The Mess of Love

May 1, 2007

It’s been so long I couldn’t even remember my password when I tried to access dotDecay. Perhaps I should just have left it at that. A monument of nothing special decorated by the faces of two American eccentrics. One of them a celebrated natural philosopher, the other a hated serial killer. But then I was inspired by the poem of yet another American eccentric, inspired to share his forbidden thoughts with you. And so, with no further ado:

We’ve made a great mess of love
since we made an ideal of it.

 The moment I swear to love a woman, a certain woman, all my life
that moment I begin to hate her.

The moment I even say to a woman: I love you! –
my love dies down considerably.

The moment love is an understood thing between us, we are sure of it,
it’s a cold egg, it isn’t love any more.

Love is like a flower, it must flower and fade;
if it doesn’t fade, it is not a flower,
it’s either an artificial rag blossom, or an immortelle, for the cemetery.

The moment the mind interferes with love, or the will fixes on it,
or the personality assumes it as an attribute, or the ego takes possession of it,
it is not love any more, it’s just a mess.
And we’ve made a great mess of love, mind-perverted, will-perverted, ego-perverted love.

(D. H. Lawrence, 1929)