Politics of Love-part 2

It’s during these experiments you experience your creative faculties. You learn to create. You have gone through too much to keep it to your self. Your knowledge is too powerful, too magnanimous to be contained. That woman fails to be a human being for you from now on. She becomes a character for you .Just a mere character. That’s the ruthlessness of love, of knowledge. You are in love with not a being but with an interesting character now. With the experiences you had with it and the experiences she had with other men. All the men in her life become your protagonists, villains, narrators…characters. You are the writer-lover now. That’s how love becomes an act of selfishness. It empowers you with the capacity to see beyond the feelings, feelings which are nothing but age old dogmas. The confession box, you were who acquired the knowledge of her guilt, crimes, joys, and struggles, has now chosen to use it for his benefit, for his enjoyment. He becomes a story teller now. You have so many characters, the ones who loved her, the ones she loved, the ones she deceived, the ones she couldn’t, the ones she desired, the ones she acquired…oh so many of them…and above all there is SHE herself. The biggest pain is to see your self as a character in her life. You have to be brutal with your self, merciless like you have been with her. It hurts to be just a character; after all you loved her to conquer her, to be a hero. But now it’s time to grow up, to be more than a hero. The desire to be just a hero is killed, and knowledge is to be given a vent to create masterpieces. If you can do that you conquer your consciousness. And then again the politics of love comes into play. At no time she should know about this aspiration of yours. Your conspiracy to attain your creative heights should be hidden. The moment she knows that you are using her for self actualization, she will become deceptive, untrue in her narration to you. Doors to knowledge will be closed. That is where you have to play the trick. You are a story teller only while holding a pen and not her hand. The moment she sees the pleasure in your eyes when she is narrating to you her tragedy, she will start lying, hiding. She is the one who has inspired you to write, to create. She is the one who has empowered you with knowledge, with courage to see the truth beyond it is seen. She has given you the chance to plunder, explore and experience. And it is she from whom you have to hide it all. She is selfish just as you are, you are there for her only till you serve a purpose. The purpose of comforting, strengthening, and helping her believe what she wants to believe. You have been given a role of a guardian, a sympathizer, a listener not for your amusement but for her pleasure. You are not supposed to be amused by it that is the condition which is placed when she confides in you. Confidants are not supposed to be story tellers. But you commit the crime of being one, and you can sustain it only if you are a smart and ruthless criminal. Love is blind and love is ruthless too.

Beyond this I think GB Shaw should take over, for he understands it more than any body else. I am quoting a dialogue from his play "MAN AND SUPERMAN", delivered by the character TANNER

“The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. To women he is half vivisector, half vampire. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. He persuades women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means them to do it for his. He steals the mother’s milk and blackens it to make printer’s ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with. He pretends to spare her the pangs of child-bearing so that he may have for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her children. Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a bad husband. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a blood-sucker, a hypocrite, and a cheat. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist’s work is to shew us ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman creates new men. In the rage of that creation he is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly fascinating. Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man and the mother woman. Which shall use up the other? that is the issue between them.”