Skip to main content

Notes on Love and Hate

1. Love is not blind but infatuation is. Hate is not blind but anger is (Heidegger). Love and hate, as I had guessed before, gather one's self in a resolve with an intention which is beyond good and evil. Sometimes, as I have experienced, hate welds you stronger to yourself than love does. This explains for the intricacies and singularity of purpose in revenge. Hate is not yet madness and nor is love. Anger and infatuation are the forms of true mania. In mania, one becomes "beside himself" as one is "seized" or "overcome" by something (strong emotions, affects, subconscious, trauma, etc.). And this is the danger because what has hitherto gathered one's self is unleashed unto the object of passion for worse (even if the thought intention was for the good). Because of this transference of control unto the object of passion, being beside himself, one is not able to see with his own eyes reality anymore: what he sees is a fractured reality. The object overcomes the person and turns into an obsession until finally the person is totally led out of himself and his mind. Thus the possibility of being blind.

2. Love is not blind in the other, less serious sense, that in reality one cannot but see clearly when one is in love. Or better: one cannot but see what can otherwise not be seen in the other. The lover sees in the beloved "something" which is no longer a thing--this or that characteristic, this or that possibility of heightened experiences, etc. (Pascal's paradox: When I love the other because of this or that then I love this or that and not her). That "something"--ineffable, unexplainable and finally without reason--is what fixes the heart (and no longer the mind and the sense) to the beloved. Marion would say that that "something" is the experience of finally being-seen or, which comes to the same thing, finally loving first. And this mutual experience or non-experience of being-seen and being-loved seals two lovers in a loving which has no visible object (no reason or no explanation). (When I am asked, "Why do you love her?", any reason I give will undermine my real love for her. This is why we say, "I do not know why but I do." Eckhart will say that love is its own ground so that love loves because it loves). Lovers see "why"--and nothing could be clearer for them. Others will never see why. Love is blind for those who are not the lovers.

3. Hate is the worm in one's heart. But as such a worm, it also cleanses the heart in that it is the way in which the heart is cleaned of residues of anger. (Worms are used to sanitize wounds from bacteria. The worm itself cannot kill you but bacteria can). A man of hate is never dangerous by himself. True, hate may slowly consume him bit by bit as a worm consumes a fruit slowly; but with this "slow death" comes the possibility as well of recovery and forgiveness--the end and reversal of hate. This is why hate takes its time. What is thus dangerous is the fatal mixture of hate and anger at the right time. Anger, as passion or affect, feeds on the reason and logic of hate in much the same way that action is in-formed and fueled by reason. The dangerous man is the one who is not only willing and capable of an act of anger but is also so de-termined by a motive (reason) which cannot be doubted (by himself) anymore (because it has always been there). Hate is the motive but by itself as motive it cannot do harm on the object of hate. The will of anger is the agent that precipitates the the now unhindered gravity of hate. And the trick of anger is that it hides itself behind the fuel of hate, thus, totally exposing the person to culpability. This is why theoretically, "crimes of passion"--of anger--are "lighter" than premeditated crimes (which presume reason, and thus, hate). It may also be said that suicide is the act by which man's anger (not necessarily on himself) overcomes his self (necessarily)-hate.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Fields of Amorsolo

The first National Artist in Philippine history, referred to warmly as the “Grand Old Man of Philippine Art,” Fernando Amorsolo (1892–1972) still stands today as a looming figure in Philippine art responsible for being one of the artists who helped define what we up to now visually imagine as essentially Filipino. The images of rural life, of golden fields below clear blue, blue skies; the smiles of farmers which diminish their weariness as they plant, harvest, and winnow rice;most especially the iconic figure of the Filipina maiden working in the fields—the beloved dalagang bukid--; these, I believe, even after generations of Filipino painters since Amorsolo, have remained in our hearts and memory. Amorsolo did what great masters do for their country: bestow upon it its own icons, represent its native beauty, that is, to give its people and lands an identity and a face. There are, however, as many intentions for art as there are works of art. And these intentions will always remain in…

Without Why (The Rose) II

Lifetime is a child at play; moving pieces in a game.
Kingship belongs to the child.

Heraclitus, Fragment 52


The child at play never asks itself why it plays. The child just plays; and if it could, it will play as long as possible, it will play throughout its life. See its delight and witness its smile.

If it would never go hungry or if the sun would never set it too will never leave its playmates and playthings. Time flies at play because it stops or suspends time. Time -- as we grownups only know too well -- is the culprit for order, schedules and priorities; yet for the child, there is no time, there is only bottomless play. It is we who impose that this or that should be done at this or that time. We stop the absurd and supposedly endless play ("He does nothing but play") because we insist that discipline, order and priorities be instilled in the child at an early age ("He needs to learn other things beside playing"). So that the child will become like us one da…

A Love Sooner than Later

BROWN PENNY William Butler YeatsI whispered, 'I am too young,' And then, 'I am old enough'; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. 'Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.' Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair. O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon.

*
One cannot begin to love too soon--conversely, one should not love too late or in life's demise. That waiting for the "right time," or the "right person" to love, what are these but the cries or sighs of an unready, even tired, heart? One becomes ready only when one begins to understand love slowly (or again), and one understands love progressively when one, simply, performs the act of love. Love, like mos…