More than 20 years ago, the psychologist Arthur Aron succeeded in making two strangers fall in love in his laboratory. Last summer, I applied his technique in my own life, which is how I found myself standing on a bridge at midnight, staring into a man’s eyes for exactly four minutes.
Let me explain. Earlier in the evening, that man had said: “I suspect, given a few commonalities, you could fall in love with anyone. If so, how do you choose someone?”
He was a university acquaintance I occasionally ran into at the climbing gym and had thought, “What if?” I had gotten a glimpse into his days on Instagram. But this was the first time we had hung out one-on-one.
“Actually, psychologists have tried making people fall in love,” I said, remembering Dr. Aron’s study. “It’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to try it.”
I first read about the study when I was in the midst of a breakup. Each time I thought of leaving, my heart overruled my brain. I felt stuck. So, like a good academic, I turned to science, hoping there was a way to love smarter.
I explained the study to my university acquaintance. A heterosexual man and woman enter the lab through separate doors. They sit face to face and answer a series of increasingly personal questions. Then they stare silently into each other’s eyes for four minutes. The most tantalizing detail: Six months later, two participants were married. They invited the entire lab to the ceremony.
“Let’s try it,” he said.
Let me acknowledge the ways our experiment already fails to line up with the study. First, we were in a bar, not a lab. Second, we weren’t strangers. Not only that, but I see now that one neither suggests nor agrees to try an experiment designed to create romantic love if one isn’t open to this happening.
I Googled Dr. Aron’s questions; there are 36. We spent the next two hours passing my iPhone across the table, alternately posing each question.
They began innocuously: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?” And “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”
But they quickly became probing.
In response to the prompt, “Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common,” he looked at me and said, “I think we’re both interested in each other.”
I grinned and gulped my beer as he listed two more commonalities I then promptly forgot. We exchanged stories about the last time we each cried, and confessed the one thing we’d like to ask a fortuneteller. We explained our relationships with our mothers.
The questions reminded me of the infamous boiling frog experiment in which the frog doesn’t feel the water getting hotter until it’s too late. With us, because the level of vulnerability increased gradually, I didn’t notice we had entered intimate territory until we were already there, a process that can typically take weeks or months.
I liked learning about myself through my answers, but I liked learning things about him even more. The bar, which was empty when we arrived, had filled up by the time we paused for a bathroom break.
I sat alone at our table, aware of my surroundings for the first time in an hour, and wondered if anyone had been listening to our conversation. If they had, I hadn’t noticed. And I didn’t notice as the crowd thinned and the night got late.
We all have a narrative of ourselves that we offer up to strangers and acquaintances, but Dr. Aron’s questions make it impossible to rely on that narrative. Ours was the kind of accelerated intimacy I remembered from summer camp, staying up all night with a new friend, exchanging the details of our short lives. At 13, away from home for the first time, it felt natural to get to know someone quickly. But rarely does adult life present us with such circumstances.
The moments I found most uncomfortable were not when I had to make confessions about myself, but had to venture opinions about my partner. For example: “Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner, a total of five items” (Question 22), and “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time saying things you might not say to someone you’ve just met” (Question 28).
Much of Dr. Aron’s research focuses on creating interpersonal closeness. In particular, several studies investigate the ways we incorporate others into our sense of self. It’s easy to see how the questions encourage what they call “self-expansion.” Saying things like, “I like your voice, your taste in beer, the way all your friends seem to admire you,” makes certain positive qualities belonging to one person explicitly valuable to the other.
It’s astounding, really, to hear what someone admires in you. I don’t know why we don’t go around thoughtfully complimenting one another all the time.
We finished at midnight, taking far longer than the 90 minutes for the original study. Looking around the bar, I felt as if I had just woken up. “That wasn’t so bad,” I said. “Definitely less uncomfortable than the staring into each other’s eyes part would be.”
He hesitated and asked. “Do you think we should do that, too?”
“Here?” I looked around the bar. It seemed too weird, too public.
“We could stand on the bridge,” he said, turning toward the window.
The night was warm and I was wide-awake. We walked to the highest point, then turned to face each other. I fumbled with my phone as I set the timer.
“O.K.,” I said, inhaling sharply.
“O.K.,” he said, smiling.
I’ve skied steep slopes and hung from a rock face by a short length of rope, but staring into someone’s eyes for four silent minutes was one of the more thrilling and terrifying experiences of my life. I spent the first couple of minutes just trying to breathe properly. There was a lot of nervous smiling until, eventually, we settled in.
I know the eyes are the windows to the soul or whatever, but the real crux of the moment was not just that I was really seeing someone, but that I was seeing someone really seeing me. Once I embraced the terror of this realization and gave it time to subside, I arrived somewhere unexpected.
I felt brave, and in a state of wonder. Part of that wonder was at my own vulnerability and part was the weird kind of wonder you get from saying a word over and over until it loses its meaning and becomes what it actually is: an assemblage of sounds.
So it was with the eye, which is not a window to anything but a rather clump of very useful cells. The sentiment associated with the eye fell away and I was struck by its astounding biological reality: the spherical nature of the eyeball, the visible musculature of the iris and the smooth wet glass of the cornea. It was strange and exquisite.
When the timer buzzed, I was surprised — and a little relieved. But I also felt a sense of loss. Already I was beginning to see our evening through the surreal and unreliable lens of retrospect.
Most of us think about love as something that happens to us. We fall. We get crushed.
But what I like about this study is how it assumes that love is an action. It assumes that what matters to my partner matters to me because we have at least three things in common, because we have close relationships with our mothers, and because he let me look at him.
I wondered what would come of our interaction. If nothing else, I thought it would make a good story. But I see now that the story isn’t about us; it’s about what it means to bother to know someone, which is really a story about what it means to be known.
It’s true you can’t choose who loves you, although I’ve spent years hoping otherwise, and you can’t create romantic feelings based on convenience alone. Science tells us biology matters; our pheromones and hormones do a lot of work behind the scenes.
But despite all this, I’ve begun to think love is a more pliable thing than we make it out to be. Arthur Aron’s study taught me that it’s possible — simple, even — to generate trust and intimacy, the feelings love needs to thrive.
You’re probably wondering if he and I fell in love. Well, we did. Although it’s hard to credit the study entirely (it may have happened anyway), the study did give us a way into a relationship that feels deliberate. We spent weeks in the intimate space we created that night, waiting to see what it could become.
Love didn’t happen to us. We’re in love because we each made the choice to be.
二十多年前，心理学家亚瑟艾伦成功地在他的实验室里让 两个陌生人坠入爱河。去年夏天，我在自己的生活中实验了他的技巧，这也就是我半夜和一个男人站在桥上，盯着他眼睛足足四分钟的原因。
请允许我解释一下。在傍晚的时候，那个男人说“我觉得，只要有一些共同点，你会爱上任何一个人。如果是这样的话，你又如何选出这个人呢？”
他是我的大学旧识，我们碰巧在攀岩馆遇到。“如果真是这样，我们该怎么办”他想道。我之前随便翻了翻他的社交状态，但是这是我们第一次两个人单独出来。
“实际上，心理学家已经尝试过让人们坠入爱河”想起了艾伦博士的研究，我说道，”简直太奇妙了。我一直都想试试那是不是真的“。
我第一次读到那份研究是在和某人的分手阶段。每次一想到离开对方，我的情感就战胜了理性。我感觉自己进退两难。所以，正如一个合格的知识分子，我也向科学求助，希望能找到一个方法让我更聪明的恋爱。
我将这个研究解释给我的大学旧识。一个直男一个直女通过不同的门进入了那个实验室。他们面对面地坐着，回答一系列越来越隐私的问题。然后他们要注视着对方四分钟。而最让人羡慕的是：六个月以后两位参与者结婚了。他们邀请整个实验室的工作人员去了婚礼。
”我们也试试吧“他说。
请允许我陈述一下我们的实验和之前的研究不一致的地方。首先，我们是在一个酒吧，而不是一个实验室。其次，我们并不是陌生人。除此之外，我认为如果一个人不是以一个开放愿意的心态对待整件事情，那么他是不会建议甚至同意来进行这项实验的。
我上网搜索了艾伦博士的那一系列问题，总共有36个。在接下来的两个小时里，我们传递着我的手机轮流提问。
我们以简单的问题开始：”你想成名吗？以何种方式？“和”你上一次为自己唱歌是什么时候？为别人唱呢？“
但是一会儿问题就变得尖锐了。
为了回答”说出你和对方的三个共同点“，他看着我说道”我觉得我们彼此互相感兴趣“。
我咧开嘴笑了笑，拿起啤酒咽了一大口。他又列举了两个我们的共同点但是我很快就忘了。我们分享了上一次哭泣的经历而且坦白了想要问算命者的问题。然后我们又阐述了和母亲的关系。
这些问题是我想起了著名的温水煮青蛙实验。在这个史艳丽青蛙感受不到水温的上升，直到谁太热无法跳出。对于我们来讲，因为我们越来越坦诚越来越脆弱，我们没有注意到我们已经慢慢进入了亲密的关系。当我们意识到的时候我们早已十分亲密了。而这一过程一般要花几周甚至几个月。
我喜欢通过我的回答更加了解自己的过程，但我更喜欢了解他的过程。在我们刚来的时候这个酒吧是空的，但当我们暂停去上洗手间的时候它已经有很多人了。
我独自坐在桌子旁，一个小时内第一次开始注意到周围的环境，不知道刚才有没有人在听我们之间的对话。如果有，我也没有注意到。我同样没有注意到的还有淡去的云朵和渐浓的夜色。
对于陌生人还有认识的人，我们都有一套关于自己的说辞。但是艾伦博士的问题使得我们想要依赖那一套变成了不可能。我和他之间递增的亲密感是源于我回忆夏令营，和新认识的朋友熬一整夜的经历，分享我们生活上的细节。
13岁，当我们第一次离开家乡，我们迅速了解一个人是很自然的，但是成年人的世界很少在给我们这样的氛围。
让我感觉最不自在的时刻并不是我需要坦白自我，而是要我大胆地说出对对方看法。比如说，轮流说出你认为对方性格的闪光点，总共五个“（第22个问题），还有”告诉你的同伴你欣赏他的地方，这次一定要诚实，说一些你一般不会向刚见面的人说的事情。“（第28个问题）
艾伦博士的研究致力于创造人与人之间的亲密感。特别是其中的一些问题研究了我们与他人一起进入我们的自我感知。”不难看出这些问题鼓励我们去进行所谓的“自我拓展”，说一些类似”我喜欢你的嗓音，你对啤酒的品味，喜欢你朋友敬仰你的样子“的话，让我们知道某人身上的闪光点对对方是十分宝贵的。
真的，当你听到别人欣赏你的时候，你是十分震惊的。我不知道我们为什么不一直体贴地赞美别人呢？
我们半夜才完成所有的问题，时间远远超过了原本实验的90分钟。环顾这个酒吧，我感觉自己好像刚刚苏醒。”并不是那么糟糕“，我说道，”绝对没有互相注视四分钟感觉不舒服。”
他犹豫了一下然后问道：“你认为那个我们也要做吗？”
“在这？“我四周看了看，在公共场所，太诡异了。
”我们可以站在桥上“，他转向窗户说道。
那个夜晚很暖和，我也十分清醒。我们走向桥的最高点然后转身面对面。我笨拙地用我的手机设置好了闹钟。
“好了”，我深吸一口气说。
“开始吧，“他微笑着说。
我曾经在陡峭的斜坡跳起来，也仅凭一截短短的身子悬挂在崖壁上，但是静静地注视着别人四分钟是我人生中最令人兴奋最让人害怕的经历。我最初的两分钟都用来努力维持正常的呼吸。我们一直紧张地微笑，直到最终，我们进入状态。
我知道眼睛是心灵的窗口之类的说法，但是这个时刻真正的关键并不仅仅是你真的在注视着某个人，而是我看到对方真的在注视着我。一旦我接受了这个觉悟带来的恐惧然后花时间去平息这个恐惧，我便到达了我从未次想过的境界。
我觉得自己充满勇气与好奇。一部分好奇是对于自己的弱点，还有一部分好奇来自于你反反复复说着一个单词直到它失去了它的意义，变为它的本质：一个声音的集合体。
这一切都是通过眼睛，它们并不是任何东西的窗口而是一群有用的细胞。关于眼睛的感性都慢慢消失，我为眼睛真实的生物构造而感到震惊：眼球的弧状表面，肉眼可见的虹膜肌肉组织，角膜光滑湿润的晶体，如此陌生，如此精致。
闹钟响起的时候我感到有些吃惊，还有一些放松。同时也有一些失落。我已经开始用不现实不可靠的追忆的眼光来审视我们的这个夜晚。
大多数人认为爱情是自己降临到我们身上。我们坠入爱河，千疮百孔。
但是这项研究里我喜欢的是它假定爱情是一种行为。它认为一件对于我的同伴重要的事情对于我也是重要的，因为我们拥有至少三个共同点，因为我们和母亲关系都很好，因为他允许我注视着他。
我想知道我们之间的互动会发生什么结果。如果什么都没有，这将会成为一个好的故事。但是我现在明白了这个故事不是关于我们，而是告诉我们愿意花时间精力去了解一个人意味着什么，而它真正讲述的是一个被了解意味着什么的故事。
的确，我们无法选择爱我们的人，尽管我花费好多年期待自己能够选择，而且你不能仅凭方便快捷创造浪费。科学告诉我们生物学是重要的，在这些现象背后，我们的信息素和荷尔蒙做了许多工作。
尽管如此，我开始觉得爱情是比我们呈现出来的更柔软的东西。艾伦博士的研究告诉我们制造信任还有亲密感是可能的，甚至是容易的，而这些正是爱情发展所需要的。
你也许想真的我们俩是否在一起了。嗯...是的。尽管不能全部归功于这项研究（也许不管怎样这确实会自己发生）， 但是它给了我们一个开始这段略显故意的感情的机会。我们在已经那个夜晚创造出来的亲密空间里度过几周时间，并期待着这份感情的发展。
爱情不会降临在我们身上。我们坠入爱河是因为这是我们两个人的选择。