CDear Ester, after years, I’m writing to you again, more to share a consideration than to seek advice. Love today is a disaster. Nothing but liquid. We use each other. We legitimize ourselves in doing so with the psychology that praises betrayals and the like, as if they were great acts of revolutionary courage. And instead they are just fuel for narcissism. Which cause irreversible damage in the recipients of such “courage”. We are consumer goods expendable to the hormone gone mad with satisfaction for having attracted the cool one even if you have a golden partner waiting for you at home.
The misfortune increases if you are pleasant.
I throw away modesty, declaring myself aware of being good lookingwith good elocution, two languages spoken, good writing, respected at work, good ability to play a musical instrument, good listening skills, sporty, physically fit, present with his children. Anyone who knows me knows that I have also shown unconditional love for an ex-wife when she was a real wife (a spouse who completely didn’t care about my care, cheating on me and inducing me to leave her…and we ignore the loss of my house and savings). In short, I know I like it. A lot too. And thank goodness I’m not wealthy.
Being like this today, at almost 50 years old, makes you prey. Of the beautiful daddy’s daughter who wants you after a month of fucking present to friends as if you were a trophy. The one who wants to settle down because she hasn’t had any children and dreams of you as a handsome daddy to give birth to in the Cesarini area (…and she also said that I spent too much time with my children…but screw it…). The one who cheats on her husband, despite admitting that he is a good man and a good father. So sexy that if you call her an adulteress she’ll be upset but she’ll still look for you. Of the one who, poor thing, has a husband who has always cheated on her. And you give her moments of revenge but you don’t want her to use you as leverage to escape from her marriage. Of every ex-handsome girl, ex-daddy’s girl (I always catch them…), a few years older, finds you attractive and still has a good dose of testosterone. The one who doesn’t understand that you still have children to raise and you can’t lead a life like you were at 25 years old. Then, when you feel that there’s something that really gets you, without you understanding why, that’s when you’re afraid. Of being so “good looking” that you don’t understand where the catch is. Because there will be. After all, every average asshole psychologist tells you that love has its counterpart in suffering. And so I escape, I remove myself from the situation, I break the story. Always with kindness, never the other way around, but I still cause pain. Sometimes, to those who have inflicted it on others in the past, becoming their Karma. Others, I inflict it on poor souls who have never done harm to anyone.
Although I am now aware of my attractiveness, proud as a god, I get depressed about it all.
Not to mention that I wonder how I could explain the value of a couple’s love to my children. Thanks for listening.
G.
PS written straight away, I apologize for any errors
Ester Viola’s response
Dear G.
First of all, what a disappointment, I speak for myself. For I don’t know what reason I had it in my head that if you ended up like you (I say with envy, I’m talking about gained awareness) you would become that prized species. The one passed in silence by philosophers, moralists and psychoanalysts. The bad guys who became bad and happy. I imagined myself as having a robust constitution. I was thinking about the result of the process of identification with the aggressor, that is, the victim who after a certain number of blows learns to give them, as someone with many fewer clichés. Someone who is truly convinced, free, perhaps not happy but at least with that sarcastic resignation that makes you take things as they come, knowing that as they go they go, and then you might as well think about yourself. Only to that. And maximize every utility that comes along the way. I mean: I was sure that crime paid a little. How can you be a scoundrel like that, without joy?
Look at you, you get depressed. It’s not enough to quit, but you get depressed. Is it perhaps that people’s power of destruction, like any luxury, is annoying?
You spared me, so I’ll spare you the not-so-subtle moral of your letter: it’s all that girl’s fault, isn’t it? The ex-wife. The witch who had everything and destroyed everything because you know what love is like, I like another person, I’m going. And the pieces are yours.
That lava lake that is betrayal. I’m never sure what to say about betrayal.
Philip Roth yes, he has it, and in fact I always rewrite it:
“Think about the tragedies. What causes the madness, the bloodshed, the fear? Othello: betrayed. Hamlet: betrayed. Lear: betrayed. It’s a very big theme, betrayal. Just think about the Bible. What is this book about? The most common situation, in the Bible, is betrayal. Adam: betrayed. Joseph: betrayed. Moses: betrayed. Samson: Betrayed. David: betrayed. And don’t forget the betrayal of God. God betrayed. Betrayed by our ancestors in every occasion” Those few who still allow themselves to be fascinated by the elegant examination that literature makes of things, could find betrayal at the heart of history. Of the whole story. World history, family history, personal history. Nothing more ruthlessly frequent.”
And then there is the chemical precipitate of the reaction, this, for the poor cuckold:
“You understand at a certain point how little human suffering can be counted on to produce ennobling effects,” always Philip Roth.
But do you know what I hate most about that whole thing, about betrayal? That it is impossible by rational means the cold conclusion. You’ll feel as bad as a high school student, there’s no defense. You can’t count on time, because that’s an animal that bites with the same force every time.
Pavese’s trick doesn’t work:
There is an art of receiving the lashes of pain in the face, which must be learned. Letting each individual assault play itself out; a pain always makes single attacks – it does so to bite more resolutely and concentrated. And you, while he has his teeth planted in one place and injects his acid here, remember to show him another point and let him bite – you will raise the first one. A real pain is made up of many thoughts; now, only one thought is thought at a time; know how to navigate among the many, and you will subsequently rest the sore sectors.
Betrayal is smarter. He knows how to play chess. He doesn’t get fooled. It has a hundred mouths for biting.
And instead, betrayal is the most manageable sentimental disaster – at least in theory. I’ll show you. Who among us believes in eternal loves? To stainless loves? Who among us thinks we can be liked for decades like the first day? Who among us thinks that life will spare him from the collection of frustrations? Who among us is convinced that others are immune? Who among us believes in relationships on Instagram? Who among us thinks that there are special creatures that would never, ever do harm? Even the betrayed betray, on occasion.
The rational problem is solved, as you can see. It’s the “how it feels” that doesn’t have too many solutions. In fact it has none. So you might as well make him a friend, that “how it feels”, maybe even love him a little. Because he doesn’t get mated anyway.