29 September 2018
I’ve had enemies and still do. I’m sorry about it, but that’s how it is. How enmity begins I don’t know; every generalisation seems arbitrary. I have a hard time crediting the theory that enemies are indispensable to the way we define ourselves, that they reinforce our identity through a sort of permanent war. I’ve never felt that need: enemies have never given me anything but anxiety, and I would gladly go without them.
On the other hand, there’s no doubt that the history of the human race is a history of enmities, and one can’t eliminate the problem with a shrug. Enmities that can be ascribed to a particular motive frighten but don’t excite me: the possession of a spring, of oil wells, of a region—those end in murder, war, slaughter and inspire horror.
I feel similarly about the animosities of daily life—those which arise from a slight, a trivial word, a bit of gossip, a promise not kept. Sometimes we regret them, sometimes we apologise, but in vain. I have to confess, I find any tension that can be traced back to trivial motives intolerable.
The only kind of enmity that interests me has no motivation, and can be summarised like this: “What did she do to you?” “I don’t know, but the mere sight of her gets on my nerves.” Here I think it’s worth the effort to dig, partly because antipathy is an inadequate word, explaining almost nothing. What happens to our bodies when we bump into one another? Why do certain people seem to us so different that we can’t accept them, can’t recognise their humanity? Would a little goodwill remove any reason for hostility?
I know stories of completely unmotivated rejections, which just for that reason are fascinating. In particular I’m curious about relationships—between men, between women, between men and women —that begin with mutual interest and respect. These two people are comfortable together; there is curiosity, there is goodwill. It may not be the start of a friendship, but of something pleasant at least. Then there are some embarrassments, a little annoyance; suddenly a kind of smoke appears that burns the eyes and throat. Something is no longer working, but it’s not easily identifiable, until one of them says: “That’s it, I’d rather not see you any more,” and the relationship breaks off.
A sympathetic closeness is transformed into a hostile distance. These two people hurt each other whenever possible, and for no reason that can be put into words. I suspect there’s something in this type of situation that, if described completely, would allow us to take some steps forward. An enemy may simply be someone who, out of a sort of emotional exhaustion, has avoided the effort, the complexity, the pleasure—all the ambiguities of friendship.