You are what you love. Eres lo que amas.

Este es un amor que alguien vivió un día por las calles de Londinium y que ya no es más. Rompe el corazón, Thomas Jeremy, pero también lo hincha: hay alguien que te quiso así.

De otro amor habla David Foster Wallace en la página 108 de Infinite Jest. Es un fragmento enloquecido de cómo un nacionalista habla de ese amor suyo que cree más elevado y valioso que el mero amor del resto de los mortales. La Casa tuvo a bien dejármelo leer en mi hamaca, y desde entonces me acompaña. Me gusta leerlo descontextualizándolo, es más, he estado a punto de colgarlo sin mancharlo con el bostezo del nacionalismo. Porque también, los que no hemos sido tocados por la varita del orgullo de pertenecer a un sitio, podemos decir que amor es lo que somos, por lo que moriríamos, y aquello sobre lo que no tenemos decisión alguna.

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"Attachments are of great seriousness. Choose your attachments carefully. Choose your temple of fanaticism with great care. What you wish to sing of as tragic love is an attachment not carefully chosen. Die for one person? This is a craziness. Persons change, leave, die, become ill. They leave, lie, go mad, have sickness, betray you, die. Your nation outlives you. A cause outlives you. (...)  

You are what you love. No? You are, completely and only, what you would die for without, as you say, the thinking twice. (...)  

What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love? What if the temple comes to Mohammed? What if you just love? without deciding? You just do: you see her and in that instant are lost to sober account-keeping and cannot choose but to love?” (...)

 Then in such a case your temple is self and sentiment. Then in such an instance you are a fanatic of desire, a slave to your individual subjective narrow self’s sentiments; a citizen of nothing. You become a citizen of nothing. You are by yourself and alone, kneeling to yourself. (...) 

In a case such as this you become the slave who believes he is free. The most pathetic of bondage. Not tragic. No songs. You believe you would die twice for another but in truth would die only for your alone self, its sentiment.(...) 

You in such a case have nothing. You stand on nothing. Nothing of ground or rock beneath your feet. You fall; you blow here and there. How does one say: ‘tragically, involuntarily, lost.’

Nota: Esta foto y las dos del divague de ayer son de El Joven Artista Local, paseando por los canales de Islington. Graches Sergio.