Is It Better To Have Loved?

I'm a strong proponent of the school of thought that art enriches our lives. As such, I very much disagree with Oscar Wilde's sentiment that 'all art is quite useless'. Now, I don't approach art from a rigourously intellectual perspective. Rather, I let the art envelop me and affect me on a visceral level. It is through art that we can experience different planes of consciousness and dive into pools of emotions and thoughts that one thinks oneself quite incapable. And so, one of the cultural events of 2008 that has me gripped with anticipation is the theatre adaptation of Timothy Conigrave's book Holding The Man. And sure enough, it will be, for me, one of those rare experiences that will seep into my viscera and grow into an emotional epiphany. That's why I'm writing an entry on a play I haven't seen and a book I haven't finished.

In his memoir, Conigrave invites us to share in his memories of how a teenage friendship in the 70's evolved to become a great and timeless love story. The book recounts and explores the trials and tribulations but also the intimate and cherished moments between the Timothy Conigrave and his love John Caleo. Through his unsophisticated prose, the memoir offers such a microscopic examination of their intimacy that it imbues Conigrave's words with excruciating poignancy. Their's is a story of a love that endured despite encountering every adversity imaginable; separation, temptations, deceit. When the AIDS crisis hit Austalia in the 80's both Tim and John were diagnosed HIV-positive. But even in the face of death, the ultimate separation, their love endured to the end. But when John died after a long and complicated illness, Tim was left with an absolute emptiness. "You are a hole in my life, a black hole. Anything I place there cannot be returned. I miss you terribly." These are the despairing words that conclude Conigrave's elegy to his love.

Since I haven't seen the play or finished the book, my knowledge of Conigrave's story doesn't extend much further than the summary given above. But even so, each time I read the description of the play, my eyes well up with tears, mourning the loss of two men who found such deep and unwavering love but were ravaged by disease and death. Each time those closing lines echo in my mind, I am transposed onto Conigrave's soul and live the desperate isolation he experienced in his final years without his love and I am engulfed by such despair and anguish that it paralyses me. I wonder if I would have the strength and tenacity to survive that penetrating loneliness if I had a love that was lost. Now I reconsider my own personal journey for love and doubt the value of love in my own life. Is the love worth the pain it leaves?

This year has not, so far, been auspicious for love. St. Valentine's Day has just passed and amidst the conflagation of romantic gestures, none of that residual heat, let alone fire, extended its warmth to me. But more importantly, earlier this year, two of my closest friends, who were in what seemed like a happy relationship ended their romance after 8 years. They were the model couple, a sort of archetype by which others looked to for a yardstick to measure the success of their own relationships. They were the high school sweet-hearts that were happily engaged. I was to be their best man. I have their wedding speech written. They were my beacon. Now that light is extinguished and I mourn its loss.

Even so, I can't help but have this yearning for the closeness and understanding I read in Conigrave's words and saw between my two friends. I want to live for myself what appeared to me like the most precious connection between two people. But can't help but think that love is a hopeless situation, inevitably spiralling down a path paved by hardship and loss. And as I read Conigrave's elegy, love's worth is diminished and I lose all hope. Is there no hope?

But wait, I lied in my quotation of Conigrave's final words. The words that seal his love letter are actually, "Ci vedremo lassù, angelo." And while these final words resonate with loss and separation, I see within them a faint glimmer of a thread that ties Tim to John, that their love is not lost. Their love did not just endure until death, it endures beyond because I see them both clasping each others' hands, never to part again. It is this love that makes the history of their lives and everything that it has touched more precious and the importance of what existed between them is beyond any doubt and question.