shall we do it for? We all have something to say about love, because we all have been in it, we all have witnessed it, even Plato’s Symposium is about Eros. We know about primary Literature characters who have killed themselves on behalf of love, and there is a love story underneath almost every main thinker life. Love, love as a feeling, is as private and profound as well as remote, is as evident as well as obscure, is as painful as well as vital. Why not to think of love? Why not to inquire of its creative capabilities? Nietzsche did so, hence, love plays an important role on Thus spoke Zarathustra and on other of his main works. How couldn’t it be like so if love is an expression of will to power, if love is creation?