Tag: Memoir

A Memoir for 9/10/26

One book that I did not read during my graduate training, but maybe should have, is Moses Maimonides’s Guide for the Perplexed. 

Maimonides was a 12th-century Talmudic scholar and Aristotelian philosopher. His Guide is an attempt to reconcile those two sides of his own, and his culture’s, intellectual being. He struggles with the task. But “do not imagine,” Maimonides writes, “that these most difficult problems can be thoroughly understood by any one of us. This is not the case”:

“At times the truth shines so brilliantly that we perceive it as clear as day. Our nature and habit then draw a veil over our perception, and we return to a darkness almost as dense as before. We are like those who, though beholding frequent flashes of lightning, still find themselves in the thickest darkness of the night.“

As a graduate student, I think I was pretty good at just seeing the flashes. Standing open, as I would put it now, to anagnorisis: The sudden apparitions of meaning that the texts provide. This is puzzling work, because you don’t, and can’t, know how to do it. Indeed, the more you think you do—the more of a Theory you have—the worse you are likely to fare. For you have decided in advance which lightnings are worth noticing. 

I TAd, at Columbia, for the legendary prof Ted Tayler. He was legendary, that is, for his teaching, primarily in the undergraduate Core Curriculum program. His Shakespeare course, where I came in, was spoken of reverentially, and always packed.

Tayler was held in lower esteem by his colleagues, some of them anyway, and by my fellow grad students. I could see why: He had abandoned postmodernist theory, after, as he liked to put it, “reading it cheerfully for ten years”; and returned to an approach that would already have been old when he himself was a grad student (although it is still called New Criticism). In Tayler’s version (swidt), this meant just doggedly trying to explicate the difficult and beautiful thoughts that became thinkable in seventeenth-century poems and plays. And some of these were very cool; and some were very odd; but all were very difficult. Entering the classroom, Tayler was far from electric. A small grey man in a tweed jacket, he’d shuffle up to the podium, and start reading from his notes. And really reading—the original meaning of “lecturing,” as though we were back in the medieval university, when the professor was the only person in the room with a copy of the book. Tayler’s voice was deep and commanding, but his delivery was a mumble.

But then something would happen—to him, in him, and through him. He’d lurch forward, reaching toward the students as if to grab them. His voice would catch and halt. A strike had occurred. It might be a signal word or phrase that set him off; it might be a paradox; it might be a moral. Whatever the case, the little old disciple of the book was suddenly on fire. The text came alive, and the whole room was caught, in a moment of almost shocking emotional intimacy.

The students found this a bit embarrassing. It wasn’t appropriate; it wasn’t about Outcomes. And these were very bright and rich Ivy Leaguers whose parents were putting serious money toward Outcomes. So wasn’t Tayler just kind of performing, they asked me, in my discussion section? Wasn’t he doing, as we would say now, a bit? Oh no, I answered. Absolutely definitely take my word for it not. He was reaching for a moment of presence, which he wanted them to know about. He was moved, as he moved them.

One night, unusually, he called me at home. Told me that he was in the hospital. Tayler was not exactly elderly, not yet 70, but he was unrepentantly alcoholic, and on his third marriage, and, in short, not really taking care of himself. He had come down with a severe respiratory infection, on account of which he would not be able to teach for several weeks. Starting the next day. Could I please lecture in his place?

I have often thought, with regard to that phone call, about the medical dramas (Grey’s Anatomy, and the like) in which trainee surgeons get an unexpected chance to operate. Always, they leap at it. They practically run to scrub. That was me, when Tayler asked that. Yes, I answered. Holy cow for sure, yes. He was quite relieved. As for me, I was honoured and delighted. I hung up the phone, put aside my dissertation, and started writing a lecture for the following day on Twelfth Night.

This became a mark against me among my grad student peers. We were not in a union, but there was a move to move us into one (which eventually succeeded, and you will find that either pleasing or ridiculous, depending on your politics). Workload was supposed to be defined, and sacrosanct. TAing meant backing up the prof’s work—not doing it for him. Lecturing, and on short notice, at that? An absolute no-no. From this point of view, I should have told Tayler that I couldn’t possibly help him out. I should have said that it wasn’t my time to operate.

My heart, gut and mind reject this utterly. Even my body, nauseated. This isn’t primarily because I am sceptical (and was already then) about academic trade unionism. No: It’s because I am hungry, and was even more so then, for the healing light of the literary classroom. Lecturing on Shakespeare meant the possibility of leading, as did Tayler, a transfiguration. And leading it meant participating in it; otherwise, per my sceptical students’ questions, it wouldn’t be there at all. Walking up to the podium with my own handwritten notes. Finding what came out of them—not reading, but interacting, conversing. Telling the intellectual story that could only be told that way. Throwing myself into relief, via the flash of the text. And then saying, with Shakespeare’s Hippolyta: See what we did there?

That classroom moment, in my experience, is of a kind with the anagnorisis that occurs in the theatre itself. But, in some ways, better. We are less lost, more found. We are awake, so to speak, throughout the procedure. I believe that in studying literature, we come toward an understanding of what understanding is. But this comes and goes, because it is not an axiom, but a feeling: An experience of belonging, to the world, the text, and each other. I have become an addict of this feeling, I suppose, because I don’t generate enough of it in myself. But I hope that my deficiency has allowed my students to see how precious is this balm, and that they need some, too.

*

After some false starts, C found a great Manhattan job. Her false starts had included a junior executive position at NYCHA, the New York City Housing Authority; a brief spell as manager of one of the city’s innumerable and worthy non-profits (the CEO of which, however, turned out to be completely toxic and insane); and a lengthy interview process (for a position she eventually turned down) to become personal assistant to an Upper East Side beauty who had been married to one multi-billionaire and was about to marry another. But then, at 28, my wife was appointed Assistant Dean in the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences—right at Columbia. Nothing to do with me; she got it by being brilliant and dedicated. And she was great at it, and loved it. Sadly, then, irony occurred.

During the false-starts period she had been unhappy. Her NYCHA position had involved inspecting community centres in places like the Bronx and Brownsville where she felt like the alien she was. Also, her office was on the move to a federal building next to the World Trade Center, and she was quite worried about terrorism, along the lines of the horrendous Oklahoma City episode of 1996, or even the truck bombing at the WTC itself, back in ’93. I thought she was being totally paranoid, lightning did not strike twice, etc., but whatever. Anyway, when she wasn’t online looking for jobs for herself, she was online looking for jobs for me, and she found one, a wow one, right back at home, in exactly my field. So even though it was way too early in my program for me to be going on the job market—and my supervisor told me that buntly, but then I landed a couple of articles in prestigious journals, so he was like, well, ok, let’s see—I applied. And I got an interview at the annual conference of the Modern Languages Association (which is where these things happen). And I got flown out to give a job talk. And I got the bloody job. And so in the spring of 2000, just a few months after Cynthia had settled in at GSAS, I was frantically frantically frantically writing a dissertation, and then before we knew it we were sending stuff home and dealing with movers and back in Vancouver.

It was a time of immense promise. I returned to New York briefly to defend my PhD that December. We then both were there for my graduation the following spring, after which we took a delayed honeymoon to Italy. Rome, Perugia, Florence, but also some much smaller locations in Lazio—Bagnaia, Caprarola, Bomarzo—because I had become very interested in their restored Renaissance gardens, which are a big deal, just take my word for it. (Pro tip: You do not need to get very far off the beaten track, in Italy, to get off the beaten track in Italy.) C was in her first trimester with our first child, which meant that I got to take lots of nice photographs of her napping in the aforementioned gardens (under the conceit, you see, that she was a nymph who had been turned into a statue, it’s an Ovid thing). In Vancouver, we bought a used car, and rented a pretty nice apartment on the 10th floor of one of the swanky Sixties towers of the West End; with a peek-a-boo view of English Bay from the balcony. Making a reasonable salary, it became quickly apparent, is something a person can get used to. Our place was all white—walls, carpets, countertops. It was like living in cream cheese. 

In many ways, I had felt like a natural New Yorker. But they were not all good ways. I had been way too keen on the dive bars; way too comfortable in the pretentious galleries. Manhattan is of course an entirely artificial place anyway, a rocky outcropping flattened and tiled by Manifest Destiny. Even Central Park, that rectangle of Paradise, is fake. Point is, belonging there is belonging to a place that barely belongs. And that I could have done, and I would have been very good at it, but at some level I wanted to be better. Anyway, Gotham would always be there, like a city in a snow globe.

I settled into my job. My first course went well, and then the next several, and I turned back to my dissertation, with the professionally requisite goal of rewriting it to make it a book. We enjoyed our first summer back home, and then I turned to the next autumn term. C was approaching her third trimester. My first week back teaching came and went, and the second began. I did not have class Mondays, so I spent that day prepping, in our soft white apartment in the sky. I would be teaching Twelfth Night, again. I was looking forward to opening up Shakespeare’s tragicomic insight that art, in the broadest sense, becomes our lens on reality—whether we like it, or not. That is why, I was going to tell my students, momentous events always “look like a movie” to us. C and I of course were starring in a Lifetime Movie of our own. We were preparing to welcome our first baby; we were looking into buying our first house. That evening, we watched the inaugural episode of a silly new show called the Amazing Race, which followed good-looking young couples on a high-octane, international scavenger hunt, all around the world. Through Africa, Mexico, Pakistan they ran, handing out little American flags as they went. It was September 10th, 2001.

Endless

It is summer in my memories.

That surprises me, a bit. When I was a boy, the season of my life was autumn: New school year, sharp clothes, girls. While my own kids were small, it was spring: The promise of the buds, the excellence of the puddles. Maybe, when I’m old, I’ll have a head full of winter (though I sincerely hope not). Regardless, when I close my eyes, these days, and think about what has been, I see beaches and cabins, sand-castles and camping.

I see the Gulf Islands. They are a very, very special part of the warmer months in southern British Columbia. They lie in Georgia Strait, between the mainland and Vancouver Island—itself the size of Belgium, and a third as long as Japan. There are around 200 clumps of hills and forest in the Strait (which, I guess, must once have been called the Gulf), but only a dozen or so are inhabited, most of them served by the government-run car ferries that are a fixture of the local imagination. Each of the islands has its own character, but all partake in a mellow vibe, and a stunning topography. Waters clear, deep blue-green, exquisitely refreshing and sharply salt. Beaches that are partly pebbles, partly sand, and partly not beaches at all, but sandstone ledges where you lie warm over deep emerald dives. Seals and seagulls and, sometimes, orcas visit the islands’ slippery skirts. On their high, dry hillsides, and around here we savour the dry, hawks and eagles ride the updrafts in front of overwhelming vistas—as though you have just climbed the Alps, in time for a second Flood. And they eye you, those grim raptors, among the twisted trees, under the glassy sun, and above the shining archipelago.

I started this narration on Gabriola Island, which lies just north of Valdes, which lies just north of Galiano. All of those names sound Latin, and the last two are, like many on the BC coast: From Tofino to Quadra to Zeballos to Malaspina. They were named by, and for, officers of the Spanish navy, which explored and mapped our upper, upper, upper California in the early 1790s. But Gabriola is different. It is not an Iberian name or word, or any other kind (as far as anybody knows). Apparently, when the Mediterranean navigators of the oldest New World empire were casing the island, they saw large flocks of seagulls: Gaviota. That went on the chart they drew. In the course of copying, and translating, somebody’s pen slipped: “Gabriola.” It is an error, a one-off. Like the name we give my favourite tree, it is uniquely here.

Gabriola lies just opposite the small Vancouver Island city of Nanaimo. This is famous for its eponymous “bar,” i.e., confectionery, which is genuinely delectable, although this is not news, since it consists in a slab of chocolate on a slab of butter on a slab of cake. According to tradition, the Nanaimo Bar was invented for the same reason as the town: Coal. Discovered nearby in 1849, this brought settlement and wealth, and a population of exhausted miners in need of high-calorie comfort. As a matter of fact, the place that grew up to serve the mines was originally called Colvilletown—after a local grandee, who was really named Colville, but still, it sounds amazingly dumb, Coalcitycity. The native peoples of the area, some of whom had directed the British toward the highly accessible seams in the first place, called themselves, approximately, the “Sne-ny-mo.” That became the basis for the town’s better and abiding name.

There is disagreement about what it means. Possibly “big strong tribe,” possibly “collection of tribes.” This is quite typical of native place-names in Canada. Starting with “Canada.” The accepted theory is that Jacques Cartier, sailing up the St. Lawrence River in 1535, was told he was nearing a “kanata,” Iroquois for “village.” However, he may instead have been told, through another garbling of Spanish, that he was heading “aca nada”: Toward nothing. I think we are allowed to prefer the village. Cynthia’s mother was from Nanaimo, as mine from Squamish–on the mainland, up the coast, water-access only, in those days. Squamish means either “mother of the wind” or “people of the sacred waters.” Our mothers’ parents, of course, came from away—as they say in Newfoundland, uncreatively so named by John Cabot (Giovanni Cabote) in 1497, but not here: From Norway, Sweden, and England via Alberta.

Nowadays, in BC, names like Nanaimo and Squamish are rewritten. The city of the bar and the coal is correctly Snuneymuxw. The sawmill town, Sḵwx̱wú7mesh. These are transliterations, crafted by linguists to capture native phonemes—mouth sounds—that simply don’t exist in English. I can’t write how to pronounce them, because I just did. If you want to speak, you first have to learn the phonemic values that are arbitrarily assigned to the letters, numbers, and punctuation marks of the transliterative system. And then you have to pronounce the ones you don’t know how to. Obviously, very few people (who are not linguists) possess the ability to re-shape their mouths, and re-tune their ears, that far. For we are far too much at home in the language that we learned, when we first learned language at all: What we call, appropriately and beautifully, our mother tongue. So, around here, we still say Nanaimo, Squamish, Tswwassen, Kwantlen, Coquitlam, Kitsilano, Capilano, Skana, Hayak, Knickinick, Musqueam, Saanich, Semiahmoo, and so on. But now we are saying them wrong.

Our summer reaches well across September, and even toward October. Some years, I can harvest greens from my garden at (Canadian) Thanksgiving; some years, my hydrangeas and anenomes deny they will ever not be there. The rains are coming, and we know that, and even love that, but we cling to the fantasy of always getting another swim. Warm dry day follows warm dry day, as island follows island.

Is

Somehow or other, in the course of my life, I’ve become an English professor. I’m never quite sure how to feel about this. When I look at my kids, when I look at the state of the world–when I look at the whole question of knowledge–it seems like there are far more important jobs I could be doing. Yet I’m always brought back to the study of literature, by texts that make it seem more important than anything else. 

Here’s one:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove;
Oh no! It is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark
Whose worth’s unknown, athough his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Shakespeare’s sonnet number 116 (out of 154, which, let’s face it, is a lotta sonnets). I call it a coffee mug poem. That means you can buy it on coffee mugs. Also on posters, tea towels, Valentine’s cards, etc. It’s last year’s wedding song, if this year is 1610.

Evidently, sonnet 116 is a hymn to eternal love, and to love as eternal. Love doesn’t change, this poem says. No matter what. It’s like a transcendent landmark, or a star beaming out over the storm. Love doesn’t come down to the beauty of youth—rosy lips, and cheeks, and all that stuff. It isn’t even subject to time. There can’t be any “impediments” (obstacles) to this incredible force, insofar as it makes a “marriage of true minds.”

Wait—what? 

Do minds get married?

I mean, we shouldn’t get married without them. But we don’t get married with them. Bodies, not minds, are what take us to the altar. Or wherever else we hope to find love.

Erotic love, anyway. But even if we consider that other love—what Leonard Cohen calls “that brother love”—the point holds. Our buddies, our siblings, our parents—our children—we don’t just want them in our thoughts. We want them in our arms. Wanting them there is loving them; and loving them is wanting them there. Foolish? Maybe. Since we can only have them in time, and only for a time. But that, it seems, is love. 

Sure, says sonnet 116. But—if we think about it—what is that “wanting”? 

It’s a force. Beyond us, and before us. It sweeps through us; transforms us. We belong to it, not the other way around. 

Because we are physical beings, the love that moves us is physical. But the Love that does the moving is something else altogether. Don’t we feel this—don’t we know this—every time we love?

This is also why love can take so many different expressions. (I’m still ventriloquizing the poem.) It’s like a seal, or stamp, pressed into multiple inks. Love even takes different kinds of expression—two main kinds, as we’ve already noticed. One kind, erotic; the other, not. Indeed these two kinds of love are so different—so utterly antithetical—that if we see the one from the position of the other we may have to say, with Shakespeare, that that “love is not love.”

What?–wait.

That enigmatic, tantalizing, entirely illogical phrase. Hanging off the end of Shakespare’s second line, like a car dangling over a cliff. Sonnet 116 rushes on to its complex qualifications: it isn’t love if it changes, if it’s fleshly, superficial, etc. But for a moment, Shakespeare has advanced a definition in the form of a contradiction. Love is not love. 

The insight, the paradox, he’s wrestling with is an ancient one. In the Western tradition, it’s primarily associated with Platonic philosophy. Its classic statement, certainly known to Shakespeare, is Plato’s dialogue the Symposium (ca. 385 B.C.).

Like all Plato’s major works, the Symposium presents an imaginary conversation between real historical figures: prominent members of ancient Athenian society, from the generation just before Plato’s own. The star of the show, as usual, is Socrates—put to death in 399 for, allegedly, corrupting the youth of the city. Plato’s whole philosophical career, in text after text, dialogue after dialogue, shows Socrates, instead, teaching them: about language (the Phaedrus), cognition (the Meno), justice (the Republic), and so on. 

In the Symposium, the topic of the lesson is love.

Now, the ancient Greeks took bodies very seriously. All those rosy lips and cheeks (and stuff). When they saw a beautiful young man—and it is always men, in Plato—they didn’t tend to assume, as we might, that his physical gifts were just one item in a range of potential attributes. That is to say, the Greeks didn’t tend to think that a good-looking person might also, or even as a kind of compensation, be dumb, or cheap, or mean. Rather, they tended to assume that he would also be sweet and generous and brilliant. The Greeks saw physical form as reflecting the whole self. A beautiful body, to them, was a window on a beautiful soul. 

Plato’s Socrates is a carefully-constructed travesty of this assumption. Physically, he is ugly: shambling, misshapen, old. But he has such a radiant mind, and expresses such beautiful ideas, that he is thronged with admirers from the top echelon of the Athenian dating scene.

In the Symposium—the title means “drinking-party,” which is the scenario—Socrates has attracted a bona fide stalker in the person of Alcibiades. This person was a notorious celebrity of classical Athens. He was a super-handsome, super-macho, super-sexy military commander. An up-match beyond the wildest dreams of smelly old Socrates. But Alcibiades, arriving late at the party, and already quite drunk, has a surprising complaint. The shabby philosopher has rejected his advances. 

The superhunk tells a long tale of trying to close with Socrates sexually. He has sat, dewy-eyed, at his teacher’s feet, but no advantage taken. He has wrestled with his crush at the gymnasium—naked, and oiled, is how the Greeks did this—but no dice. Finally, the frustrated lover invites Socrates to dinner, plies him with wine, and talks until it is too late to send his guest home. They lie down to sleep—and the handsome host pours his heart out. In so many words: take me, I’m yours.

“Alcibiades,” Socrates answers him, “truly you must see in me some rare beauty of a kind infinitely higher than any which I see in you.” “Whereupon,” Alcibiades relates, 

I fancied that he was smitten, and that the words which I had uttered like arrows had wounded him, and so without waiting to hear more I got up, and throwing my coat about him crept under his threadbare cloak, as the time of year was winter, and there I lay during the whole night having this wonderful monster in my arms. … And yet, notwithstanding all, he was so superior to my solicitations, so contemptuous and derisive and disdainful of my beauty [that] nothing more happened, but in the morning when I awoke—let all the gods and goddesses be my witnesses!—I arose as from the couch of a father or an elder brother.

 All night, the he-man cuddles the man-monster. But all night, cuddling is as far as it goes. 

What has happened here (or, I guess, what has not) has nothing to do with Socrates’s sexual preferences. Rather, it has to do with his sexual philosophy. This he claims to have learned (intriguingly) from a wise old woman, named Diotima. 

The argument is very famous. According to Diotima, it’s natural to love what is beautiful. Natural, and good; you shouldn’t try fight it. But if you really think about what you’re loving, in a beautiful person, you will realize that it is actually and more accurately beauty, as a phenomenon, in that person. 

If that is so, the love can’t stop at the beloved—even though it has to start there. Love for a beautiful person has to be treated as the first step in a journey toward an encounter with love as it is; love in the abstract, love itself. 

“He who would proceed aright in this matter,” Socrates (quoting Diotima) tells his companions, “should begin in youth to visit beautiful forms”:

And soon he will of himself perceive that the beauty of one form is akin to the beauty of another; and then if beauty of form in general is his pursuit, how foolish would he be not to recognize that the beauty in every form is one and the same! … In the next stage he will consider that the beauty of the mind is more honourable than the beauty of the outward form. 

In the end, the student of love, in the school of Diotima, will come to perceive

a nature of wondrous beauty … absolute, separate, simple, and everlasting, which without diminution and without increase, or any change, is imparted to the ever-growing and perishing beauties of all other things. …  And the true order of going, or being led by another, to the things of love, is to begin from the beauties of earth and mount upwards for the sake of that other beauty.

This argument, this vision, is known as the Platonic “ladder of love.” It is certainly one of the most influential ideas in the history of the world. It means that loving another person is good—but that converting or (in Freud’s version) sublimating that love, redirecting it “upwards,” is better, much better. And this not as a matter of discipline or denial, but precisely as an attempt to honour and follow the impulse of love itself. From earthly, sexual, “lower” love—what the Greeks called eros— we are supposed to turn to “higher,” spiritual, celestial love: agapē. Love itself teaches us that it is not love. Agapē not eros.

The Platonic idea, 500 years after Socrates, fit seamlessly with the rise of Christianity. God is love, says St. John—but not in the way that Alcibiades would have meant, eros. Rather, the Christian deity, evidently another student of Diotima, is agapē. Or, in Latin: caritas.

The most beautiful Christian statement of this vision comes from St. Paul, in the thirteenth chapter of his first epistle to the faithful in the ancient Greek city of Corinth (for short, 1st Corinthians, 13). 

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,” Paul writes, “and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”

And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.

And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing.

Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Love never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. …

And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

The famous King James Version of this passage has the word “charity” in place of “love.” That’s because it’s very directly translating the Latin caritas; which translates the Greek agapē; which is love, as heavenly, and eternal. And that’s what love really is—how it really is—says Paul. His Christian restatement of the Platonic idea, even more than Shakespeare’s, is stunning, searing, thrilling.

And false. 

Love always fails. 

Doesn’t it?

Even if it is patient; even if it is kind; devoted to the truth, generous, all-enduring, greater than hope, greater even than faith—an astonishing position for a man of God, like Paul, to take!–love dies. Because we do. And this point is completely unaffected by the Christian belief, to which Paul is trying to persuade us, in eternal life. Proved by it, actually! For we precisely have to lose our loves in this life, if we are to regain them in the next.

Shakespeare knows this, you see. Sonnet 116 sounds great, in a Céline Dion, I-know-that-my-heart-will-go-oooon kind of way. But under just a little pressure, that treacly assertion starts to ooze. Love “alters not when it alteration finds.” It doesn’t change when it changes? What can this possibly mean? Love doesn’t “bend with the remover to remove”? What’s a “remover”? Nobody knows. As has often been noted, Shakespeare’s opening language about “impediments” is lifted straight from the Elizabethan marriage service. It’s from the part of the ceremony where the priest asks the congregation if they approve of the union. And what might they say, if they didn’t? Maybe something like “Oh no!”—which is what sonnet 116, at the beginning of its fifth line, exclaims.

In his concluding couplet, with a poker face, Shakespeare shows how absurdly high his poem has sets its stakes. If the neoPlatonic argument of sonnet 116 is wrong—“if this be error, and upon me proved”—then “I never writ, nor no man ever loved.” In other words, nobody has ever loved anybody—not really, they’ve all been doing it wrong—and, for good measure, the poet never wrote anything, including the poem we have just been reading. Now it is pretty clear, as we have just been noticing, that the argument of sonnet 116 is wrong. The agapē it describes, eternal and cosmic and abstract, is not love, as we experience it. And that means that Shakespeare has constructed a no-win situation. If we accept sonnet 116, then we have to accept that love (as we really experience it) is not love (in its true Platonic being). On the other hand, if we deny sonnet 116, then the poem cancels itself out—Shakespeare “never writ” it. And that means that the very statement we are wrestling with—“love is not love” never gets made.

And that means, remarkably, that we lose the opportunity for talking about the topic we thought we were talking about. “Love is not love”–the Platonic formula–is what invited us into this classroom.

Can we take it any farther? I’m not sure.

But I’m pretty sure that asking this kind of question is being an English professor.