I think of myself as a romantic. On our first wedding anniversary thirty-eight years ago this month, I bought Jane a dozen red roses and a rather fine, silk-bound copy of the Song of Songs. Petals from one of the roses is pressed still within its pages. Yet, for some reason I can't fathom, St. Valentine's Day passed me by this year. As professionally I work with the philosophy of love, I'm rather partial to one day each year given over to celebrate love. But this year no cards pledging undying love, no flowers, not meal out.
Perhaps it's the deep freeze we find ourselves in—certainly the longest really cold spell in the last twenty years. Or maybe all the comments on Facebook and in the media about the Valentine's Day release of Fifty Shades of Grey, the movie—violence against women,"no" means no, rape is OK etc. Not much romance there.
However, we did watch a British adaptation of P.D. James's story in homage to Jane Austen, "Death Comes to Pemberley." A more or less satisfying tale—a Jane Austen-esque "who done it"—full of courtly love, unrequited then fulfilled, British understatement, women beginning to find a little freedom in the midst of patriarchy, and men making fools of themselves, but finally acting gallantly. A love story.
Yet, in another way St. Valentine did not pass me by. I've been thinking over the last few days about love—more particularly, how love has been reduced in contemporary culture. Of all the experiences of life, loving encounters are our best memories. Love is our highest aspiration. Love binds all else together, and where love is missing life falls apart. Love is very rich and has many expressions. We are the poorer when love is reduced.
A couple of days after Christmas, many stores in our town changed their decor from the red and green of Christmas commerce to the red and white of St. Valentine's commerce. Hearts everywhere. When love is reduced to a commercial enterprise, there is something a little crass about it. Love becomes a superficial tool to make more money. A young man, wished me "Happy Valentine's day." "Thank you," I responded. A while later I asked him, "Do you know what Valentine's Day is?" "It's a time when you get presents," was his reply. Mini-Christmas, I suppose. Love reduced.
In our culture, we reduce love when love becomes merely a form of words. I have never heard so much "I love you" as in recent years. I do it myself more than in the past. Everybody tells everybody that they love them. I'm probably just a curmudgeon, but when I was a lad "I love you" was a bit special and reserved for certain relationships at certain times. I don't recall my dad telling me he loved me. He didn't need to. I still get a bit uncomfortable when a more or less stranger tells me gushingly that they love me. "But you don't know me," is my unspoken reply, as I smile, don't return the phrase, and try desperately to think of something meaningful to say. Just because we now all say, "I love you," does not mean we love each other deeply—anymore than "Have a nice day!" really expresses a desire for the well being and thriving of the recipient.
Love is reduced, too, when it becomes mere romance. Scholars of love have pointed out (as I do in my book Love as Guide to Morals) that love's complexity and delight includes friendship, compassion, affection, and altruism, to name just a few of love's manifestations—romance too of course. But when all love is reduced to romance, we miss a great deal. Eros, the Greek word we most clearly associate with romance, is a larger idea than mere romance. Plato, in the Symposium, helps us see that erosic love is the desire for everything that is good and noble and beautiful. Erosic love as romantic love for another human being is the first step on the ladder, leading us ever upward, if we have eyes to see.
It is ironic that Fifty Shades of Grey the movie was released as part of the celebration of love which is St. Valentine's Day. In Fifty Shades love is reduced to un-love (and yes I read the book when it came out and caused much media fuss). Violence is always a failure to love.
Next St. Valentine's Day falls just before our fortieth wedding anniversary—perhaps a time to get more red roses. We'll see.
+Ab. Andy
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