«Τί γάρ; Πᾶς ἔρως ὁ ἔρως;»
«Πάνυ γε»
This would say Socrates if he wanted to start an article on the topic we’ll consider.
Is every love love? Or should we infer it from something, a quid, a condicio sine qua non? Maybe it isn’t love if the sky of Venus has no influence? Maybe “illa multa cum iocosa fiebant” (Catullus) should be interpreted with chaste modesty, love without carnality is real love? Maybe “love with doubt is real love” (S. Cristicchi)?
How many maybes! What impasse has reason reached in just a few lines!
With love reason is naked, not like a neoclassical allegory, no, it is naked as the beggar in the street corner, “despised, beaten” (A. Palazzeschi).
And if reason stumbles, emotion refuses us the dialectic game, the classification à la Linnaeus.
If I will answer to “our” Socrates, I’ll do this as an individual in his totality and contradiction, because this is Love: a great contradiction.

“Everything we do for the loved one…we do for ourselves” (F. Alberoni)

There’s always a part of egoism in Love. To deny this would mean lying for me, to deceive myself (“to thine own self be true”, Shakespeare).
Love is negation of one’s self, of the arrogant Self shouting: «Live!», but it’s also primordial, written in the genes, and far less romantic when shouting: «Multiply!».
This is Love’s egoism, to confuse the benediction (“Be fruitful and multiply”, Genesis) for the categorical imperative, to regress to an animal stage and instinct.
The jealous is not the only egoist, an egoist is one who opens the door shivering with anticipation, kisses clinging more than Love to Psyche, almost causes a concussion to the other looking for somewhere vertical (the wardrobe, the wall), “vainly shifting” (Ariosto) exploring the floor as Ermione with D’Annunzio the woods.
This sea of carnality, rough, foamy, can conceal a coral reef in itself, invisible in the storm, a jewel afterwards.
To watch “the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow wings through that skin” (Bukowski), to whisper a thousand words in each other’s eyes always sanctifies.

“Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requires. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior” (Catullus)

Since Love is negation of one’s self it transcends reason, the Self and the Other, it causes opposing reactions.
«Why are you doing this to me?» that is «Why are you killing my Self?» is the rejected lover’s question. A foolish question, separation is not death per se, is the death of the old for the new, it’s the caterpillar weaving itself a shroud and resurrecting as butterfly, it’s the “No” through which the “Yes” is expressed, the big “Yes”, the growing and evolving Self’s yes.
It is not my fault, not yours, not God’s. Praying Cypris “never may you smear with desire one of your ineluctable arrows and let it fly against my heart from your golden bow!” (Euripides) has no use.
This is why Magritte’s lovers have no face, this is why their kiss is a not-kiss, romantic because impossible, transcending perceived reality, the phenomenon, and thus it is autonomous, from the Self crying for the big “No”, from the Other that does not, often, know it said so.
“Hate lives by itself, like love. Do you love who loves you?” (A. Palazzeschi)

Italian essay

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