The Incurable Romantic

by Frank Tallis

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She must.’

  ‘Because you love her…’

  ‘We understood each other.’

  ‘I appreciate how painful this is for you but sometimes love—however deep—just isn’t returned.’

  He raised his head from his hand and glared at me as though I had uttered a blasphemy. I had contradicted a sacred principle: if you love someone enough, your love will be reciprocated. It is an instance of a more generalised assumption that social psychologists call the just-world hypothesis: you deserve what you get, and you get what you deserve. The world, however, is not a fair place. There are no invisible forces at work restoring moral equity, and sincerity of feeling has never guaranteed that a declaration of love will be accepted.

  I held his censorious gaze. ‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.

  His expression softened and his eyes dimmed. ‘I felt so close to her, closer than I’ve ever felt to anyone before. After we slept together for the first time, I was holding her in my arms and I can remember thinking, this feels so right. Our bodies just seemed to fit together.’

  According to a Greek creation myth recounted by Plato, human beings were once double-headed creatures with eight limbs and represented by three genders: male, female and hermaphrodite. Zeus’ punishment for human pride was to slice every individual into two equal parts, producing the human bipedal form with which we are all familiar. The legacy of this historic retribution is a pervasive feeling of incompletion that we suspect can be negated only by reunification with our lost half. It is a narrative that accounts for our deepest romantic yearnings while providing a neat explanation of homosexuality, heterosexuality and lesbianism. Plato’s myth demonstrates that the deep satisfaction described by Paul, the sense of becoming whole again through sex and holding, unites modern and ancient civilisations. The desire for completion is perhaps finally mitigated when myth and evolutionary objectives coincide with the production of children. Thereafter, the wound inflicted by Zeus is healed and yearning is replaced by more practical necessities such as paying bills, doing housework, getting the kids to school and trying to get a good night’s sleep.

  ‘I’m sure she still loves me,’ Paul continued. ‘I think she’s just confused. I’m sure that deep down—somewhere—in her heart—there’s still something… a connection. Perhaps it was all too intense. You know, too much—too soon. And she felt overwhelmed. That happens, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re sure she still loves you. But how do you know that?’ He offered me a few non sequiturs but I persisted. ‘How do you know what Imogen’s thinking?’

  ‘Well… we’re on the same wavelength. Anyway, that’s what it feels like.’

  I pressed him on this point. A patient suffering from de Clérambault’s syndrome would assert that he or she possessed certain knowledge of their beloved’s thoughts. Fortunately, it transpired that Paul wasn’t delusional. ‘I can’t say for certain,’ he confessed. ‘Of course I can’t. But when you know someone well, you can make educated guesses.’ Lifting a rigid forefinger he wagged it in my direction. ‘I do know one thing for certain though. I can make her happy. If she just gave me a little more time—one more chance.…’

  ‘She was quite clear, wasn’t she? She doesn’t want the relationship to continue.’

  I had been too direct, too insensitive, and my unqualified words made him clutch for any means of salvation. A broader, philosophical view offered him new hope. ‘Maybe this has all happened for a reason. It’s said that when bad things happen, they make us stronger.’

  ‘Nietzsche,’ I said—then instantly regretted it. There was no need to identify the provenance of this maxim other than to satisfy my own intellectual vanity.

  I was once having lunch in a hospital canteen with an ageing and very distinguished psychiatrist. He was so old and well known that he’d already had a mental health centre named after him and I’d seen him portrayed in an award-winning film. Yet, he was always unassuming, solicitous and extremely modest. He had just come from a meeting with an in-patient and her husband. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘That didn’t go quite the way I’d hoped. She was very depressed today so I thought I’d make some helpful and inspiring analogies. I started to talk about the Battle of Britain and Churchill—and then the Allied invasion of Sicily—and I got completely carried away. The poor woman thought I’d gone mad. The husband was speechless.’ Whenever I remember comparable transgressions of my own I console myself with this memory.

  ‘What?’ Paul’s head jutted forward.

  ‘Nietzsche,’ I repeated. ‘The philosopher…’

  ‘Yes,’ Paul replied with sour irritation. ‘I know who Nietzsche is.’

  ‘That which does not kill us makes us stronger.’

  ‘Yes, yes…’ The quotation seemed to revive his spirits and he sat up. ‘If we did get back together, I’d be a stronger person—a better person. And all this misery would have had a point—a purpose.’

  He was reassigning a different meaning to his separation from Imogen. It wasn’t an end, but a beginning—a trial that he must endure to win true and supreme love. His thinking was following a convention of courtly romance. Like an exiled Arthurian knight, he would face temptations and dangers, pass tests and return in triumph, providing evidence of his virtue. ‘If we did get back together again, I’m sure we’d appreciate each other more.’ He was going to demonstrate the durability of his love and win his Queen’s favour. ‘It might be better—second time round.’

  The sensation of descent in my chest confirmed the accuracy of a good metaphor: my heart was sinking. It isn’t by accident that the words ‘incurable’ and ‘romantic’ are paired with such frequency. To say one almost immediately suggests the other. Clichés can be very informative, which was why—even at this early stage in Paul’s therapy—I was not optimistic about the outcome.

  The next time I saw Paul, he was looking dishevelled. He was pale and had neglected to shave.

  ‘It’s difficult, without her.’

  ‘What do you miss most?’ I asked.

  Paul tangled his fingers—an awkward interlacing that suggested deformity. ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about this, but I’m going to say the sex. Because sex with Imogen was never just sex, it always felt like something more. It felt…’ The gap between his eyebrows narrowed as he struggled to overcome the limitations of English. ‘This will sound ridiculous, but it felt… out of this world—outside of time. We would spend whole weekends in bed. And it was like nothing else existed.’

  ‘Do you think about death much?’ I asked.

  Paul was surprised by my question, but was quick to recognise its pertinence. He smiled and made a noise—a soft grunt. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’ He managed a gravelly chuckle. ‘Even when I was a child I was quite morbid. My mother used to say to me—it’s a long way off, nothing to worry about at your age. But I wasn’t reassured. I could recognise a platitude even then.’

  ‘Do your family have a faith?’

  ‘No. My mother and father are both atheists.’

  ‘And you’ve never found any comfort in religious teachings yourself?’

  ‘No—it’s all so implausible. Religion has never held any answers for me, which is a shame, because, actually, I’d like to believe in something…’

  But he did believe in something. He believed in love.

  The Greek philosopher Epicurus maintained that all of our anxieties and sadness can be traced back to a root cause: the fear of death. It is a view that has found considerable currency among practitioners of existential psychotherapy—a post-Freudian school that became increasingly influential throughout the 1940s and 1950s. A great deal of existential psychotherapy is concerned with the search for meaning, which must be personal, because the universe is intrinsically meaningless. We must decide what is meaningful for ourselves.

  Love gives us purpose. And sex, which promises a surrogate form of eternal life through procreation, reduces (a
lbeit temporarily) the potency of the two great existential terrors—aloneness and mortality. Sexual union anaesthetises the pain of solitude, and the psychoactive substances released into the blood when we are aroused can take us out of time and make us feel that we are boundless and eternal. In the ecstatic delirium of orgasm we are beyond Death’s reach. Paul needed Imogen to be perfect because her perfection was protective. Love made him immortal.

  Shortly after my sixteenth birthday I was sitting in the classroom of a further-education college listening to a lecturer reading Dylan Thomas’s Poem in October which begins: ‘It was my thirtieth year to heaven.’ When the lecturer had finished reading he asked me a question: ‘Why thirtieth year? What’s so significant about that?’ I didn’t know. I didn’t really understand the poem. ‘Well,’ said the lecturer, ‘thirty is the age when you have to accept—beyond any doubt—that you’ve got one foot in the grave. It’s the point in life where you realise that death is non-negotiable.’

  Paul was thirty-one.

  ‘I did something that didn’t really work out.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I gave Imogen a call.’ His lips became bloodless as he pressed them together. A few seconds passed and he continued: ‘I wanted to see how she felt about things. It’s been a few weeks now and I thought she might have moved on a little, you know, be more willing to talk about what happened.’ He shook his head—an evanescent tremble. ‘She wasn’t interested. She said she was sorry that I was unhappy but she had nothing else to say. I tried to keep the conversation going, asked her to tell me what I’d done wrong, how I could make things right…’ Paul picked a cuticle off his finger. ‘After I’d put the phone down, I felt annoyed at myself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I hadn’t really told her how I felt. I’d wanted to sound calm, reasonable—but it was all play acting, insincere. So I phoned her again.’

  ‘How much later?’

  ‘Not long—ten minutes. Fifteen maybe.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I poured my heart out. I told her that I loved her and would do anything to have her back in my life. I begged her to give me another chance.’ He swallowed and the prominence of his Adam’s apple moved up and down. He was finding it difficult to say his next sentence.

  ‘And how did she react?’

  ‘She said that she didn’t want me to call her—ever again.’

  ‘That must have been very hard for you.’

  Paul began to take deeper breaths and when he spoke again his voice was catching. ‘Talking to her, knowing she was there—at the other end of the line—and that I might never… I love her so much.’ His head fell forward into his hands. At first, his agony was silent, but his attempts to contain his emotions were futile and intermittent vocalisations became loud sobs. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about this.’

  ‘There’s nothing to apologise for.’

  Paul looked up. The flesh around his eyes had become swollen.

  ‘Does this happen a lot?’

  ‘Yes.’ I handed him the tissues.

  ‘Thank you.’ He wiped away the tears and blew his nose.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could tell…’

  Paul raised his hand and interrupted me. ‘No, no… there’s more.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘I kept on going over what we’d said to each other—sentence by sentence—and I came to the conclusion that trying to talk to Imogen on the phone had been a bad idea. I convinced myself that if I’d spoken to her in person we might have got somewhere. So the next day, which was Saturday, I drove over to her flat.’

  ‘You didn’t let her know beforehand?’

  ‘No.’ Paul dabbed his eyes again with the tissue. ‘Her flat has an entry phone and a security camera. She was annoyed and told me to go away—but I rang again and she let me in. She was waiting for me outside the lift. She told me I was frightening her and I said “Don’t be ridiculous.” How could she be frightened of me?’ Actually, it was quite easy to see how she might be frightened of him. His desperation created an impression of instability. ‘“Do this again,” she said, “and I’ll call the police.” She walked away and I followed her to her door. She slammed it in my face.’ He flinched—re-living the moment. ‘I know it looks bad—like I’m harassing her—bothering her—but all I want is a chance to talk, that’s all.’

  ‘She has been very clear. She wants you to leave her alone.’

  Paul looked down at his tissue, leaned over the chair arm and dropped the crushed ball into the waste paper basket. ‘It feels wrong to just let her go. I mean, there are so many songs and films—and they all have the same message: love will find a way, love conquers everything.’

  ‘They’re pop songs.’ I exploited the plosive properties of the word ‘pop’. ‘Hollywood movies…’

  ‘Sure, sure, but that’s what we believe. That’s why they’re popular. They strike a chord.’ He suddenly looked bashful. ‘I wrote a poem last night. I haven’t written a poem since I was at school.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘Yes—I think it did. Putting my feelings into words.…’

  ‘Do you want me to read it?’

  He smiled. ‘God no.’

  Evolutionary psychologists have suggested that artistic expression is a male fitness indicator. Skilful behaviours such as singing a song, painting a cave wall or telling a good story advertise good genes. Moreover, the emotional roller-coaster of love, with its many ups and downs, mimics the oscillating mood disturbance associated with artistic talent. It is as though falling in love optimises an individual’s creative potential so that they are viewed in the most flattering light by potential mates.

  I have seen many couples for marital therapy and the most frequently aired complaint was voiced exclusively by women: he doesn’t talk about how he feels. Men are famously uncommunicative and lacking in emotional intelligence. Yet, when I asked these wives what their husbands were like at the very beginning of their relationships, it was a different story: love letters, telephone calls, pillow talk—occasionally poems and songs. Falling in love loosens a man’s tongue. However, when a man becomes eloquent, women should note that his lyricism will last only as long as it takes him to ensure the survival of his genes.

  If—as many believe—creative expression was selected to ornament the male courtship display, it does not follow that women are intellectually inferior. For a display to be competitive it must be understood and valued. Without a discerning audience, all displays become wasteful. Nor does it follow that women are less gifted than men, although it is probably true that they are less inclined to advertise their creative achievements quite so loudly.

  ‘You won’t try to see her again—will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or call her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because if you do…’

  ‘Yes, yes. I understand. I’m not going to.’

  We talked about his future, the prospect of forming other relationships. But he was reluctant to consider this possibility. Even so, I thought it beneficial to float the idea, to prepare the ground for subsequent conversations, because at some point he would have to start thinking about letting go of Imogen and transferring his affection to someone else.

  In reality, few people get to marry their ideal partner. Love involves making a series of compromises. This is no bad thing, because an idealised partner is only nominally human.

  ‘In a sense,’ I said to Paul, ‘the woman who you want to talk to isn’t really there any more. Perhaps she never was.’

  He considered what I’d said and shrugged. ‘To be honest, that doesn’t make it any easier.’

  One week later, the door opened and when Paul entered I was immediately struck by his feverish appearance. He dispensed with the usual courtesies and blurted out, ‘Something terrible has happened.’

  ‘Please…’ I gestured towards the chair.

  He sat down and his agitation made his f
ingers writhe. ‘I didn’t call her, just like we agreed.’ He said this as though I had accused him of breaking his promise. ‘But we sort of met—by chance.’ His mouth warped out of shape and he added a qualification. ‘Well, that’s not strictly true.’ He tried to calm himself by inhaling and letting the air escape slowly. ‘You see, I was driving along and I saw her getting into a cab. I didn’t stop, I just drove past, but I was aware of the cab—behind me—I could see it in my mirror. Anyway, the cab caught up at some traffic lights and I saw Imogen in the back and I thought: this is odd.’

  ‘Why odd?’

  ‘Well, what are the chances of that happening—in a city the size of London?’

  ‘More than you might think.’ I reminded him that human beings frequently misjudge probabilities.

  ‘I was hardly going to get my calculator out…’

  ‘No. But you invested this chance event with special meaning.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Your paths had crossed for a reason.’

  He didn’t want to discuss his misattributions and was anxious to make further disclosures. ‘When the lights turned green I let the cab go ahead and I just—well—started to follow it—until it pulled over outside Imogen’s.’

  ‘Just a moment, why were you in her area?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t—not initially.’

  ‘So how long were you following the cab for?’

  ‘Not that long—twenty minutes? Anyway, I parked and she saw me get out of my car and as I walked towards her she went crazy. She swore at me and told me to leave her alone—and when I tried to explain what had happened—she ran off.’

  I was about to ask him another question when Paul—as in the previous session—held up his hand and said, ‘No, no—there’s more.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘She called the police.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘They came round to my place and cautioned me. But I wasn’t stalking her—I… I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You know if you don’t stop bothering her…’