Author: Dr. Frank Tallis
The
following
is
Part
2
of
a
three-part
series
about
romantic
love
from
Frank
Tallis’
book
Love
Sick.
In
this
part
Dr.
Tallis
uncovers
the
cultural
roots
of
men’s
tendency
toward
idealizing
women
and
placing
them
on
pedestals.
-Ed.
Incurable
Romantics
The
romantic
themes
of
idealisation
and
forbidden
(or
non-consummated)
love
were
taken
to
new
extremes
in
Renaissance
Italy.
Poets
such
as
Dante
and
Petrarch
placed
their
muses
on
absurdly
elevated
pedestals.
Dante’s
Beatrice,
and
Petrarch’s
Laura,
are
portrayed
as
models
of
perfection
and
purity.
Moreover,
the
fact
that
both
women
died
prematurely
and
then
reappear
in
poetic
visions,
emphasises
their
divinity.
There
is
some
debate
concerning
the
identity
of
Petrarch’s
Laura.
She
may
have
been
Laure
de
Noves
of
Avignon
(a
married
woman
with
children),
or
she
may
never
have
existed
at
all
(being
merely
a
poetic
invention).
Dante’s
Beatrice,
on
the
other
hand,
was
definitely
a
real
person.
The
extreme
idealisation
of
Beatrice
and
Laura
is
partly
attributable
to
Marianism.
During
the
thirteenth
century,
Mary
became
increasingly
important
as
a
mediator
between
human
beings
and
God.
It
was
to
Mary
that
the
majority
prayed
for
divine
intercession.
She
was
more
`human’,
and
therefore
approachable,
than
all
three
personifications
of
the
Holy
Trinity.
Moreover,
her
curious
(and
paradoxical)
position
as
the
mother
of
God
gave
her
considerable
authority.
For
some
time,
the
river
of
romantic
literature
was
swollen
by
the
tributary
of
Marianism.
Women
were
worshipped
with
religious
fervour,
and
sexual
desire
was
wholly
sublimated.
The
story
of
Dante
and
Beatrice
is
principally
recorded
in
Dante’s
The
New
Life
(a
hybrid
of
autobiography
and
literary
treatise).
They
met
for
the
first
time
as
children,
when
the
poet
accompanied
his
father
to
the
house
of
Folco
Portinari
(Beatrice’s
father).
Dante
immediately
fell
in
love
with
Beatrice
and
remained
devoted
to
her
(more
or
less)
for
the
rest
of
his
life.
She
was
married
to
a
banker
from
an
early
age,
and
so
–
in
true
courtly
style
–
Dante
was
forced
to
admire
her
from
a
distance.
He
appropriated
the
Arthurian
role
of
Lancelot,
and
championed
his
`mistress’,
not
with
arms,
but
with
poetry.
The
Marian
nature
of
Dante’s
love
for
Beatrice
did
not
exempt
him
from
the
commonplace
symptoms
of
love
sickness.
He
complained
of
all
the
usual
problems:
expansive
moods
and
depression,
lightheadedness,
obsession,
anorexia,
sleeplessness,
paleness,
trepidation
and
anguish.
And
Beatrice
occupied
such
an
elevated
position
in
his
universe
that
even
the
slightest
suspicion
of
her
disapproval
was
crushing.
When
she
failed
to
return
his
greeting,
Dante
became
extremely
distressed:
…
I
was
overcome
by
such
sorrow
that
I
left
my
fellow
men
and
went
to
a
secluded
place,
where
I
could
bathe
the
earth
with
my
bitter
tears.
Then,
when
my
weeping
was
almost
exhausted,
I
took
myself
to
my
room,
where
I
could
lament
without
being
overheard.
There,
while
calling
for
mercy
from
the
lady
of
courtesy,
and
crying
`Love,
help
your
servant!’,
I
fell
asleep
like
a
little
child
crying
after
it
has
been
beaten.
If
anything,
the
spiritual
nature
of
Dante’s
love
for
Beatrice
seemed
to
exaggerate
the
usual
psychopathological
resonances.
Even
his
moments
of
rapture
were
tainted
with
the
uncomfortable,
manic
energy
of
a
religious
fanatic.
His
eyes
shine,
and
we
question
his
sanity;
we
are
not
very
far
away
from
shaking
fists,
prophecy
and
revelation.
Perhaps
the
most
compelling
example
of
this
arose
during
a
period
of
sickness,
when
it
suddenly
occurred
to
Dante
that
Beatrice
was
mortal
and
might
one
day
die:
‘At
this
I
was
overcome
by
such
delirium
that
I
shut
my
eyes
and
started
to
thrash
about
like
a
fever
patient.’
He
then
entered
a
world
of
lurid
hallucination:
‘Then
I
saw
the
sun
darken
and
the
stars
changed
to
such
a
colour
that
I
thought
they
wept;
birds
dropped
dead
while
flying
through
the
air,
and
there
were
vast
earthquakes.’
We
are
reminded
of
the
darkness
that
fell
on
the
earth
at
the
time
of
the
crucifixion.
For
Dante,
a
presentiment
of
separation
was
not
painful
–
it
was
the
apocalypse.
At
the
age
of
twenty-four
Beatrice
did
die,
and
predictably
Dante
was
thrown
into
deep
despair
–
even
though,
by
then,
he
too
was
married.
While
grieving,
he
became
temporarily
infatuated
with
another
woman;
however,
these
feelings
were
completely
expunged
when
Beatrice
appeared
to
him
in
a
heavenly
vision.
Dante
was
reminded
of
Beatrice’s
incomparable
beauty
and
he
subsequently
committed
himself
to
a
life
of
continued
adoration.
He
became,
in
effect,
a
votary.
Love
is
predicated
on
togetherness
in
a
world
where
things
must
exist
separately,
and
total
separation
–
because
of
death
–
is
an
inevitable
and
unbearable
truth
that
few
lovers
can
keep
from
contemplating.
In
the
history
of
romantic
story
telling,
love
and
death
are
old
companions.
Great
love
stories
are
made
all
the
more
poignant
by
our
certain
knowledge
that
the
couple
are
cavorting
on
the
lip
of
an
open
grave.
In
his
scholarly
treatise,
Love
in
the
Western
World,
the
Swiss
philosopher
Denis
de
Rougemont
wrote:
Romance
only
comes
into
existence
when
love
is
fatal,
frowned
upon
and
doomed
by
life
itself.
What
stirs
lyrical
poets
to
their
finest
flights
is
neither
the
delight
of
the
senses
nor
the
fruitful
contentment
of
the
settled
couple;
not
the
satisfaction
of
love,
but
its
passion.
And
passion
means
suffering.
To
live
up
to
the
romantic
ideal,
love
must
be
fated.
It
must
be
passionate,
painful
and
ultimately
doomed.
It
must
culminate
in
death
and,
if
we
are
lucky,
transfiguration.
But
why?
Although
death
appears
in
love
stories
prior
to
the
middle
ages,
it
does
so
in
the
service
of
tragedy.
After
the
middle
ages,
however,
death
is
almost
wholly
in
the
service
of
love.
The
outcome
of
a
fated
love
story
might
still
be
tragic,
but
death’s
function
has
changed.
Essentially,
it
offers
unlimited
possibilities
for
idealisation.
The
most
extraordinary
feature
of
Dante’s
The
New
Life
is
the
degree
to
which
he
idealises
Beatrice.
Until
Dante,
almost
all
love
poetry
–
however
heady
–
recognised
that
beauty
fades.
In
the
end,
time
must
ruin
even
the
loveliest
of
faces.
Yet,
when
it
comes
to
Beatrice,
Dante
simply
refuses
to
concede
any
ground
to
time.
Of
course,
Beatrice
conveniently
obliged
him
by
dying
young,
and
in
the
reliquary
of
Dante’s
imagination,
Beatrice’s
incorruptible
body
parts
were
preserved
like
those
of
a
medieval
saint.
The
romantic
tradition
has
always
demanded
that
the
beloved
be,
in
some
sense,
beyond
reach.
Yearning,
without
out
satisfaction
or
release,
was
presumed
to
be
ennobling.
Because
romantic
love
is
never
supposed
to
be
consummated,
it
never
weakens,
and
continues
to
dignify
the
lover.
When
the
beloved
dies,
she
exchanges
an
earthly
marriage
for
a
numinous
marriage.
In
death,
she
becomes
completely
unattainable,
and
the
yearning
must
then
go
on
for
ever.
Islamic
mysticism,
courtezia
and
Renaissance
literature
have
all
added
registers
of
meaning
to
the
word
`romantic’;
however,
it
has
also
been
enriched
by
association
with
a
more
recent,
but
nevertheless
highly
important,
cultural
development
–
the
rise
of
Romanticism.
Strictly
speaking,
Romanticism
is
only
tenuously
connected
with
`romantic
love’.
The
Romantic
movement
began
in
Germany
towards
the
end
of
the
eighteenth
century,
and
continued
to
be
influential,
by
varying
degrees,
until
the
end
of
the
nineteenth.
It
began
as
a
reaction
against
the
values
and
preoccupations
of
the
Enlightenment.
The
great
thinkers
of
the
Enlightenment
venerated
reason,
lived
in
cities,
and
were
keen
to
instigate
political
change.
Romantics,
on
the
other
hand
were
fascinated
by
emotions,
revered
nature,
and
were
far
more
interested
in
personal
psychology
than
social
reform.
The
concerns
of
the
Romantic
movement
were
much
wider
than
those
of
the
troubadours
or
the
Court
of
Love
at
Poitiers.
Even
so,
in
matters
of
love,
there
are
several
continuities
that
link
the
idea
of
romance
with
Romanticism.
Indeed,
the
work
which
launched
the
Romantic
movement
was
a
love
story
which
preserves
many
courtly
themes.
This
was
Goethe’s
1774
novel,
The
Sorrows
of
Young
Werther.
Werther,
an
artistic
young
man,
falls
in
love
with
the
beautiful
Lotte.
Unfortunately,
she
is
already
engaged
to
Albert,
a
gentleman
renowned
for
his
honesty
and
good
character.
While
waiting
for
Albert
to
announce
the
wedding
day,
Werther
learns
that
Lotte
and
Albert
have
already
been
married.
Werther
tries
to
divert
himself,
and
for
a
while
wanders
aimlessly,
but
his
yearning
for
Lotte
does
not
diminish
and
he
feels
compelled
to
return.
Werther
is
consumed
with
jealousy:
‘At
times
I
cannot
grasp
that
she
can
love
another
man,
that
she
dare
love
another
man,
when
I
love
her
alone
with
such
passion
and
devotion,
and
neither
know
nor
have
anything
but
her!’
He
sinks
into
black
despair:
‘Ah,
have
ever
men
before
me
been
so
miserable?’
While
out
walking
on
a
wet,
dreary
day,
he
meets
a
madman
‘scrabbling
about
the
rocks’
picking
flowers
for
his
‘sweetheart’.
The
madman’s
mother
appears,
and
explains
to
Werther
that
her
son
has
only
recently
been
released
from
a
madhouse,
where
he
has
been
restrained
in
chains
for
a
whole
year.
The
following
day,
Werther
discovers
that
the
madman
was
previously
a
clerk
employed
by
Lotte’s
father.
He,
too,
had
fallen
in
love
with
Lotte,
and
the
revelation
of
his
love
had
cost
him
first
his
position
and
then
his
sanity.
The
encounter
with
the
madman
is
a
presentiment
of
Werther’s
own
fate.
He
becomes
progressively
more
disturbed,
agitated
and
has
hallucinatory
dreams
of
making
love
to
Lotte:
‘My
senses
are
confused,
for
a
full
week
I
have
been
unable
to
think
straight,
my
eyes
are
full
of
tears.’
His
misery
becomes
intolerable
–
even
to
the
solicitous
Lotte
–
who
perceptively
suggests:
‘I
fear,
I
very
much
fear
that
what
makes
the
desire
to
possess
me
so
attractive
is
its
very
impossibility.’
Werther
cannot
be
reasoned
with.
He
desires
an
eternal
connection
with
Lotte,
and
he
begins
to
see
how
this
might
be
achieved.
He
leaves
instructions
for
his
body
to
be
buried
in
clothes
that
are
‘sacred’
(because
Lotte
has
touched
them),
and
places
a
pink
ribbon
–
a
gift
from
Lotte
–
in
his
pocket.
While
experiencing
a
kind
of
spiritual
reprieve
from
mental
anguish
(‘All
around
me
is
so
silent,
and
my
soul
is
calm’)
Werther
shoots
himself,
and
dies.
A
romantic
love
triangle,
an
idealised
woman,
an
episode
of
wandering,
and
a
young
man
who
edges
towards
his
doom.
The
old
courtly
themes
are
very
much
in
evidence;
however,
it
is
Werther’s
demise
that
seems
to
resonate
most
strongly
with
the
mystical
origins
of
romantic
idealism.
Ultimately,
courtly
love
is
about
realising
spiritual
objectives:
beauty
is
back-lit
by
a
sun
that
sets
in
paradise.
The
spiritual
sub-text
of
Werther’s
love
for
Lotte
surfaces
several
times
before
his
death.
For
example,
at
one
point,
he
says
of
Lotte:
‘She
is
sacred
to
me.
All
my
desires
are
stilled
in
her
presence.
I
never
know
what
I
am
about
when
I
am
with
her;
it
is
as
if
my
soul
were
throbbing
in
every
nerve.’
In
another
section,
the
possibility
of
a
spiritual
reunion
is
innocently
raised
by
Lotte
herself,
when
she
discusses
her
religious
convictions:
‘There
will
be
a
life
for
us
after
death,
Werther!
.
.
.
but
will
we
find
each
other
again?
And
know
each
other?
What
do
you
suppose?
What
do
you
say?’
The
Romantics
had
a
highly
developed
sense
of
the
numinous.
They
believed
in
a
universal
soul
–
a
mysterious
`fundament’
behind
visible
nature.
Moreover,
they
believed
that
an
understanding
of
this
deeper
truth
might
be
achieved
through
communion
with
nature,
or
the
experience
of
altered
states
of
consciousness,
such
as
powerful
emotions,
dreams
or
madness.
In
this
sense,
Romanticism
returns
romantic
love
to
its
cultural
source.
It
returns
us
to
the
desert,
where
Islamic
sages
sought
truth
in
beauty.
We
are
again
in
the
company
of
Majnun,
whose
love
is
so
intense,
so
powerful,
it
punctures
the
celestial
dome
and
fenestrates
heaven.
Romanticism
is
the
closest
thing
we
have
to
a
religious
faith
in
a
predominantly
secular
society.
This
is
probably
because
love
is
frequently
associated
with
intense
experiences
of
rapture
and
ecstasy.
When
love’s
madness
enters
its
manic
phase,
consciousness
is
raised.
If
love
is
consummated,
sexual
activity
can
intensify
the
experience
even
further
–
evoking
what
psychologists
have
called
‘oceanic
feelings’.
Love’s
rapture
and
transcendent
states
have
much
in
common.
Both
achieve
a
sense
of
escape
from
the
limitations
of
human
identity
by
union
with
another
being
(either
lover
or
God).
The
desired
outcome
is
a
kind
of
self-annihilation,
in
which
personality,
ordinarily
overburdened
with
worldly
concerns,
is
lost
in
a
moment
of
pure,
unadulterated
bliss.
Almost
all
religions
have
a
pseudo-erotic
mystical
tradition.
Hindus
practise
sexual
Tantra
and
Sufi
poetry
is
fundamentally
love
poetry.
Even
Christianity
has
–
to
the
considerable
embarrassment
of
the
Church
itself
–
been
unable
to
resist
linking
sex
and
spirituality.
St
Teresa
of
Avila,
for
example,
evokes
the
female
genitalia
by
describing
a
‘wound
of
love’,
and
famously
wrote
about
a
vision
in
which
she
was
penetrated
by
an
angel
carrying
a
golden
spear
with
‘a
point
of
fire’.
For
St
Teresa,
spiritual
enlightenment
is
a
process
that
begins
when
the
soul
falls
in
love
with
God,
and
ends
with
‘spiritual
marriage’.
In
Revelations
of
Divine
Love,
another
medieval
Christian
mystic,
Julian
of
Norwich,
described
oddly
pornographic
visions
of
Jesus
Christ’s
bleeding
body.
The
sensuous
language
she
employs
knowingly
emphasises
the
carnal
aspects
of
carnage.
Thus,
her
‘revelation’
is
‘horrifying
and
dreadful,
sweet
and
lovely’.
Moreover,
when
Jesus
speaks,
he
speaks
in
the
person
of
a
lover:
‘It
is
I
whom
you
love;
it
is
I
whom
you
delight
in
…
it
is
I
whom
you
long
for,
whom
you
desire.’
The
division
that
exists
between
reason
and
emotion
has
created
a
curious
predicament
for
Western
humanity.
We
find
it
hard
to
believe
in
God,
but
at
the
same
time,
we
still
have
the
capacity
to
look
at
the
natural
world
and
feel
something
thing
close
to
reverence
and
awe.
Although
we
suspect
that
there
is
no
God,
we
feel
that
there
should
be.
We
are
still
dissatisfied
with
the
limitations
of
personal
identity.
This
is
evidenced
by
the
continuing
popularity
of
recreational
drugs.
In
the
absence
of
an
alternative,
many
settle
for
a
chemical
Nirvana.
In
the
East,
where
spirituality
is
still
very
much
a
part
of
everyday
life,
less
is
expected
of
love
between
human
beings.
The
spiritual
instinct
is
satisfied
by
religious
observances,
meditation
or
scripture.
In
the
West,
however,
where
religion
plays
no
real
part
in
the
lives
of
most
people,
we
have
replaced
religion
with
love.
We
have
become
passionate
pilgrims,
seeking
the
transport
and
meanings
of
spiritual
ecstasy
in
the
religion
of
romance
and
the
sacrament
of
sex.
Even
if
we
have
little
knowledge
of
the
cultural
history
of
romance,
we
all
–
to
a
greater
or
lesser
extent
–
subscribe
to
a
broad
set
of
‘romantic’
expectations.
The
notion
of
romance
has
inveigled
itself
into
every
aspect
of
courtship,
sex
and
love.
We
seek
to
create
a
‘romantic
atmosphere’
on
a
dinner
date,
we
allow
ourselves
the
indulgence
of
a
‘holiday
romance’,
or
attempt
to
revive
passion
with
a
long-term
partner
by
taking
a
‘romantic
weekend
break’.
The
cultural
history
of
‘romance’
and
various
meanings
of
the
word
‘romantic’
make
it
extremely
difficult
to
define
‘romantic
love’.
Academic
psychology
–
usually
quite
pedantic
about
its
terminology
–
has
been
unable
to
establish
a
consensus.
Some
psychologists
use
the
term
in
accordance
with
its
courtly
origins,
whereas
others
use
it
interchangeably
with
‘passionate
love’.
As
a
culture,
we
seem
to
have
settled
on
the
latter
usage,
viewing
‘romantic
love’
and
‘falling
in
love’
as
much
the
same
thing.
It
has
already
been
argued
that
the
fundamental
features
of
romantic
love
are
evolutionary
in
origin.
Thus,
courtship
gives
women
time
to
evaluate
the
fitness
of
suitors;
heroic
acts
are
a
form
of
male
resource
display;
and
an
exclusive
(or
idealised)
relationship
is
necessary
for
the
formation
of
a
strong
pair-bond.
Most
contemporary
evolutionary
theorists
would
agree
with
Capelanus
when
he
points
out
that
the
ease
with
which
love
can
be
won
is
inversely
related
to
its
value.
In
any
social
hierarchy,
the
more
beautiful
a
woman
is,
the
more
difficult
it
will
be
for
a
man
to
win
her
affection.
Beauty
advertises
good
genes
which,
being
at
a
premium,
can
be
withheld
for
longer.
A
beautiful
woman
is
never
short
of
suitors.
The
inaccessibility
of
fairy-tale
queens
is
perhaps
the
logical
extension
of
this
principle.
That
we
should
find
traces
of
evolutionary
theory
in
story
telling
is
unremarkable.
Art
has
always
served
as
an
instrument
of
self-enquiry
and
self-definition.
Therefore,
it
was
inevitable
that
certain
fundamental
features
of
human
behaviour
should
appear
as
conventions
in
romantic
literature.
The
problem
with
the
courtly
tradition,
however,
is
that
during
the
course
of
its
development,
the
romantic
ideal
became
increasingly
rigid
and
extreme;
the
imposition
of
arbitrary
codes
of
conduct
offered
unlimited
scope
for
self-contradiction
contradiction
and
confusion.
The
idea
that
psychopathology
is
related
to
conflict
is
an
old
one,
and
it
is
an
explanatory
principle
that
appears
and
reappears
in
the
writings
of
numerous
psychologists.
Thus,
individuals
whose
theories
of
psychopathology
are
extremely
different
–
for
example,
Sigmund
Freud
and
Ivan
Pavlov
–
still
have
this
much
in
common.
In
the
195os,
Gregory
Bateson
and
colleagues
developed
a
new
conflict-based
theory
of
psychopathology
which
made
use
of
a
pivotal
concept
known
as
the
‘double
bind’.
Essentially,
Bateson
suggested
that
severe
psychological
problems
might
be
caused
by
‘mixed
messages’
–
as,
for
example,
when
a
mother
repeatedly
tells
her
son
that
she
loves
him,
while
turning
her
head
away
in
disgust.
The
term
double
bind
has
also
been
used
to
describe
‘catch-22’
situations,
where
whatever
choice
is
made,
the
outcome
is
undesirable.
The
doctrine
of
romantic
love
has
a
double
bind
at
its
heart.
It
confuses
the
carnal
and
the
spiritual.
What
started
off
as
allegorical
literature
eventually
became
a
code
of
conduct
–
and
a
completely
impractical
one
at
that.
Arab
mystical
literature
explored
the
correspondences
between
sexual
desire
and
spiritual
desire.
However,
as
these
threads
were
carried
over
the
Pyrenees
they
became
inextricably
entangled
–
and
much
follows
from
this.
The
ever
present
tension
between
the
carnal
and
spiritual
produces
a
dynamic
which
generates
layer
upon
layer
of
self-contradiction.
We
expect
another
human
being
to
make
us
feel
complete,
or
fulfilled,
yet
these
profound
feelings
of
completion
are
usually
only
vouchsafed
to
the
spiritually
enlightened.
We
expect
passionate
love
to
last
for
ever
–
and
even
increase
in
intensity
–
but
it
is
transitory;
it
almost
always
diminishes
or
turns
into
companionate
love.
We
expect
beauty
to
be
resistant
to
the
depredations
of
time,
but
all
beauty
fades.
We
like
to
think
that
we
are
being
inexorably
guided
by
supernatural
forces
towards
one
true
love,
but
the
most
important
factor
in
the
formation
of
relationships
(whether
we
like
it
or
not)
is
chance,
and
in
reality
we
fall
in
love
promiscuously.
Worse
still,
the
fabric
of
romance
comes
apart
under
the
forces
generated
by
its
own
contradictions.
Women
are
worshipped
as
paradigms
of
purity,
personifications
of
Marian
virtue,
but
the
foundations
of
adoration
sink
into
a
quagmire
of
lust
and
desire.
Men
make
women
into
Madonnas,
but
cannot
deny
their
sexual
needs.
Thus,
they
inevitably
despoil
paradise.
In
the
later
versions
of
‘Arthurian’
legend
(including
those
concerning
Tristan),
this
is
recognised
by
the
introduction
of
a
fatally
adulterous
relationship:
Lancelot
sleeps
with
Guinevere;
Tristan
sleeps
with
Isolde.
As
the
courtly
tradition
evolved,
more
and
more
writers
became
preoccupied
with
adultery,
rather
than
ennobling
abstinence.
The
impossible
demands
of
romantic
love
have
left
a
deep
impression
on
Western
literature.
As
Denis
de
Rougemont
has
astutely
observed:
‘To
judge
by
literature,
adultery
would
seem
to
be
one
of
the
most
remarkable
of
occupations
in
both
Europe
and
America.
Few
are
the
novels
that
fail
to
allude
to
it
…
Without
adultery,
what
would
happen
to
imaginative
writing?’
The
fairy-tale,
‘Once-upon-a-time’
world
of
romantic
love
promises
that
we
will
live
‘happy
ever
after’,
but
romantic
narrative
is
pure
tragedy.
Heroes
vacillate
between
euphoria
and
melancholy,
and
then
subside
into
states
of
morbid
obsession.
The
name
Tristan
means
child
of
sadness,
and
few
romances
end
without
first
taking
casualties.
The
confusion
of
the
carnal
and
spiritual
invites
death
into
the
bedroom
and,
ultimately,
we
join
our
voices
with
a
vast
choir
and
sing
that
great
anthem
of
self-contradiction,
the
liebestod,
the
love
death.
Procreation
and
extinction
accidentally
join
hands
in
the
conceptual
fog
of
romantic
idealism,
with
devastating
consequences.
Our
romantic
legacy
is
predicated
on
a
Batesonian
double
bind,
and
its
mixed
messages
incline
us
towards
emotional
instability.
If
evolutionary
pressures
have
determined
that
love
should
drive
us
mad,
then
cultural
pressures
have
created
ideal
conditions
for
its
incubation.
Original Story on AVFM
These stories are from AVoiceForMen.com.
(Changing the cultural narrative)