We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Caught in the labyrinth of love, where every glance, every pause, and yes, every unsaid word, screams volumes. “Am I in love? —Yes, since I’m waiting.” This poignant line, borrowed from Roland Barthes’ A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, perfectly encapsulates the agonizing yet exhilarating space a lover inhabits. It’s in this very act of waiting, this pregnant pause filled with unspoken desires and anxieties, that the lover’s discourse truly begins. This isn’t merely a conversation; it’s a complex, often contradictory, language woven from longing, idealization, and the ever-present fear of the other’s withdrawal. Let’s delve into a brief, yet deeply relatable, love episode to unpack this intricate discourse.
Our story opens with an intimate tableau: two individuals, naked and vulnerable, on the precipice of love. He, a young man radiating simple charm, becomes the immediate object of affection. His description is vivid – “tall, slender, an even, warm ivory slash in the white sheets,” “hair is a riot of swirling, dark chestnut curls” – painting a picture of idyllic beauty and youthful allure. The initial conversation is seemingly mundane, yet it reveals a crucial aspect of the lover’s discourse: the projection of meaning. Simple answers – “I work on a flower farm,” “I never went to university,” “Not really” (regarding relationships) – are not just facts; they are pieces of a puzzle the narrator is eagerly assembling, searching for connection and understanding.
The question “Why not?” regarding past relationships, and his response, “I just don’t think I have the capacity to worry about someone else,” is particularly telling. It’s a statement that could be interpreted in multiple ways – self-awareness, emotional unavailability, or even a hint of refreshing honesty. In the lover’s discourse, such ambiguity is fertile ground for interpretation, often leaning towards the most optimistic reading. Even his monosyllabic hobby, “Flowers,” becomes endearing, reinforcing the image of a simple, almost pastoral, ideal.
The narrator’s internal monologue, “(I look up at that to-die-for face of his and decide that life isn’t fair. How can someone so gorgeous be so simple? We share no common ground.)” exposes the initial idealization and a touch of self-doubt. This is a key element of the lover’s discourse – the loved one is often elevated to an almost unattainable pedestal, their perceived simplicity becoming another layer of their captivating mystique.
The narrative progresses, revealing deeper layers of connection and vulnerability. A coffee date unveils a tragic backstory – the loss of his father and brother. “I’m so sorry,” the narrator offers, a pathetically inadequate phrase in the face of such grief, yet a common utterance in the early stages of romantic discourse. His seemingly profound response, “It’s all right… being exposed to death at a young age has made it easy for him to live in the now, and appreciate the moment,” further solidifies the idealized image – someone who has faced hardship and emerged with wisdom and a positive outlook.
The visit to the flower farm is a pivotal moment, a sensory immersion into his world. The detailed descriptions of flowers – “giant chrysanthemums and peonies, Catherine wheels, marigolds and zinnias, button daisies…” – are not just scenic details; they are symbolic. Flowers, traditionally associated with love and beauty, become a metaphor for the burgeoning relationship. His preference for “salmon” colored dahlias, contrasted with the narrator’s love for “true blue,” hints at subtle differences, yet these are initially perceived as charming quirks rather than potential incompatibilities. His comfort in the “dark soil” and the promise of spring, “Right now, everything is dying away…,” adds a layer of cyclical renewal, a hopeful anticipation for the future of their connection.
The phrase “His image is wrapped in the flowing and gauzy envelope—half-concealing him from me—of ‘a devout, orthodox discourse’: the lover’s discourse,” explicitly names the phenomenon at play. The narrator recognizes that their perception of him is filtered through the lens of “a lover’s discourse,” a pre-existing framework of romantic ideals and expectations that can both enhance and obscure reality.
As they become boyfriends, the discourse intensifies. Acts of intimacy and sharing – sketching him naked, showing him favorite books and movies – are attempts to deepen the bond, to physically and emotionally connect. These actions are punctuated by Barthesian fragments: The Other’s Body, The Ribbon, “Adorable!”, highlighting the lover’s tendency to fragment and analyze every aspect of the relationship, seeking meaning and confirmation in every detail.
The quote about Charlotte from Werther (“Charlotte is quite insipid; she is the paltry character of a powerful, tormented, flamboyant drama staged by the subject Werther…”) sheds light on the potential imbalance in the lover’s discourse. The loved one can become a mere object, a “colorless object” onto which the lover projects their desires and fantasies. The focus shifts from genuine connection to the lover’s own “desire itself,” potentially overshadowing the reality of the other person.
The “Love’s Languor” quote (“and you tell me my other self will you answer me at last…”) captures the intense yearning and possessiveness inherent in the lover’s discourse. It’s a passionate plea for reciprocation, a desperate need for validation and reassurance.
The narrative then takes a turn towards the inevitable unraveling. “For some reason or other, our love encounters grow less frequent and less satisfactory.” This is a turning point, the subtle shift from idealized romance to the harsh realities of relationship dynamics. The “sweaty and bruising bout of fucking (‘when the Image-repertoire goes to the devil’)” suggests a disconnect between physical intimacy and emotional connection, a breakdown of the idealized image.
The phone incident – reaching for his phone immediately after sex – is a small but significant detail that disrupts the romantic fantasy. The narrator’s plea, “I really… really like you,” and his oblivious response, “Thank you,” highlights a growing asymmetry in their emotional investment. The forced repetition, “Say ‘I-really-really-like-you-too,’” underscores the narrator’s need for verbal confirmation, a hallmark of the anxious lover seeking reassurance within the discourse.
The section titled Why? directly addresses the imbalance. “Why (am I always the one to text good morning first, always the one to suggest going out…)?”. This internal questioning reveals the narrator’s growing awareness of the one-sided nature of the relationship. His response, “I just don’t have as much time as you do to put into a relationship,” while seemingly reasonable, feels like a deflecting excuse, further eroding the romantic ideal. “A tear rips in the envelope of his image, slicing through my heart like a knife. My language is capsized.” This powerful imagery signifies the shattering of the idealized image and the breakdown of the lover’s discourse as it was initially constructed.
The Fade-out section poignantly describes the withdrawal of the loved one. “The other’s fade-out, when it occurs, makes me anxious because it seems without cause and without conclusion.” This lack of closure is a common source of pain in failed relationships, leaving the lover adrift in uncertainty and self-doubt. The jeans analogy – ““It fades and fades and fades.”” – beautifully captures the gradual, melancholic withdrawal of the loved one, a slow fading away of the initial intensity.
His distress over his cat becomes another point of disconnect. While empathy is offered, “I tell him to go, that he’ll regret it if he doesn’t,” the narrator’s internal monologue reveals a sense of exclusion: “(“I have an Other-ache”):… if he suffers without my being the cause of his suffering, it is because I don’t count for him: his suffering annuls me insofar as it constitutes him outside of myself.” This highlights the self-centered nature of the lover’s discourse – even empathy can be tinged with a sense of personal loss and abandonment.
The increasing absence – The Absent One – and the ensuing silence – No Answer – amplify the pain and despair. “This is what death is, most of all: everything that has been seen, will have been seen for nothing.” The silence becomes deafening, signifying the death of the relationship and the lover’s discourse that sustained it. The Ideas of Suicide and The World Thunderstruck sections depict the extreme emotional turmoil and existential crisis that can accompany the collapse of a romantic ideal. The world loses its vibrancy, becoming “inert,” “frozen,” “thunderstruck,” reflecting the lover’s inner state.
However, the narrative doesn’t end in complete despair. Evening brings a reconciliation, albeit a temporary and ultimately superficial one. He returns, and a fragile moment of connection is rekindled – Dark Glasses, “In the loving calm of your arms”. The exchange, “You have been very naughty,” “I have been naughty,” is playful, a superficial attempt to recapture the earlier intimacy. But the underlying issues remain unresolved.
The final, devastating blow comes: “It’s not that I don’t have feelings for you. I just don’t think I can give you what you need… Maybe I’m just broken.” The cliché, “It’s not you, it’s me,” rings hollow, yet the pain is real. His unexpected declaration, “This is going to sound crazy, but I think I Love You,” is both confusing and manipulative, a final twist in the lover’s discourse. The narrator’s weak “I-love-you-too” is a defeated echo of the earlier declarations, a surrender to the inevitable end.
The concluding section, Exiled from the Image-repertoire, offers a glimmer of hope for healing. “…to exile himself from her image, or worse still: to cut off that raving energy known as the Image-repertoire.” The path to recovery lies in dismantling the idealized image, in silencing the “raving energy” of the lover’s discourse. “Then begins ‘a kind of long insomnia.’ That is the price to be paid: the death of the Image for my own life.” This suggests that moving on from heartbreak requires a painful process of deconstruction, a conscious effort to break free from the narratives we create around love and loss.
The final lines, “And now we’re back to the present. I feel like absolute shit. I probably should have written this on paper and burned it, but—oh, what the hell. I hope you don’t find it too cringeworthy,” bring the narrative full circle, back to the raw, unfiltered emotion that initiated the lover’s discourse. It’s a self-aware, slightly humorous conclusion, acknowledging the vulnerability and potential embarrassment of exposing such personal heartbreak. Ultimately, this brief love episode serves as a poignant illustration of the complexities and contradictions inherent in “a lover’s discourse,” a language of longing and loss that resonates deeply with the human experience of love.
