THE temporal has three times, and therefore it never really absolutely exists, or absolutely in any one of them. The eternal is. A temporal object can have many different attributes, and in a certain sense can be said to have them all at one time, insofar as it is what it is in these definite attributes. But duplication in itself never has a temporal object; as the temporal disappears in time, so too it exists only in its attributes. On the contrary, when the eternal is present in a man, then this eternal so reduplicates itself in him, that every moment it is present in him, it is present in a twofold manner: in an outward direction, and in an inward direction back into itself, but in such a way that this is one and the same thing; for otherwise it is not duplication. The eternal is not merely in its own attributes, but is in itself in its attributes; it not only has attributes, but is in itself when it has attributes. So now with love. What love does, that it is; what it is, that it doesand at one and the same time: at the very moment it goes out of itself (the direction outward) it is in itself (the direction inward); and at the very moment it is in itself, it thereby goes out of itself, so that this outgoing and this return, this return and this outgoing, are simultaneously one and the same.
When we say that “Love gives fearlessness,” we mean by that, that the lover by his very nature makes others fearless; everywhere where love is present, it spreads fearlessness; one freely approaches the lover, for he drives out fear. Whereas the suspicious man frightens everyone away from him, whereas the cunning and the crafty spread fear and painful unrest about them, whereas the presence of the tyrant oppresses like the heavy pressure of sultry air: love gives fearlessness. But when we say that “love gives fearlessness,” we also say at the same time, something else, that the lover has fearlessness, just as it is said that Jove gives boldness on the day of judgment, that is, it makes the lover fearless in the judgment.
When we say, “Love saves from death,” it is precisely a duplication of the thought: the lover saves another man from death, and he saves, either in absolutely the same or yet in another sense, himself from death; he does it at one and the same time, it is one and the same thing; he does not save the other at one moment and himself the next, but at the very moment that he saves the other, he saves himself from death. Only love never thinks about the latter, about saving himself, about himself acquiring fearlessness; the lover in his love thinks only about giving fearlessness and saving another from death. Yet the lover is not therefore forgotten. No, the one who lovingly forgets himself, forgets his own suffering to consider another’s, forgets all his own wretchedness in order to think of another’s misery, forgets what he himself loses in order lovingly to consider another’s loss, forgets his own advantage in order lovingly to look at another’s: truly such a one is not forgotten. There is One who considers him: God in heaven; or love considers him. God is love, and when a man from love forgets himself, how then could God forget him! No, while the lover forgets himself and thinks of the other man, God thinks of the lover. The self-lover is busy, he shrieks and shouts, and stands for his rights in order to make certain of not being forgotten—and yet he is forgotten; but the lover who forgets himself, he is remembered by love. There is One who thinks of him, and thereby it comes to pass that the lover gets what he gives. Look at the duplication: what the lover does, that he is, or he becomes that; what he gives, that he has, or he gets it—wonderful, as that “out of the eater came forth meat.” Still, perhaps someone says, “It is not so wonderful that the lover has what he gives, that is always the case; what one does not have, one cannot give.” Oh, well, but is it then also always the case that one keeps what one gives, or that one gets that which one gives to another; that just by giving one gets, and gets exactly the same one gives, so that the thing given and the thing received are one and the same? Ordinarily this is probably not the case, but, on the contrary, what I give the other gets, not that I myself get that which I give to another.
So love is always duplicated in itself. This holds true, too, when it is said that love covers a multitude of sins.
In the Scriptures we read that which is “love’s’” own word, that many sins were forgiven to the one who loved much—because the love in him conceals the multitude of sins. However, we shall not speak about that at this time. In this little essay we are constantly discussing the works of love, consequently we are looking at love directed outward. With this meaning in mind, we shall now speak about: