'When we say we 'love' or are 'in love', what is it we love in someone?
Her face, his hands, her smile, his voice? The smell of his hair, those little sleepy eyes of hers, his gait, her enthusiasm, his music collection, intelligence, independence, her witticisms, carefulness, the touch of her skin? His broken fingernails? The way she looks when she looks away, the little, funny mark on his right shoulder? Just how he says 'hullo' on the phone?
Some 'objet petit a' that escapes definition, outsores language, a thing we cannot grasp or touch - or, on the contrary, something you can point out, point at exactly, a 'punctum'?
His, her, your 'blinding originality' as Roland Barthes puts it? Or nothing, not even something special in this other person? Couldnt the original thing be what we share, what makes us unique, together?'
ps. het citaat is uit Roland Barthes, Fragments d'un discours amoureux (1977), vertaald als 'Uit de taal van een verliefde', hoofdstukje ‘Atopos’