It all comes down to risk, I think. One is reminded of Eliot’s question in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”: Would it have been worth it, after all? At the crux of it, I think we love, not just because we’re hard-wired to love and be loved, but because we as human beings have an innate understanding that any gainful venture involves a certain amount of risk. A favorite scene of mine from Good Will Hunting serves to illustrate this principle, as Will (Matt Damon) inquires about Sean (Robin Williams)’s now deceased wife:
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the f-ckin’ date?
Sean: Oh yeah. ‘Cause it was game six of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean:Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin’ in a bar, waitin’ for the game to start, and in walks this girl.
Robin Williams then proceeds to describe in glorious living detail the play-by-play of game six, to which Will responds:
Will: I can’t f-ckin’ believe you had tickets to that f-ckin’ game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: No, I didn’t rush the f-ckin’ field, I wasn’t there.
Will: WHAT?
Sean: No — I was in a bar havin’ a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk’s home run?
Sean: Oh yeah.
Will: To have a f-ckin’ drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her. She was a stunner.
Will: I don’t care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that’s game six! Oh my God, and who are these f-ckin’ friends of yours they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh, they had to.
Will: What did you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table and I said, “Sorry guys, I gotta see about a girl.”
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That’s what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.
Will: You’re kiddin’ me.
Sean: No, I’m not kiddin’ you, Will. That’s why I’m not talkin’ right now about some girl I saw at a bar 20 years ago and how I always regretted not going over and talking to her. I don’t regret the 18 years I was married to Nancy. I don’t regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don’t regret the last years when she got really sick. And I sure as hell don’t regret missin’ the damn game.
Nobody wants to suffer the pain of loss; that’s a given. Nobody wants to miss game six of the World Series, or to spend a decade watching the one you love suffering from an incurable illness. Nobody wants breakups, betrayal, divorce, death, disillusionment. Nobody wants to watch a love that once was ablaze with life go out in puttering sparks of pseudo-glory like a 90s rock star. Nobody wants to be left all alone with nothing to do but stare into the “big black hole at the center of your own sorry soul.” But it distills down to this: in any given situation, is it worth risking any or all of those things? What do you stand to gain? Are you willing to make that calculated gamble? Sure, I think Lewis oversimplifies and muddies the equation by presuming that love is always worth the crapshoot; sometimes it’s not. Sometimes your mangled-to-a-bloody-pulp-heart gets run through the nearest paper shredder. You win some, you lose some, and sometimes you lose a whole lot more than you win. But I find myself inevitably coming back to the same position, which is that there’s really no way out and no way around but to give it a shot. It’s not so much that the glory of love always outweighs the pain — we live in a fallen world, after all — but rather that the pain of regret is infinitely worse than the pain of loss. Prufrock’s question — would it have been worth it, after all? – is the one question you never want to be left asking yourself as you reminisce about that chick (dude) you saw in a bar once 20 years ago.
There are no safe investments, but we invest anyway. Because heartbreak is transient, but regret is eternal.
From Thought Catalog, Donna Shute
it somehow answers my question, but I have to wait for the right time, don't I?
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the f-ckin’ date?
Sean: Oh yeah. ‘Cause it was game six of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean:Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin’ in a bar, waitin’ for the game to start, and in walks this girl.
Robin Williams then proceeds to describe in glorious living detail the play-by-play of game six, to which Will responds:
Will: I can’t f-ckin’ believe you had tickets to that f-ckin’ game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: No, I didn’t rush the f-ckin’ field, I wasn’t there.
Will: WHAT?
Sean: No — I was in a bar havin’ a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk’s home run?
Sean: Oh yeah.
Will: To have a f-ckin’ drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her. She was a stunner.
Will: I don’t care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that’s game six! Oh my God, and who are these f-ckin’ friends of yours they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh, they had to.
Will: What did you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table and I said, “Sorry guys, I gotta see about a girl.”
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That’s what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.
Will: You’re kiddin’ me.
Sean: No, I’m not kiddin’ you, Will. That’s why I’m not talkin’ right now about some girl I saw at a bar 20 years ago and how I always regretted not going over and talking to her. I don’t regret the 18 years I was married to Nancy. I don’t regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don’t regret the last years when she got really sick. And I sure as hell don’t regret missin’ the damn game.
Nobody wants to suffer the pain of loss; that’s a given. Nobody wants to miss game six of the World Series, or to spend a decade watching the one you love suffering from an incurable illness. Nobody wants breakups, betrayal, divorce, death, disillusionment. Nobody wants to watch a love that once was ablaze with life go out in puttering sparks of pseudo-glory like a 90s rock star. Nobody wants to be left all alone with nothing to do but stare into the “big black hole at the center of your own sorry soul.” But it distills down to this: in any given situation, is it worth risking any or all of those things? What do you stand to gain? Are you willing to make that calculated gamble? Sure, I think Lewis oversimplifies and muddies the equation by presuming that love is always worth the crapshoot; sometimes it’s not. Sometimes your mangled-to-a-bloody-pulp-heart gets run through the nearest paper shredder. You win some, you lose some, and sometimes you lose a whole lot more than you win. But I find myself inevitably coming back to the same position, which is that there’s really no way out and no way around but to give it a shot. It’s not so much that the glory of love always outweighs the pain — we live in a fallen world, after all — but rather that the pain of regret is infinitely worse than the pain of loss. Prufrock’s question — would it have been worth it, after all? – is the one question you never want to be left asking yourself as you reminisce about that chick (dude) you saw in a bar once 20 years ago.
There are no safe investments, but we invest anyway. Because heartbreak is transient, but regret is eternal.
From Thought Catalog, Donna Shute
it somehow answers my question, but I have to wait for the right time, don't I?