Exchanged slushy cards with the Missus this morning to mark this day of romance in our usual fashion. Then thought about what I would offer from the wide world of Literature if asked what's worth reading to learn about what it's like to be in love. (In truth the question's been on my mind since it featured in the book pages in last Sunday's newspaper, the reason being that I realised then I hadn't a clue how I would answer it.)
I've now got two reading experiences to offer, one obvious, the other less so. For love in its obsessive, distorting, essentially delusional manifestations, Proust is your man - pretty obviously so. Has ever so much intelligence been applied to so much that's trivial, only to show us, of course, that what may appear trivial isn't? For love in its most transcendent, redemptive shape I originally had Dante in mind, La Vita Nuova, but then remembered from somewhere Paul Bailey's wonderful novel Old Soldiers. The portrait of the grieving old fellow (the first of the two old soldiers around whom the story circles) who's just lost his wife and his reason for existing is so moving and so real that I honestly can't think of anyone else who's come close to that kind of simple truth in fiction. As far as I know nobody seems to rate the novel much at all, which continues to bewilder me.
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