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Issue XV Love
INTRODUCED BY EDITOR-IN-CHIEF MARIANNE JANACK
In her book Love, In Theory, E.J. Levy writes about a variety of loves: intellectual love, romantic love, and parental love. And she also writes about betrayals, adultery, passion, and about people who want to find true love. Maybe that’s not too surprising—after all, love is a great theme for stories. What might be more surprising is that E.J. Levy’s collection includes a story about a philosopher, titled “My Life in Theory”. Philosophers don’t come off very well in this story, and the beginning might give you a sense of why:
Philosophers, it would seem, have little to tell us about love; I know, because I am one. In spite of the name ‘philosopher’—lover of wisdom—we are not known for our success in the realm of Eros. Truth is, our greatest minds have been losers when it came to love. Søren Kierkegaard, for instance had just one sexual experience in his life, and that a failed one, with a prostitute. Perhaps that’s because philosophy seeks a system and love—as any lover knows—is unsystematic in the extreme. Love’s a messer-upper, and philosophers, on the whole, are a tidy bunch….
In fact, the syllabus for a standard Modern Western philosophy class is full of unmarried men: Hobbes, Descartes, Leibniz, Spinoza, Locke, Hume, Kant. As Levy’s character remarks, maybe philosophy and love don’t go together—or at least not philosophy and romantic love.
But as many a student of philosophy knows, other kinds of love seem to be consistent with philosophy. Plato thinks that the love of the true and the good—or what we now call “intellectual love”—is not only proper, but to be cultivated for one’s well-being. And Kant uses the fact that the Ten Commandments includes the command “Love thy neighbor as thyself” to argue that love is not an emotion or feeling, because one cannot be commanded to feel a particular emotion. “Love” here is, for Kant, more like agapé. Philia, storge, philautia, xenia all capture different forms of love: love between friends; love between children and their parents; self-regard; the generosity of a host to a visitor.
Levy’s character—a philosophy teacher—remarks on the fact that philosophy textbooks include topics like torture, vision, justice, reality, rights, and the good. But love isn’t included. And though the topic doesn’t seem to be something that philosophy textbooks address, Carrie Ichikawa Jenkins reminds us that people make some big decisions about their lives because of love: to find love, to do something that they love, to be near friends or family, to keep love.
My students have just graduated. You would think that after 23 years, I would be better equipped for this. They left here to go be with others that they love, or to follow their dreams—to become adults. I thank them—and especially my Book XI assistants—for coming here and allowing me to become attached to them. Here are the things that my Book XI seniors love:
Gabi de Mendonça Gomes loves:
The warm and chalky smell of wet concrete pavement; the green scent of freshly cut grass; the warm and dusty smell of a library book; the sound of an old book’s spine cracking chiropractically as I flip it open; surprising combinations of words like Nabokov’s “shudder and swan and swell.”
Lavender: the flower, the stalk, the scent, the oil; intricately detailed rugs or wallpaper; rooms full of books; how candles flicker even without a tangible wind; the special breathlessness of hiking fast in high altitudes.
The shrill whirring of the coffee bean grinder, indicating my cup of hot dark coffee is soon to come; Caravaggio’s boy with a basket of fruit, specifically the shoulder; getting into a bed with clean sheets after showering; how my favorite songs feel like a warm god ray each time they play.
Words, words, and words.
Stella O’Brien loves:.
Falling asleep on the beach listening to the sounds of waves, my mother's voice, when my grandma would brush my hair before bed, eating the same sandwich from my favorite deli that I've been eating since fourth grade, dancing until my feet hurt, looking at the stars, breathing deeply and filling my lungs up with air, how babies have such small hands and feet, when my friends and i make each other laugh so hard I cry and my stomach hurts.
I love reading a book so good I can't put it down until it's finished, when my brother sends me songs he thinks I'd love, when my friend Lola from high school calls me out of the blue, I love the smell of pancakes cooking in butter, the smell of a rainy day in spring, the way a deck of cards feels in my hand (especially when I'm winning), I love cold ice on my cheeks and the back of my neck, the way my favorite pair of blue jeans fits me, when they bang the big gong at the orchestra, when the speakers at a concert are vibrating your organs from the inside out.
I also love the feeling of gritty sand or wet rocks at the beach, the smell of my grandma's lotion from Avon or my dad's tobacco-scented cologne despite the fact that he is not a smoker. I love the stuffed bunny with floral ears named Pippa that lives on my bed, i love a deep stretch. The sound of myself productively clacking away at a keyboard, when I apply fresh lip gloss, bare feet in wet grass, the comfort of my favorite sweater that was once my mom's favorite sweater.
I love when a cold gust of wind streaks across my face and sucks the air out of my lungs to remind me it was there in the first place. On that note, I love the smell of snow and the texture of snow or dried leaves crunching under my feet.
Kaitlin Reed loves:
the smell of fresh cut grass
a silky pink horse muzzle on my cheek
new book smell
inky gel pen on paper
my hair all lathered up in shampoo
climbing into a bed made with sheets fresh out of the drier (preferably with freshly shaven legs)
Jack Ritzenberg loves:
When I'm driving through the main street of my hometown and all 6 traffic lights turn green at the perfect moments so I never need to wait in a red light; the cold side of the pillow when you flip it over; warm clothes out of the dryer
Scout Winer loves:
Smell of sunscreen
Grass in between my toes
Sand in my teeth (it accidentally got into my sandwich!)
Touching the tassels on a blanket
The taste of fermentation
How Ariel Pink sounds
My prickly leg hair
Hot New York subway in the summertime
Syrupy mouthfeel of vermouth
Mango
This issue of Book XI is about love in all its forms and messiness. It includes stories about sex, pornography, and historical reenactments; vampires, teeth, and capitalism; flowers, a towel, and sacrifice. We also have poems about caterpillars and milkweed; writing and distance; about art, realism, and death.