Annie Erno begins her well-known work Pure passion with a confession that leaves no one indifferent: «since September last year I did nothing but wait for a man». The writer tells how she experiences this waiting, her obsessions, her obsessions, her memories and her sadness in these pages, and also in her diaries, published under the name Lost. In his work, he talks about how the delirium he reaches becomes principle of death and writing.
Uncertainty combined with a fatal intuition gives us a bitter vision of waiting. It makes us want to scream “run!” for in the same way that the author waits for a Soviet diplomat who is also married, we wonder how long we should wait to reply to a text message if the Other is three hours late, whether it would be wise to be late for first date if all these ambiguous signals are ending prediction. Does the lover believe that my availability is absolute? The question deserves a small amount of torture, but only what is necessary, long enough for the rope to remain taut and, even on the verge of breaking, intact.
Fernando Pessoa affirms that all love letters are ridiculous and perhaps every love contains a certain amount of ridicule in itself. The main character knows A letter from a stranger, by Stefan Zweig, whose life consists precisely of waiting to meet a man with whom she falls in love at an early age. A job like Erno’s seems unpleasant because it is a futile, fraudulent, exhausting wait. “Wait” comes from the Latin “I’ll wait», that is, the hope shown as a condition for perseverance. If love is somehow a struggle for the smallest possibility – for what may be even a remote one – then It is this commitment to constancy that keeps us loving.
“There is a position within us that is always inclined to resolve the eternal doubt victoriously, to conclude that there is still time, that the ‘Other’ is on the way”
However, warns Erno, the worst thing is to keep waiting when there is nothing to wait for. But how do we know it’s time to leave, to end the wait? There is a position in us which always tends to resolve the eternal doubt victoriously, to conclude that there is still time that The other one is on its way. Our problem is not even limited to the classic battle between the mind and the heart, because the former, contrary to what one might think, is able to develop the best logical reasoning in favor of the most beautiful option.
The rational is unable to act as a corrector in decision-making because, as Nietzsche reminds us, morality also follows aesthetic criteria. Just as the philosopher (it is said) once remarked, just as it is not so cruel to kill a cockroach as it is to kill a butterfly, so we are not content with quiet oblivion, with peaceful surrender. No one wants to believe that their love is dead; he prefers to see for himself that it is coming.
Another representative characteristic of waiting is its deceptive nature, how it appears to be unaffected by the pulse of the needles. Virginia Woolf counts Orlando how the passage of time happens in a strange way in the mind of a person: when we ask about love, about life or about death, a feeling is born that does not correspond to the passing of the seasons or what the clepsydra marks. Woolf affirms of his character that: “the time when he thinks becomes disproportionately long; the time when he acts becomes disproportionately short». An afternoon with a lover continues… an afternoon? It seems more like two seconds, but that minute in which his arrival is awaited, eagerly, that we cannot quantify it. However, he gives the waiting man his true identity: waiting is the greatest act of loving will of a human being.
“Waiting is the greatest act of loving will of a human being”
Silence is part of music. Not as opposites, not as antagonistic forces, but rather as beginnings of the same existence. Likewise, waiting is part of presence. in Fragments of a love speech, Barthes identifies waiting as a constitutive part of the lover. Something like Shadow: inevitable, which can sometimes remain hidden, but which, at sunrise, does not hesitate to welcome us to remind us of this immobility.
“Am I in love? Yes, because I hope». The other oneHe never waits. Sometimes I want to play the one who doesn’t wait, I try to take care of other things, to be late, but I always lose this game: whatever I do, I end up empty, punctual, that is, ahead of schedule. The fatal identity of the lover is none other than this: I am the one who waits (Fragments of a love speech).
Love is always torn between accepting its ephemerality and striving for the eternal. And in this desire to reach that which is beyond our grasp, which borders on the infinite and is concentrated in a body, we too: keep alive – and fleeting -, passionate – and agonizing – the love affair. Indeed, there are times when it is too late, but the line of agony is always too blurred for those who dare to approach it. And in this answer to a letter or text, to a meeting or a farewell, there is always a glimpse of a lover in a bloody battle with time. And as the last grain of sand prepares to fall tragically on the other side of the clock, all I can do is sigh, “I think I’ve got a moment left.”