the solipsist in love

Where do we find the things that matter?

My writing buddy invited me to watch this lovely movie with her last night: Before Sunrise, a dialogue-driven film about two young people meeting on a train in Europe and spending a charged, beautiful day together before returning to their separate corners of the world. An excerpt:

“I believe if there’s any kind of God, it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed, but who cares, really? The answer must be in the attempt.”

– Celine in Before Sunrise (2005)

I loved that line. Does that make me a sap? It’s such a stereotype: women find meaning in connection with other people – family, friends, children – while men seek it out in the realm of material success, prestige, worldly accomplishment. I’d have to say I have a healthy dose of both in me. I want my life to have had some impact, changed people’s lives, because of something I produced, something that came solely from me. And I tend strongly toward solitude, preferring the occasional company of just a few close friends to regular, well-attended social events of any kind. Still, though, I value connection, and I think magic does happen there, when you finally confront someone’s humanity and the alienation that is human existence melts away, even just for that one possibly deluded moment.

Celine points out that it’s almost impossible to succeed in understanding someone, in bridging the gap between one consciousness and another. Most people – well, most people I know, the scientist types and whatnot – will say it’s not almost impossible, it’s just plain impossible. Our pains and sufferings, even our joys, are ultimately private; our attempts to express these to other human beings are weak and distorted at best. Any belief in true connection is therefore relegated to the realm of mysticism, where I am generally more or less happy to reside. And I’ve had moments where I felt that my mind shared a space with another’s. Many of these moments were, sadly, drug-induced, and for this benefit alone if the drug in question had not been made illegal I would probably still be ingesting it every weekend. In one relationship, in particular, I had this feeling that I could access my partner’s emotions, if not his thoughts, at any time, no matter where he was. For years after that relationship ended I looked to replicate that experience with someone else, but it never happened. I fully concede that in both of these cases I may simply have been surrendering to the attractive illusion of having connected with someone in a way that meant I was not, ultimately, alone.

I know I’m not the only one who craves this ineffable kind of merging, but are we in the minority? For people who have come to terms with the fundamental impossibility of this idea, do you find that the connections you make with others are sufficient? Do you wish to be known completely, to share your most cherished experiences with another human being – not just the external circumstances of that experience, but the experience itself, the way that it transforms your consciousness? Or am I just way out in left field now?

I like to believe that everyone is wandering around, hungry for this. It seems that if this were true, there would be some basic tenderness underlying the principles of our interactions. Even the shared hope, if it were recognized, might be enough to encourage us to offer more kindness to one another.