“Whoever makes Love lose the communication and service of poetry will disarm him of his best weapons.” How much energy do we expend quarreling with love? If the body has certainty, the mind brings its measures of doubt. The greatest conflicts surround beauty itself, as if it could be brought to reason and made to explain itself.
If required to answer why my thoughts linger over time, I could respond like Montaigne: “Parce que c’était elle, parce que c’était moi.” But the tools of the mind are feeble in the face of beauty. Poetry and music are the closest friends to the body’s simple wisdom. One describes and other finds rhythm and melody. They dwell in mysteries, tones and concealments.
There is no mathematical formula, and no grand treatise of beauty. It is reflected in our sight, feelings and beliefs. Mystery adds pleasing shadows. Beauty shapes its own reality, needing no projection or exaggeration. It can only be acknowledged and accepted for itself, in one’s eyes, felt in one’s limbs. The best the mind can do is soak in the inexplicable power that animates our lives.