What It Is to Love

I have sometimes - very occasionally - one of the most pleasurable sensations of my life. I will read something, or a hear a song, that is so funny, and perfect in its funniness - the wit is unexpected, but utterly apt, and because unexpected is much more perfect than it would be if anticipated - that it is, in the true sense of the word, delightful. My sensation at these moments is that my throat is full, in a curious way: full of something sticky and sweet that threatens to bubble out (like Lamia, I suppose, whose voice was like "bubbling honey in her throat"). And always what I want to do at the moment of reading or hearing such things is to kiss the producer. This happened once with Mr. Fallen, who wrote a conference review filled with puns, and it happens sometimes with Byron. I write about it now because it happened with The Divine Comedy's new song, "Indie Disco." To other people, I'm sure, it would just be a nice song, or even a clever song, but to me it's filled with...such rightness, that is at the same time a surprise: "Then hit the floor for 'Tainted Love'/ You know I just can't get enough"; "She makes my heart beat the same way / As at the start of 'Blue Monday'". And I wish Neil Hannon were here, so I could lean over and kiss him every time his song delights me.

This is what love is, I think, distilled for a moment and into a moment. You think to yourself, "This person is perfect; this person is absolutely right." For just that moment you see the outline of their superiority clearly; they come into crystal focus for you, the way they surprise and delight and, in a funny way, comfort you (because part of the delight comes from the aptness, you think, "Ah, yes, of course!", a comfort you didn't know you wanted). It's love turned from a constant support to a sharp blade.