Over the years I have observed two kinds of singleness. Here’s a quick meditation on either. Feel free to add what you think. The two are neither mutually exclusive nor comprehensive.
Firstly, there is singleness in general, as Cat Stevens sings, “Another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody.” Singleness in general is being in the state of singleness with no direction towards a particular person. It can be real chill, freeing, and comfortable, especially if the single has no great desire to make anything romantically happen any time soon. This singleness is perfect for taking a break from any prospect of love. Where singleness in general is directed romantically, the single dwells in possibility. The world is yours, oyster. How long will it last though? With no particular, the single is thrust into the possibility of the boring and everyday. Though the single pines for the transcendent in a human subject, in drifting through the totality of romantic possibilities and having no overwhelming interest in any of them, they are confronted with the banality of love, that is, they desire to go into a relationship yet with a considerable blow to their expectations.
Secondly, there is singleness in particular, the most beautiful and dangerous kind. Centred on a particular person, singleness in particular begins and ends with passion. In passion it seeks to be with someone, but when this seeking fails, in passion it must follow a wholly other path, whether one that redirects the “love” which it took part in to a new, non-romantic subject, or one that inverts its enamouredness to revenge itself on the world. So the English poet, John Donne, when his wife died penned these lines:
Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt
To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
And her soul early into heaven ravishèd,
Wholly on heavenly things my mind is set.
(Holy Sonnet 17)
Since his love has gone to heaven, heaven becomes his love. Later, Kierkegaard was devastated when he broke off his engagement with Regine Olsen, and proceeded to beat a sizable dent into the surface of Western philosophy, largely influenced by his continual dealing with the emotional aftermath. Although there is no obvious sense of a particular here, the famous opening soliloquy in Shakespeare’s Richard III details love’s inversion:
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
He goes on to say how he will set his two brothers against each other, so that he may attain the throne. He makes clear the connection between his ugliness (and therefore inopportunity for romantic love) and ambition for power. Finally, without saying too much in case you’re yet to watch Breaking Bad, at the beginning of Season 3, Jesse Pinkman claims his identity as the “bad guy,” somewhat in connection with his singleness in particular: