I previously have written a number of columns on love but I have not mentioned a small book I read in my early twenties—and the first book I ever gave to my wife—Erich Fromm’s, The Art of Loving. It begins:
Is love an art? Then it requires knowledge and effort. Or is love a pleasant sensation, which to experience is a matter of chance, something one “falls into” if one is lucky? This little book is based on the former premise, while undoubtedly the majority of people today believe it is the latter.
Fromm thought that we misunderstand love for many reasons. First, we see the problem of love as one of being loved rather than one of loving. We try to be richer, more popular, or more attractive instead of learning how to love. Second, we think of love in terms of finding an object to love, rather than of it being a faculty to cultivate. We think it is hard to find someone to love but easy to love, when in fact the opposite is true. (Think of movies where after a long search the lovers finally connect and then the movie ends. But it’s the happily ever after that’s the hard part.) Finally, we don’t distinguish between “falling” in love and what Fromm calls “standing” in love. If two previously isolated people suddenly discover each other it is exhilarating. But such feelings don’t last. Real love involves standing in love; it is an art we learn after years of practice, just as we would learn any other art or skill.
In the end, though loving is difficult to learn and practice, it is most worthwhile and more important than money, fame or power. The mystery of existence reveals itself—if it ever does—through things like relating to nature and productive work but, most of all, through our relationships with other people. Thus to experience the depths of life, we should cultivate the art of loving.
And as for Jane, the original handwritten inscription I wrote in the book is still apropos:
In whose heart
I have perceived
a great deal of
warmth and love …