It is natural to imagine that those who expect most from love – those who dream most intensely of one day alighting on, as it were, a prince or a princess who will answer all their needs – must also be those who have already enjoyed the most promising experiences of relationships.
Idealism must, we suppose, be the fruit of a pre-existing surplus of very satisfying moments.
But human nature is stranger.
The greatest idealists in love are not, as we might think, those who've had the most blessed passage through their love lives.
It's precisely those who've been most starved of affection, who have often been most lonely, who go on to expect most of other people.
Deprive someone of love at the start and you will generate an adult who wants only the greatest love, the highest love, the most perfect love.
You will breed an idealist, which also means someone who finds most relationships probably all those they've had until now disappointing.
Someone very inclined to leave partnerships in search of something better and higher, closer and deeper.
Cut someone off from love and you breed not someone who will be grateful for whatever comes their way, but someone who threatens never to be content with what earthly existence can provide.
Imagine a lonely boy growing up isolated in a tall apartment building in a large city.
He doesn't have many friends.
His parents are absent, mocking and punitive.
Back from school, he often gazes out of the window at a threadbare park below.
So starts the work of the imagination.
Somewhere out there, away from the bullies and the jocks, is a friend.
Not just a casual friend, not just any old friend, but a very perfect friend.
A sibling, as it were.
A sibling who understands everything.
They want to play the same games all the time.
They feel all the same losses, all the same sadness.
There isn't a moment of discord.
Later on, the dream shifts to relationships.
Somewhere in the vast new university, there is the perfect person.
Blue eyes, ringlets in her hair, tenderness, kindness.
They have no problems, they bring no difficulties.
There is simply laughter, communion and gentleness.
The great idealists are those who have, for the longest time, had no one to play with.
In turn, tragically, idealism becomes its own prison.
One longs so much for perfection, one has no time for what is there and is half good.
Because one has been deprived.
One can't forgive, one can't tolerate the compromise, whatever lip service one might pay to it.
One keeps the dream alive in secret, as one had to in childhood.
That's why one rejects the slightly overweight person who is distinctly sweet, the slightly irritating person who is nevertheless bright, the one who doesn't get everything but does understand a few things.
No one can be forgiven.
One looks for faults and finds them.
One picks holes.
You said you loved me, but why then are you late?
Why aren't there enough crisps in the larder?
Why were the keys missing yesterday?
There are many flies indeed in the ointment.
When one's been starving, one doesn't fantasize about a sandwich.
One fantasizes about a banquet.
The perfect is the enemy of the good enough.
The answer to all this is simple enough to sketch.
To loosen one's grip on the dream of a flawless being.
Not because one has to or it's entirely silly, but because one understands where the dreams came from and that they just aren't overly helpful.
They were compensatory.
They were what one's young mind invented to stop one going crazy from loneliness.
But now one can realize that one doesn't need this adaptation.
One's an adult, someone who can deal with imperfection in oneself too.
Someone who knows how to laugh at the gap between hopes and reality.
So what if they're always a bit late and don't always understand?
One can develop into someone who has the inner resourcefulness to cope with the half-crappiness of most things and most people, someone who can love and be nourished by what is imperfect, that is, someone who can love on this earth.
