In many places, Dorothy Tennov considers "romantic love" to be a synonym for limerence.

Limerence has been called “romantic love” as opposed to “real love” because to a vocal and often very articulate segment of the population it is unreal. But even when limerence is not believed in, or believed in only secretly, it still makes a good tale (Love and Limerence, p. 161)

Writers have been philosophizing, moralizing, and eulogizing on the subject of “erotic,” “passionate,” “romantic” love (i.e., limerence) since Plato (and surely long before that). (Love and Limerence, p. 172)

Also, for example, from the title of her collected works: "A Scientist Looks at Romantic Love and Calls It Limerence".

So in what sense does she mean "romantic love"? (And what does "romantic love" have to do with being "unreal"?)

Below is an abridged version (edited down) of a chapter in Love Sick: Love as a Mental Illness by Frank Tallis, who explains this type of definition of romantic love. In this type of definition, "romantic" love is contrasted with "practical" love.

This kind of typology is similar to passionate and companionate love, but it also describes a set of situations as well as attitudes and beliefs. The term "passionate love" generally only refers to a set of psychological components which most often occurs at the beginning of a relationship, or outside of a relationship.

Romantic love is also often used as a synonym for passionate love, and passionate love is often considered a synonym for limerence (list of sources), but this is not the sense in which Tennov seems to use the term. Tennov seems to use the term in reference to the literary tradition, and a "romantic" vs. "practical" typology. Tennov calls "practical" love affectional bonding.

In Love and Limerence, Tennov refers to many of the same authors as Tallis (such as Andreas Capellanus, whom Tennov credits as describing the state of limerence "very accurately"), but she doesn't do a good job of defining the concept of romantic love for anyone who isn't already familiar with it.

In contemporary research papers on love, authors do not use terms like "romantic love" in a consistent way and will typically define how they use terms inside their paper.

Incurable Romantics

The word 'romantic' is troubled by a long history. It is like an overworked canvas, the composition and brushwork of which cannot conceal the suggestion of earlier drafts. English dictionaries distinguish 'romantic' with several definitions, but in reality, such tidy divisions are misleading. When we use the word, these different meanings bleed into each other. To be romantically involves is an admission that carries a host of implications: passion, folly, obsession, anguish, recklessness, intrigue, and adventure; archetypes rise from varying depths and jostle with each other for recognition and influence.

As with any native tongue, we first speak the language of romantic love without being able to explain its grammar. The assumptions on which romantic love is predicated are buried in the unconscious mind, where they exert a powerful influence on our beliefs, attitudes, and expectations. We never pause to question their legitimacy. When a romantic hero decides he will sacrifice everything for love, no one will ask "Is she really worth it?" or "Can't he find someone else?" Romantic love has its own obscure logic which we all tacitly accept.

The roots of romantic love run deep. Indeed, the fundamental conventions of romantic love were consolidated on the ancestral plains of Africa, where evolutionary pressures determined that men should court women, that women should be coy, that relationships should be exclusive, and that love should storm the mind like a form of madness. However, since the rise of civilization, these features have been increasingly complicated by ideological factors. The roots of romantic love are profoundly deep, but, now, they are also hopelessly tangled.

To understand fully the concept of romantic love requires an examination of its cultural history (in addition to its evolutionary history). Yet, even a superficial study reveals an underlying raft of contradictions: burning desire is yoked to self-denial; the sacred and carnal are confused; misogyny and beatification coexist in an uneasy alliance; and life becomes inextricably linked with death. In the contrary universe of romantic love, it was inevitable that madness should become virtue.

The first 'romantic' songs were probably sung by the Arab Bedouin, rather than the wandering minstrels of Provence. The southern Arabs in particular enjoyed a form of poetry known as Udhri'. Typically, in Udhri' poetry, the beloved is idealized, but the desire for unions is denied, engendering melancholy and even madness.

During the middle ages, many anthologies were published, containing poems that examined love from a particular position or view. A very influential collection of this kind was The Masari al-'ushshaq', by the tenth-century poet as-Sarraj, which greatly promoted the idea that the consequences of romantic love were tragic. The word masari comes from an etymological root which has the connotation of 'throwing to the ground'. It is interesting that as-Sarraj described lovers who frequently fainted, fell down or lost consciousness. This same link — between love and falling — was of course also made by Palsgrave in the sixteenth century, when the term 'to fall in love' was introduced into the English language.

By the eleventh century, Islamic authors were writing love poetry on a much grander scale. In effect, they were composing 'poetical romances'. These extended works contain many narrative elements that appear later in Western medieval romances, and are the precursors of one of the most influential love stories ever written — the story of Layla and Majnun by the twelfth-century Persian poet Nizami.

The term majnun is derived from the word djinn, and is thus linked with the notion of possession by a supernatural agency; however, in this case, the demon is love itself, for the majnun — 'the demented one' or 'romantic fool' — is driven mad by love. In some of the earlier Arabic versions of the story, the link between love sickness and the supernatural is made explicit. Majnun cries: 'O doctor of the djinn, woe unto you, find me a cure, for the doctor of humans is helpless against my ill.' Once again, we are on the familiar rhetorical ground, where the impotent medical man serves only to underscore the divine or elemental provenance of love sickness.

Kais, the son of Sayyid (rule of a Bedouin tribe), sees the beautiful Layla for the first time at school. The young couple fall in love instantly, but cannot be together because of tribal custom. Kais is tormented by his desire for Layla, and separation drives him insane:

Having lost his heart, he now lost his mind. All he could do was wander around in a trance, extolling Layla's beauty and praising her virtues to everyone he met. The more people saw him and heard what he had to say, the more insane he appeared and the more bizarre became his behavior. And everywhere the stares and pointing fingers, the laughter and the derision, the cries of 'Here comes the madman, the majnun.'

Kais (thereafter referred to in the text as Majnun) cannot be cured. He spurs Bedouin society (preferring instead the company of animals) and wanders in the desert, where he becomes a kind of hermit or mystic. Although he seems incapable of listening to reason, he can spontaneously recite and sing love poetry of astonishing beauty.

Layla is forced to marry another young nobleman, Ibn Salaam, but she refuses to consummate the marriage, and, in time, Ibn Salaam dies of a broken heart. This is of little consequence to Layla, who is fated 'by the icy touch of life's most trying tribulations' to die.

On hearing of his beloved's death, Majnun rushes to her grave:

Majnun closed his eyes and lay down on Layla's grave, pressing his body against the earth with all that remained of his strength. His parched lips moved in silent prayer; then, with the words, 'Layla, my love . . .', his soul broke free and he was no more.

The tale ends with members of Layla's tribe and majnun's tribe weeping by the grave, where the two lovers have finally been united in death.

The story of Layla and Majnun contains almost all of the elements that were later claimed as the hallmarks of romantic or courtly literature: love at first sight, a love triangle, forbidden love, idealization, restless wandering, lack of consummation, and a tragic end in which the lovers die. Moreover, scenes from Layla and Majnun have surfaced in almost all of the great love stories written by Western authors. For example, the tribal gathering with which the tale ends anticipates the Montagues and Capulets renouncing enmity ad they weep over the bodies of Romeo and Juliet.

The Islamic courtly tradition was introduced into Western culture by the troubadours, whose poetry preserved many features of Arab mysticism — particularly, a quasi-religious praise of female beauty. However, as this theme reworked, it also began to change. Spiritual inaccessibility gradually evolved into alluring aloofness, which in turn became regal disdain (the latter reflecting a certain degree of misogyny). Thus, a recurring figure in troubadour poetry was the cold, cruel mistress.

The theme of inaccessibility was also explored in another way: the introduction of a female character, immensely desirable, but unavailable through marriage.

Even at this very early stage, the authenticity of love was being judged according to its difficulty (with respect to obstacles and impediments) and its irrationality. In troubadour poetry, we can recognize the cultural ancestry of modern concepts such as Lee's mania or Tennov's limerence: love that does not need liking — love that may even thrive in response to rejection or contempt. The troubadour's cruel mistress reappears again and again in literature in different guises: the enchantress, the femme fatale, the Belle Dame sans Merci. Long before psychologists began to study love in a systematic way, literature required a particular female type who would represent unhappy love.

The doctrine of romantic love (also known as courtezia or amour courtois) would have spread across Europe irrespective of royal patronage; however, the process was certainly accelerated by events at the court of Poitiers, where William IX is reputed to have been 'the first troubadour' (on account of having written the earliest surviving examples of courtly verse in the Provencal language). It was also at Poitiers that William's granddaughter, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and her daughter, Marie de Champagne, encouraged celebrated poets such as Bernard de Ventadour and Chretien de Troyes to compose works that exemplified courtly ideals. A narrative vehicle that was popular among the poets of Poitiers was Arthurian legend, which delivered a cast of characters whose relationships could be fully exploited to dramatize the frustrating dynamics of romantic love. Thus, Guinevere's beauty is beyond compare, and Lancelot — Arthur's most loyal servant — must fall hopelessly in love with the queen. (English readers are more familiar with this dynamic through Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur.) In the poetry of Chretien de Troyes, love — always complicated, but even more complicated by courtly conventions — is once again described as an illness: 'My illness is what I want. And my pain is my health . . . I suffer agreeably . . . I am sick with delight.'

One of the most extraordinary developments at Poitiers was the creation of an inner court - the Court of Love - where noblewomen would meet to pose questions about love and the proper conduct of lovers. Questions would then be disputed, juried and judged, according to the increasingly dogmatic principles of courtezia. Perhaps, in an effort to make the task of this inner court easier, Marie instructed a cleric, Andrew Capelanus (also known as Andrew the Chaplain), to write a formal book of statutes: a kind of lovers' charter.

Andrew began his task by consulting a classical authority - the Ars Amatoria (or Art of Love) by Ovid. It is difficult cult to imagine a more inappropriate work on which to base a 'respectable' canon. As with much to do with romantic love, history reveals cross-purposes, because for Ovid adoration is only a means to an end. Ovid adores, not because he can't help himself, but because by feigning adoration he is more likely to succeed in seduction. He is a cunning and manipulative strategist, who advises on everything thing from good 'chat-up' lines to how physical defects can be concealed by adopting special positions during intercourse. course. In an age of political correctness, he is still able to offend modern sensibilities. He recommends pretending to cry, making false promises, writing flattering verses (however insincere) and even coercion: 'Some force is permissible - women are often pleased by force.'

Ovid also advises the aspirant libertine to affect the symptoms of love sickness: 'All lovers should be pallid, it's chic to be pale;/ Only fools deny it, pale skins rarely fail.' Moreover, he observes that loss of appetite and worry 'make the young lover as thin as a rake'. Therefore, if wishing to attract the attention of women, one should: 'Look lean - it suggests passion.'

When Andrew Capelanus came to write his own work - The Art of Courtly Love - he did so by borrowing from Ovid. Thus, Ovid's cynical observations were used to shore up the romantic ideal. Love sickness - merely another weapon in Ovid's armamentarium - became fully established as a crucial sign of love's authenticity.

Capelanus described love as 'a certain inborn suffering' and suggested thirty-one rules of love. They include the following:

Rule 2. He who is not jealous cannot love.
Rule 9. No one can love unless he is impelled by the persuasion of love.
Rule 12. When made public love rarely endures.
Rule 14. The easy attainment of love makes it of little value; difficulty of attainment makes it prized.
Rule 15. Every lover regularly turns pale in the presence of his beloved.
Rule 16. When a lover suddenly catches sight of his beloved his heart palpitates.
Rule 20. A man in love is always fearful.
Rule 21. Real jealousy always increases the feeling of love.
Rule 22. Jealousy, and therefore love, are increased when one suspects his beloved.
Rule 30. A true lover is constantly and without intermission possessed by the thoughts of his beloved.

Love and mental illness were closely linked according to the principles of Hippocratic medicine; however, Capelanus's principles seem to do much the same thing. At Poitiers it was decided that love - if true - must be disturbed and slightly perverse; it must be obsessive, compulsive, agitated, anxious, jealous, suspicious, clandestine, and frustrating.

There is still some debate concerning to what extent Capelanus meant his rules to be taken seriously. It is possible that The Art of Courtly Love was meant to be satirical - but if so, its satirical content was lost on contemporary and subsequent generations. The Art of Courtly Love was never viewed as a critique. It was always viewed as a manifesto.

During the middle ages, romantic narrative's landscape of kings and queens, knights and ladies, heroism, bravery, destiny and magic became established in the Western imagination, and is familiar to children, appearing in numerous story-books. The idea of romantic love has penetrated so deep into our culture, that few people escape its influence before leaving the nursery. Unfortunately, a consequence of this is that many grow up assuming they will find fairy-tale happiness in the real world - an expectation that is rarely fulfilled. Moreover, it is curious that the main exemplars of courtly romance (which in a sense foster our fairy-tale aspirations) rarely end with a 'happy ever after', but with torment, tears and death.

The romantic themes of idealisation and forbidden (or non-consummated) 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 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.

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.

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 day 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.

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.

In the early 1990s, a group of social scientists undertook a large cross-cultural study, in which they interviewed students from the USA, Italy, and the People's Republic of China about a variety of emotional experiences, including happiness, fear, anger, sadness and love. When the study was completed, it was found that there was remarkable agreement concerning all of the emotions, but with one exception - love. American and European subjects rated love very positively, and equated it with other positive experiences like joy and happiness. The Chinese subjects, however, were much more doubtful. In the Chinese language there are very few ideographs that correspond with the more positive love-related related words found in English and Italian. Instead, love tends to be associated with more negative emotional states. For example, the Chinese subjects linked passionate love with ideographs which translate as 'infatuation', 'unrequited love', 'nostalgia' and 'sorrow'. When told of Western ideas about love, the Chinese subjects thought they were inaccurate and unrealistic.

These findings raise some interesting questions. Has the Western romantic tradition made us blind to love's madness? China has no equivalent tradition. In fact, during the Cultural Revolution, 'romantic love' was outlawed - considered by the communist elite to be a 'bourgeois' indulgence. Given this context, is it possible that the Chinese are better equipped to evaluate the pitfalls of passionate love? It would seem that for many Chinese students, they would as much want to fall in love as develop a psychiatric illness.

The ancient Greeks were troubled by passion - seeing it as a force that could easily overthrow reason and disturb the mind's equilibrium. In many respects, this view has been preserved in several Asian and Oriental cultures. To be romantic is to play with fire - the volatile, inner fire of Hippocratic and Islamic medicine. Although passion can be exciting, it is extremely unreliable - so unreliable, that Asian and Oriental cultures have rejected passion as the basis of marriage, subscribing instead to the more rational processes of 'arrangement'. The formation of a new family unit is considered to be of such great importance - not only to the bride, groom, their progeny and immediate family, but to the entire local community and wider society - that it cannot be based on love alone. There must be a deeper level of compatibility, embracing factors such as background, education and temperament, to ensure that the relationship will last.

For most people raised in the West, the concept of an arranged marriage - or policing love - seems distasteful, even repugnant. Yet, arranged marriage is practised by 60 per cent of the world's population - and approximately half of these couples claim that they stay together because of love (not romantic love, maybe, but something far more durable). In Britain and the US, where people still uphold the romantic ideal, nearly half of first marriages end in divorce, while those marriages that survive are often characterised by deep levels of dissatisfaction - particularly among women. The divorce rate for second and third marriages is even higher.

Love's madness usually strikes with the onset of adolescence. Subsequently, there is a high risk of pregnancy, impetuous marriage, or both. Statistics show that teenage marriages are very fragile, and a high percentage break down within only a few years. Teenage pregnancy (compared with pregnancy in early adulthood) is associated with premature birth, low birth weight, and death during childbirth. Teenage pregnancy also has social consequences. It will interrupt, or even terminate, a young woman's education, and the children of most teenage families are financially disadvantaged. The idea of risking everything for love is portrayed in the West as a noble undertaking, but subscribing to this doctrine frequently results in loneliness, hardship and poverty.

In stark contrast, the tradition of arranged marriage has a number of pragmatic advantages, rarely appreciated by dyed-in-the-wool romantics. The arranged marriage system is strongly associated with the idea of coercion, yet, in reality, Asian and Oriental cultures almost always allow the prospective bride and groom to exercise some choice, albeit limited. In India, the 'girl-seeing' ceremony has evolved specifically for this purpose. Typically, the young man's family will visit the young woman's family, and the young man is given a special seat. The young woman then enters the room, kneels, bows and leaves. Both are then in a position to decide whether they find each other attractive and wish to proceed further.

Although arranged marriages are treated with suspicion in the West, they represent a preference for many who have been raised in Asian and Eastern cultures. It is assumed that a 'good marriage' can only be achieved if couples are carefully fully matched, and then supported by their families. To base a marriage on passion is simply irresponsible, and likely to result in unhappiness. Surprisingly - for incurable romantics at least - contemporary research does not contradict this view.

Psychologists Paul Yelsma and Kuriakose Athappilly have studied relationship satisfaction levels of couples who married for love and those who married by arrangement. Those whose marriages were arranged show much higher levels of satisfaction than those who married for love. Other studies have produced a similar pattern of results.

Almost instinctively, the Occidental sensibility finds such results difficult to believe, but why shouldn't arranged marriages be superior to those that are based on a temporary madness? A long-term relationship - if it is to be happy - must be based on more than the tortured logic and inflated expectations of romantic idealism.

Romantic love springs from absurdities such as 'love at first sight'. It is preoccupied with superficial (and transient) characteristics such as physical beauty, and usually ends in confusion and frustration.

According to the Dalai Lama, meaningful, satisfying and lasting relationships are not based on romantic idealism, but on mutual understanding, respect and compassion. True love is not instant. Love that strikes like a bolt of lightning is almost certainly suspect, as are the whirlwind romances that are the staple of romantic fiction. In essence, the Dalai Lama suggests that a commitment based on deep friendship is more likely to outlast a commitment based on desire. In contrast to the storm-tossed seas of romanticism, he offers an attractive alternative of still waters and lotus flowers - the relationship as sanctuary, a retreat from madness, rather than a manifestation of madness.

Dating agencies are distinctly unromantic. They militate against all the basic assumptions of romantic love. Yet, they are responsible for bringing a large number of people together in relationships that seem to be very successful.

The idea of arrangement does not preclude falling in love. Indeed, in Asian and other Eastern societies, it is assumed that a couple will fall in love and become passionate - but after the marriage has taken place. Thus, couples can experience love's madness safely, but know that when it passes, they will still have a robust and healthy relationship. Dating agencies seem to offer the same kind of security; couples can engage in the dangerous high-wire act of falling in love, comfortable in the knowledge that there is a safety net in place.

Disaffection with the failure of romantic love was dramatically demonstrated recently by American psychologist Robert Epstein, who, in addition to holding several academic posts, is also the editor-in-chief of Psychology Today. Having considered the merits of arranged marriages, Epstein wondered whether it would be possible to rehabilitate the concept for Western consumption. Consequently, in the June 2002 issue, he argued against romantic assumptions, and suggested that it might be possible to learn to love any suitable partner. He proposed a programme to test his hypothesis: the signing of a six-month exclusivity contract (to obviate the problem of parallel dating); commitment to intensive joint-counselling sessions; frequent 'getaways'; and participation in exercises designed to foster mutual love. Epstein suggested that such a programme - credible to Westerners - might achieve the same result as the arranged marriage system: reliable, meaningful and enduring love. More daringly, Epstein volunteered to be the first subject in his own experiment.

He expected the article to have little impact; however, the subsequent response was overwhelming. It aroused enormous media interest, and Epstein received hundreds of letters, e-mails and telephone calls from women eager to sign his contract.

It would seem that romantic love - which promises heaven on earth - has ultimately delivered something closer to despair.

shiverypeaks

Monday, January 6, 2025

incurable romantics

Incurable Romantics

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