I AND THOU:
sex! swing dancing! sixtine!: come for the Renaissance erotics; stay for my problems with Brideshead Revisited (Tara Isabella Burton, Aug 07, 2025, The Lost Word)
This idea, like so much of the magical tradition, comes out of Plato, via hs late antique Alexandrian followers. We have an inherent attraction – and it is attraction – towards the good, and the true, and the beautiful, and God; erotic love, rightly understood, pulls us not just towards physical beauty but towards what that beauty represents: which you can find in higher forms of symmetry, or knowledge of prime numbers. Matthew Crawford helpfully touches on this in another context: in his recent First Things/Substack essays “Is Math Erotic?”/”Math is Erotic”. We’re attracted not just to the beautiful but the beautifully true. (I admit I want to read an even nerdier second postscript from him that goes into more detail about how eros differs from mere contemplative appreciation).
That attraction is, basically, hackable, by magicians capable of hacking it – but ultimately our attraction is to God, or the Good, or the One, or whatever Platonic words you want to use. Everything else is cosmological flotsam.
So far, so fair.
Oh, but, God, what do you do about other people?
This is the part where, I think, the magical worldview, and maybe the Platonic worldview, and whatever version of Christianity isn’t magical (or you might say, is magical differently) diverge. Maybe I’m too much of a Protestant, or a Kierkegaardian, or too much a nineteenth-century scholar, or a twenty-first century post-Kantian in my moral horror of treating people as means, but what always galls me about these ideas of ascent and descent, of loves that really mean the love of God, is that they seem to have so little to do with loving a person. The other night at a Cracks in Postmodernity event, a friend was explaining their reading of Brideshead Revisited to me: that we move from the aesthetic realm of Charles Ryder’s love for Sebastian, to the more explicitly romantic nature of Charles’s love for Julia, to the final completion: Charles’s conversion, his love for God. But does that mean Sebastian and Julia are just waystations? Is Charles’s love for them just a metaphor for divine love, the way, say, dancing is a metaphor for sex?
This idea may be the right one. It may – I’m not sure – also be deeply Christian; of course Christians have our own version of it; the batter my heart, three person’d God, the Bernini angel that pierces St. Teresa’s breast – He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart,…when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God…[that] made me moan. There’s precedent, too, of thinking of all the things of this world, love included, as merely conveyances for the knowledge and love of God. Augustine himself (as the always-insightful Sam Kimbriel reminded me, when I was driving myself nuts over this exact topic back in May) distinguishes between right objects of enjoyment (basically: God), and right objects of use (basically, everything else).
But is that all we are to each other? Objects?
Here’s what I can’t get past: the idea that whatever’s going on, with someone, at whatever communication is happening at the level of dance, or whatever dance is a metaphor for, is only real insofar as it points to this other, better, higher thing. Are we really supposed to conclude that desire for someone obviates all the particularities that make them them, in favor of a passion for unmoved movers and parallel lines? If I could be convinced that this were the right way to be I could, I think, accept it with resignation; but I don’t understand how you can love somebody, or want somebody, if what you actually want from or through them is something that has nothing to do their their them-ness, if they’re just an occasion for the real relationship between you and math, or even you and God. How is that fair to Sebastian? How to Julia? Is God that kind of jealous God?
When Christ commanded that we love one another as He loved us, He means as subjects, not objects.
