Disenchantment

But at the time of life, tinged already with disenchantment, which Swann was approaching, when a man can content himself with being in love for the pleasure of loving without expecting too much in return, this linking of hearts, if it is no longer, as in early youth, the goal towards which love, of necessity, tends, still is bound to love by so strong an association of ideas that it may well become the cause of love if it presents itself first.

--Marcel Proust (Swann's Way, Volume I of In Search For Lost Time)

This quote has been making its way around my mind lately, in its various aspects and different angles from which it can be interpreted. It also remains, most likely, as the only reason for which I continue to read Proust. His works are difficult to get through--they are long, and the sentences and paragraphs are extensive and bursting with such vast description and detail that it may well be called disgusting by the most patient and detail-oriented of readers.

I first read Swann's Way about a year and a half ago, encouraged by a friend to look into Proust. Several days ago, I finished In The Shadow of Young Girls In Flower, the second novel of the series. I don't think I had expected myself to return to Proust, but it was that particular quote that drove me back. When I first read it, I wasn't sure what to make of it. I realized immediately that there was something significant in it for me, but I couldn't come to entirely understand what it meant. I still can't say that I do, in all honesty.

What has particularly shaped my views on life and love from that quote is especially the first portion. The part of the quote which explains that a man does not need to be loved in return, that he does not require reciprocity, but rather loves merely because he can, because it pleases him, because it is what he wants to do. I had understood it a bit previously, having known enough unrequited love to realize that there is a certain pleasure in it too. However, that experience had been tinged with bitterness and remorse, and the particularly satisfying aspect of merely loving without anything in return still baffled me somewhat.

I don't know that I really ever understood any of this until quite recently. And maybe I still don't understand it. But the thing I do realize now is that unrequited love isn't all misery for me. It carries its own bliss. I love being in love. I love caring for someone, being there, giving up my time, moving around my schedule, watching them fall for someone else...in every bit of it, beyond the slightly bitter aftertaste, there is so much contentment, so much joy in watching the satisfaction of someone I love.

I don't need requited love. I don't need reciprocity. I don't need the same emotions, commitment, dedication. I don't need to be loved. Certainly, I appreciate it, I enjoy it. But the fact remains, that I don't need it. I'm fine without it. I have loved without it and I will continue to love without it. And that's the beauty of it all. That's what Proust really made me realize. I may disagree with that man and his writing in a number of ways, but the way that one phrase managed to capture the emotions I had felt and not even understood...perhaps that's what makes me come back to his novels, no matter how much time may have elapsed.

The thing I found about love...is that I appreciate it for exactly what it is. That's how I see it, at least. Perhaps I'm wrong. I may be wrong in what I think, I may be wrong in how I love or who I love or why I love. But ultimately, it doesn't matter. The fact remains. I do love. And I don't need to be loved for that, I do not need to be rewarded. I do it for myself. In the end, I'm perfectly happy with that, and that's what matters, if anything does.