“… and only then for the first time since he had brooded on the great mystery of love did he feel within him a warm movement like that of some newly born life or virtue of the soul itself.” — Joyce
Somewhere between doubt and excessive familiarity man breeds love. What is a mystery? The classical definition is that which has previously been hidden but is now revealed. Is there room for doubt in love? Love is mystery. Only in its revelation is the deep expanse of unexplored territory even considered. Before love is revealed the very word is merely a variable. Perhaps it refers to animal aggression, or something like nostalgia. But afterwards, or perhaps only during, it is mystery. It has the feel of something known and at the same time it is something entirely new. It’s this newness that worries us. The staggering menace of novelty. Yet its “known parts” the parts that seem to have always been with us, perhaps the vacuum thats always pressed us, belie its subtle power.
The love songs of medieval minstrels and teen pop bands alike have new meaning. Their words are no longer cliche’ or tawdry sentiment. Something has been born, something has been remembered.