Love, as I try to think about it again

The most interesting type of love is the purely formal one. A contentless transcendental object=X that is the condition for the possibility of my elusive desire, of my overwhelming, burning, wrenching, parching, swarming thought about an other, not for any fact, any empirical discovery about them, but about them qua themselves. To love them with the formula, X=X, a pure identity that one wishes absolutely to embrace.

What is so terribly special about love, in contrast with friendship, or polite acquaintances? Love is traumatic. It is unnerving. It is violent. Love is Tears. Torment. Shivers. And that itching longing in the bottom left of one’s chest. In it I, as the absolute of my own world (because I am a subject), invites another absolute to center my world around. I, to use a Kiergagaardian metaphor, leap into the other whom I subordinate myself, making her—sorry for my male chauvinist what-have-you expression—absolute, and peeling my centrality away from me.

Because of this, love is supremely ethical. It is my first genuine relationship with the world. It is pure openness. It is a will-less release into passion, a confrontation to the always-overflowing finitude. This is why Nietzsche’s entire project hinged on Love. Amor fati. For then can one really become a person, rather than a beast.

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