matter – or even of human bodies, but not what is man in human, the manic power of measuring – the mind itself. The mind can receive no truth but through the effort of analysis. To be moved so as to want to follow and do, the man must be fascinated.
We love because the poets taught us how. There are no two ways about this: romance was invented by poets – troubadours with their Gai Science affect and infect all men. We are all Don Quixote, not only the obvious descendents such as Madame Bovary, but every man and woman who cares for love picks up these words “love” “Roman Love” “desire, passion, lust, ecstasy” because the poems capture the beauty of them, invent the beauty rather, and inspire us to follow them in our own lives, to judge our own affairs, our own marriage, by these standards – as if they were something eternal and absolute. That is the great beautiful lie of the poet, and why poets are not philosophers, why beauty is not truth, because the poem tells you best what you desire to hear – though you didn’t know of this desire until it was spoken to you.
They all love, all the types. The heroic love is a love of works – “charity” – or more intimately, the kind deeds, working service, accepting a profession and supporting, defending, fighting for the beloved. And it also means making her work – for service also means enslaving others occasionally. One serves mankind best by making mankind also serve you – this they leave out of the catachism: “The greatest among you will sometimes be a servant of all, and just as often enslave others by charm and strength.”
The hero loves heroically, with brave fighting, or more likely, strong and passionate labor. The poet