Reading for the First Meeting — PREHISTORY

Reading for the First Meeting — PREHISTORY


For this first meeting, we are going to look at how humans understood themselves and their world in the period known as “pre-history”.

After all, when you think about it, this is the longest period of human existence, stretching hundreds of thousands of years… (Language and so-called “behavioral modernity” are thought to have emerged about 150,000 to 100,000 years ago.)

How did our early ancestors view themselves and the world around them?

What can we learn from their view?

That seems like a useful place to begin, doesn’t it?


I have put together a small packet of readings for this meeting, meant to provoke us.

In the packet you will find the following:

1. An excerpt from Georges Batailles “The Cradle of Humanity: Prehistoric Art and Culture”

The Cradle of Humanity

2. An excerpt from Malcolm Margolin’s The Way We Lived

The Way We Lived

3. An excerpt from Malcolm Margolin’s The Ohlone Way

The Ohlone Way

4. D.H. Lawrence’s poem “The Snake”


5. Francis Ponge’s poem “Horse”

News of the Universe

6. An excerpt from David Abram’s “Becoming Animal”

Becoming Animal


Some questions to reflect upon…

What is your own sense of separateness from, or communion with, other animals? Do you have a story to share?

How much of our sense of being different from, and even superior to, other animals is learned in your childhood? How much of it is true? Is this difference important to you?

When you consider animals do you think of them as inferior? Is it your “reason” that sets you apart? Or is it human “consciousness” (what is that anyway?)? Or is it your capacity for symbolic thinking? Or perhaps it’s just tribal loyalty — as a member of our vulnerable, nearly hairless, featherless bipedal primate tribe? (Fair enough, lions and wasps and all other living things probably feel this sort of tribal loyalty too, in some indescribable manner.)

Does accepting that you are an animal, and that your brain emerged, by way of adaptation over millions and millions of years, for certain terrestrial purposes and not others, make you think about the world differently?

A few more questions… 

What’s behind the appeal of the concept of “paleo” in the year 2014?

Why, for example, is the Paleo diet trendy right now? What is behind this current-day myth-making, harkening back to that life, prior to agriculture and society?

What does it make you feel to imagine the lives of our ancient ancestors and their very different world?

Reading for the Second Meeting — EPICUREANISM


The next meeting. Our second meeting.

For our first we looked at… where we come from.

For this one we’re going to look at… where we are going.


There really isn’t any question about where we are all going, is there?

Like a great play, life is filled with moments of grace and beauty, laughter and joy. Perplexing moral dilemmas. Daunting challenges overcome. We wouldn’t give it up for a second.

But in the end, life is — I am sorry to say it — not a comedy, folks.

Like The Orestialike Hamlet, like Lear our lives belong, unmistakably, to the literary genre of tragedy.


As much as we try not to think about it, we know it’s true: our lives are going to end in death — often bloody, usually painful. For everyone.

Damn it, but it’s true.


For this next meeting we are going to confront this head-on.

Death — the “undiscovered country,” as Shakespeare called it.

(Though as my son pointed out to me, it HAS been discovered — just nobody has ever reported back. Kind of like the Vikings finding America?)


How does it change things to know there is an end?

What does a person do with this life?


Please note that this month we are going to have our meeting on the second Thursday, November 13,  instead of third (due to a conflict for a lot of members in the group). I hope that is ok with everyone.

Our meeting will focus on the teachings of the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus, and the conflict between Epicureanism and the religious/supernatural outlook that opposes it (and triumphed — until now).


Epicurus (341 BC – 270 BC)

Epicurus is the first philosopher in the Western tradition to look at lived experience, as opposed to gods or spirits or immaterial ideals, as the proper guide to life.

Epicurus’ famous four points are:

1. There are no gods or other divine beings to influence your life — so don’t waste your time on them.

2. There is no after-life. Deal with it.

3. All that is important for a good life is already available to you.

4. All that is terrible in life, i.e. suffering, is not worth worrying about… since it is usually either chronic or intense, but not both.

In this month’s reading I have included:

  • The Epicurious Reader;
  • Some chapters from Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve about the re-discovery (in the 15th century) of a famous paean to Epicurus, “On the Nature of Things” by the Roman poet Lucretius;
  • Some excerpts from Lucretius’ “On the Nature of Things

I may post more over the next weeks. Also, please feel free to find your own additional readings and materials online or elsewhere.

Enjoy! See you on the 13th.



On Sunday morning, December 21, join our group as we celebrate the sunrise.

From this Sunday forward, as you surely know, our nights will shorten and our days will lengthen — well, at least until the Summer solstice in June.

For, as it happens every year, the axial tilt of our planet ensures that the Northern Hemisphere will begin to get increasing amounts of sunlight for the next six months. You can picture it this way: we are entering the part of our orbit in which the earth will be leaning in…

Go yellow dwarf star we call the “sun”! Go ball of iron and magma with a mantle and a crust we call the “earth”! Go repeating pattern of sunlight and shadow and all the carbon-based lifeforms dependent on it!

Including us. Wow it’s good to be alive.

Here’s the plan. Bundle your family in the brightest most rainbow-colored clothes you can find. Scarves, blankets, jackets, gloves, anything.

Get them in the car, while it’s still dark, and meet us at Inspiration Point in Tilden Park at 6:45 am. There is plenty of parking.

We will be walking out along the paved Nimitz Way at 6:50 SHARP. After about a 10-minute walk we will reach a rounded hill, where there is a small dirt/mud path leading to the crest. Bring shoes that can grip the earth, even when muddy. At the top we will have a view both to the East and the West.

At 7:21 will greet the rising sun, wonder at the clouds, watch the light catch the far-off waves of our dear Bay.

I plan on bringing a big Pete’s coffee, with milk and sugar, for grown-ups. I will also bring cups. (Or you can bring your own travel mug if you like.) Who can bring a big thermos of hot chocolate for kids? They will certainly deserve it. More than one may be needed.

See you on Sunday morn. Extra points for those who know why winter lasts another three months even though the days get longer… I

Reading for our Fourth Meeting — THE SCIENTIFIC REVOLUTION


So our next meeting is going to be on the stirrings of the Scientific Revolution in the late 16th and 17th centuries. We are going to focus on what this rise of science meant for our world and our way in it.

Science is alternatively portrayed as a threat, as an impersonal technical achievement, as the great engine of civilization, as our only possible salvation, etc., etc.

Which is it?

(No doubt, a lot depends upon which Arnold Schwarzenegger movie you happen to be watching at the time.)


We admire scientists who are friends.

We sometimes fear scientists we don’t know.



The way science is taught in the classroom can seem dull and repetitive, like following a recipe in a cookbook.

Yet sometimes even a brief exposure to an idea derived from science can lead us to stop everything and wonder about the nature of our very existence.

Is science just a method, a technique for acquiring practical knowledge? Or does it mean anything in itself?

What are the values it promotes?


What does science fail to capture about your lived experience?

What does science get wrong, despite all the evidence arrayed in its favor?


I am putting together a few readings to get us going for discussion. (Please feel fee to send your own suggestions in by email. Or bring them to the discussion.) I plan to keep adding to this as the day of our meeting approaches, so please keep checking back for more.

1. Excerpts from Scientific Method by Barry Gower (click on title for the chapters on Galileo and Bacon)

2. A sonnet by Edgar Allan Poe:

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
   Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
   Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
   Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
   Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
   And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
   Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

3. Another poem questioning the value of science, this one by Robinson Jeffers:

Man, introverted man, having crossed
In passage and but a little with the nature of things this latter
Has begot giants; but being taken up
Like a maniac with self-love and inward conflicts cannot manage
his hybrids.
Being used to deal with edgeless dreams,
Now he’s bred knives on nature turns them also inward: they
have thirsty points though.
His mind forebodes his own destruction;
Actaeon who saw the goddess naked among leaves and his hounds
tore him.
A little knowledge, a pebble from the shingle,
A drop from the oceans: who would have dreamed this infinitely
little too much?

4. Excerpts from The Scientific Revolution: A Brief History with Documents by Margaret C. Jacob. (I have included the introduction, which tells the story of the Scientific Revolution and puts Galileo and Bacon in context.)

5. Some brief excerpts from the The Cambridge Companion to Bacon, edited by Markku Peltonen

6. Excerpt from Francis Bacon From Magic to Science by Paolo Rossi

7. Excerpt form Time Reborn by Lee Smolin (read this for its interesting take on Galileo and Newton’s — and science’s — possible limitations)

8. Excerpt from Sympathetic Vibrations by K. C. Cole, on the “Sentimental Fruits of Science

9. Excerpt from The Silence of Animals by John Gray (questioning the role of science in contributing to “progress”)

Happy reading!


Reading for the Fifth Meeting — THE ENLIGHTENMENT


What do you see when you think of the Enlightenment?

For me, the word — capitalized so grandly — brings to mind a pleasing scene of a group of philosophes sitting outside a Parisian café in the sun.

Their wigs, of various hues, shine in the bright light.

They gesticulate wildly, laugh, slap one another on the backs, raise glasses of wine high, all the while dreaming up a new world.

I can see just see them, can’t you? Slender Voltaire with his wry smile…


Open-faced, balding Diderot, who tapped the intellects of his age to produce his great Encyclopédie


I see the incomparable Montesquieu writing The Spirit of the Laws, and so founding the science of anthropology. I see La Mettrie, penning Man a Machine, and so founding the science of neurobiology.

Then my mind leaps to England and Scotland, and I think of John Locke with his clear prose and unforgettable nose…


I think of the “Scottish Enlightenment” — which has been the most long-lasting — and, at the center of it, the great, fat genius of empiricism (and the philosopher who had the most profound impact on me when I read him at Oxford), David Hume. With his admirer and fellow empiricist Adam Smith not far off, tossing a silver coin in the air.

In literature I think of Swift, Pope, Laurence Stern.

And as an American I can’t leave out Franklin, Jefferson, Madison, Hamilton, the Federalist papers. For the Constitution was truly a product of the Enlightenment. It’s not only a work of brilliant political philosophy (influenced heavily by Locke and Montesquieu), but it’s a hands-on blueprint for the longest lasting experiment in representative government the world has ever known.

What images come to mind for you?


Rising above individuals now… to a higher level of abstraction… I see the light of Reason penetrating everything.

The world, opening up to human beings in a new way.

Now it can be examined naturalistically, through science and rationality.

Universal values emerge. Human rights. The abolition of slavery. Women’s rights. The shackles of religion, racism, dogmas of all kinds… finally thrown off!

Free now, to stand on our own feet, to use our own perception, our own minds.


Benjamin Franklin, braving a lightening storm to bring us light.

That all sounds good, no?


But there is another side to the Enlightnment, of course. (Some of you might have gotten there already as I was busy singing its praises?)


Elevating “reason” at the expense of emotion.



Giving birth to false utopias.

Advancing a cult of “objectivity.”

A dangerous ideology to support the Powers that Be.

Sweet-talking its way to Colonial rule over “primitive” peoples.

Destructive of the old, the intuitive, the unique, the weird, the wonderful, the intuitive, the paradoxical, the inexplicable.

Oh, and despite its claims of turning to nature… quite severed from the natural world.

In short, a dream turned nightmare.


I propose that we tackle this question head-on, don’t you?

Where do you stand? Where do you come out? What is the right use of reason? What threat do you think it poses?

Here are this month’s readings, for your consideration:

I thought we should start with two luminaries of the Enlightenment, as they explore the interaction of European values with other cultures, other lands. In this light (so to speak), I encourage you to read:

1. Denis Diderot’s Supplement to Bougainville’s ‘Voyage’ (click the title for the pdf), and

2. Voltaire’s Candide (you can find a copy, right?)

Both of these works can easily be found online in their French originals.

After that, we are going to turn our attention to the other side of the equation — that is, to critiques of the Enlightenment.

3. Isaiah Berlin, “The Counter-Enlightenment” from Against the Current.

4. Isaiah Berlin again, this time an excerpt from “The Decline of Utopian Ideas in the West” from The Crooked Timber of Humanity.

5. Excerpts from The Disenchantment of Secular Discourse by Steven D. Smith.

Again, you can click directly on the titles of all except Candide to get the pdfs.

Let me know if you have any trouble.


Remember, make it personal as you read.

And as always, please feel free to write in with other suggestions or questions or comments.

Happy reading and reflecting. See you on the 5th!

Reading for Our Sixth Meeting — LOVE

FRIDAY, MARCH 13, 2015

Well, for our next meeting we are going to take a very different tack. Instead of traveling farther along the chronology we have been following so far (the course of non-supernatural thought through the centuries), this month we will be looking at a force that dominates everybody’s lives, in all ages: love. One of the core principles in the major religious traditions is the aspiration towards love (for “God,” for one’s in-group, for nature, for the poor). It is certainly central to all of our lives, even for those of us who stand outside of any religious tradition. Yet in everyday life, talking of love often makes us… uneasy. Sure we can laugh about how much we adore our children. There are weddings, anniversaries, funerals, when it is acceptable to talk openly of love. You might end a phone conversation with a quick “I love you.” But in most conversations — those not directed to our parents, our children, or to our cats or dogs — we tend to shy away from it. Our discussions of character and moral dilemmas and politics are oddly emptied out of references to love. How about re-claiming this word for non-supernatualists like ourselves? Can’t we meet and talk of love without feeling squeamish? Can’t we talk about what loves means to us, how we recognize it? How we try to love more deeply, more truly, better? Can’t we too share stories of our varied experiences of love, and how these experiences have changed or transformed or been redirected over time? This meeting is our chance to start. I will be posting readings over the next month. As I do I will put them up for you in pdf form here. All suggestions welcome! Tom — To start us off, I give you the final of Shakespeare’s sonnets:

The little Love-god lying once asleep Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keep Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d; And so the general of hot desire Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm’d. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy For men diseased; but I, my mistress’ thrall, Came there for cure, and this by that I prove, Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.

“Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.” Certainly the neurochemical cocktail called “romantic love” is not necessarily the only — or even the most life-changing — form of love that we experience. But I think this sonnet is a good place to start because its memorable last line captures, I think, the triumphant and terrifying power of love over lived experience. Contrary to all known laws of thermodynamics, love’s fire heats water… water cools not love. In the case of love, a purely subjective state overwhelms the objective world. Everything is inverted. Everything is loop de looped. How lucky we are that this is true! * A poem by William Blake:

Never seek to tell thy love Never seek to tell thy love Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears– Ah, she doth depart. Soon as she was gone from me A traveller came by Silently, invisibly– O, was no deny.

* A short story from George Saunders, “Escape from Spiderhead.” At first it may seem a strange selection for our discussion on love, but I think you will find that it raises a lot of questions about the nature of love, and different kinds of love, and what they matter to us. I found it quite powerful. I hope you do too. It was published in the New Yorker (and it’s now part of his latest collection of stories, Tenth of December. Here’s the link: * A fragment of a poem by Saphho:

Asleep against the breasts of a friend.

* Another short story, this time by James Lasdun. It was in this March’s Paris Review. I thought it was wonderful, and it raises many questions about different kinds of love, and the role of love in our lives. It’s called Feathered Glory. (Click on the title for the pdf!)

* One more — a short story by Tove Jansson (actually it is a chapter in her novel, Fair Play, but it reads as a distinct story). Tove Jansson is famous for the Moomin books, which she wrote for children, but she wrote adult novels too. This brief and gentle chapter is a good counterpoint, I think, to our usual assumptions about love. Here’s the pdf: Fireworks.

Five Kinds of Love


Here goes.

To get us started.

Don’t laugh!


First, as I am sure you will agree, when taking on such a difficult subject we will need to get our terms straight…

What is “love,” anyway?


I want to draw our group’s attention to five different, widely-shared human experiences – all confusingly grouped together under the one word “love.”

(See what you think I have left out.)

1. First there is, of course, romantic love.

Let’s call this Eros.

This is the love that we talk about when we talk of “falling in love” with someone.

Think Danté and Beatrice, Tristan und Isolde, Romeo and Juliet… Scott and Zelda… I don’t know… The Captain and Maria?… Danny and Sandy?

Popular culture is rife with examples… You know this one: the unquenchable fire, etc. etc.

It is often, though not always, short-lived.

2. Second, there is the love of parents for their children.

This kind of Parental Love often has an intensity comparable to that of “Eros,” but with a difference…

Where Eros is blinding, dizzying, intoxicating, Parental Love is steady, protective, adoring, demanding.

It is not thought to be as subject to the vicissitudes of time. (On the contrary, the challenge for parents, they are often told, is the letting go!)

3. Third, there is the love we can potentially feel for all of our fellow human beings, even for strangers. In the Christian tradition this is referred to as “agape ” or “caritas.”

In the Buddhist tradition it is sometimes rendered lovingkindness.

Let’s call this Compassion.

4. Then, fourth, there is the love between monogamous married people, longtime partners, grown children and their parents, and often, close friends.

This is sometimes called “companianate love,” but for our purposes I prefer to call it, simply, Commitment.

5. And finally, there is the love we have for the non-human world around us: other animals, as well as flowers, plants, trees, rocks, waves, seas, all living things and even particular places (the concept of a “God,” as the symbol or embodiment of these things, comes in here too).

We often discover this form of love through our work or other daily practices, and our consequent attention to details as we acquire knowledge and skills.

This is a kind of love too, and I think it should be included in our discussion. I propose that we call this love Reverence.

These five types of love, then – Eros, Family, Compassion, Commitment and Reverence – will be what I am talking about in the thoughts that follow.

They often overlap. They sometimes stand apart.

They even stand sometimes in opposition!

But these five types of love constitute, I believe, the core of our deepest experiences in life.

Okay. With those terms cleared up, I will talk a little bit about each in turn…



So. At least five forms of love. (Did you want to add one or more? Please do in the comments!)

1. Eros →

2. Parental Love →

3. Compassion →

4. Commitment →


5. Reverence →

But there’s only one love that leaps to mind when we think of… well, when we think of lovers.

The one that all but consumes us when we are young.

Golly Miss Molly Great Balls of Fire!

Come on baby light my fire!

Just a hunk – a hunk – a burning love!

This is the One that Lies in Wait. This is the one that… if you try to shake it, dodge it, own it, best it, subdue it, suppress it—it will take you down.

The ecstatic one.

The violent one.

Eternal font of inspiration. Dependable source of humiliation. Elixir of our lives. Bane of our existence.

Uncontrollable. Unpredictable.

Or as we know Shakespeare put it, in the final line of all the sonnets: “Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love…”

You guessed it: Eros.


The thing is: one thing we do know, if we know nothing else about the experience, is that Eros often triggers a condition of… weakness and vulnerability.

Weak in the knees.

Laid low.

Gone loopy.

Soft on her.

Soft on him.

Even our common expressions for the state of “being in love” in English reflect this.

And this is not a condition that is warmly welcomed in the larger culture.

So… it makes sense that we feel a little squeamish talking openly about it in any semi-public setting.

(Do you? I do.)

It’s understandable that as we grow older we focus our energies on other aspects of our lives (the challenges of work, the pursuit of pleasure, our daily efforts at earning respect, doing what we consider “good”… to name a few).


But let’s not shy away from it.

What is Eros? How does it arrive in our lives?

Our culture teaches us that same story in many different forms: in fairy tales, of course, but also in poetry of all ages, in plays, in the awkward rhymes on Hallmark cards, in all those sappy Hollywood movies, good and bad, in ads on TV, in almost every pop song ever written.

…a burning love…

When a maaaan needs a womaaaan….

If not for yooouu, babe, I couldn’t find the door, couldn’t even see the floor…

They all make it sound very, very cosmic.

It gets fuzzier, though, when you actually fall in love.

For, as most of us learn over time, the experience of falling in love, as lived, is more complicated than that.

Most people’s early romances have plenty of passion, astonishing coincidences, kisses in the moonlight. But then… in most cases, after a while, they sour, don’t they?

Some end in recriminations or regrets. Some end in astonishment that we ever cared.

Sure, some mellow gradually into friendships. But most deteriorate surprisingly fast: when they go, they go.

(Honestly now, how many of your exes are you friends with now? A couple, at best?)


Looking back, we see that the element of lust was hard to disentangle from the elements of devotion.

More than that, when we reflect back on our early relationships, the feeling of fantasy, of some kind of ego-projection of the relationship you thought you should be having but not the one you actually wanted, haunts many of our memories of how we conducted ourselves.

If you are anything like me then you found that each time, when the fantasy grew unsustainable, when the edges started to brown… all those romantic gestures, those unspoken rules of a proto-commitment (the obligatory tender kiss good-bye, the endless making of plans), quickly became a nuisance.

I found with every break-up, mixed with the sadness, a feeling of relief too.

Remember that?

At last, you said to yourself as he gave you that last hug, got in his car and drove away. Done with that charade!

That old cosmic feeling faded every time.


So what in the end is Eros, then?

Is the whole thing a fraud?

Is it, at best, merely a passing neurochemical trance, triggered by what is actually a trivial assessment of looks or smells or other available resources?

What’s going on?


What Eros is, I humbly submit to you, is, pure and simple, a feeling.

Not much else.

But that’s a lot, actually!


What’s the point of a feeling?

I am convinced that Eros is a transitional experience.

It is not about knowing someone else intimately. In fact, not knowing the lover all that well is an essential part of it.

Romeo hardly spoke with Juliet, but we get it: he’s in love.

Shakespeare again: “Whoever loved that loved not at first sight?” (that one’s from As You Like It).

There is a flash, the proverbial bolt from the blue, and we fixate on this one person.


Why would we do this?

Evolutionary biologists will point out that each human being, being a carrier for a particular set of DNA, needs to replicate that DNA by a union with another.

This union, to be achieved despite the nuisances and distractions caused by the company of others, simply cannot be based on a rolling calculus of this person’s… favorability.

I mean none of us is all that, when you get down to it!

So it has been suggested that this process is more effective if there is a precognitive, non-rational basis for the bond between two people making babies. Otherwise it would be just too unstable.

Hence: love.


I tend to buy that explanation.

It certainly feels hapless and uncontrollable, falling in love. It feels as if forces are acting on our will, forces that are only marginally concerned with our own welfare – as a whole person – and are more concerned with a fervent urge to reproduce so as to promulgate a particular DNA sequence.

Water cools not love; love heats water!

You can’t apply the water of human reason, consideration, thinking, to the raging fire of Eros, and expect to master it.

It doesn’t have much to do with you – “you” is merely a shell here, something tossed about by the force of nature.


Of the five forms of love that I mentioned at the beginning, therefore, I think that Eros deserves the least sustained thinking and mulling over, oddly.

Don’t get me wrong. It is a ravishing experience for anybody presently having it– worthy of poems, worthy of art, of song. Thank god for Aprhodite.

It is overwhelming, uncontrollable. It it is ubiquitous. It is hugely determinative of the paths we take in relationships.

Yet it is also, ultimately, somewhat easy to dismiss, somewhat laughable even, because… well, because it burns out.

The crazy neurochemical bonding often remains even after a relationship ends – a neural network linked deep to the limbic brain. But whether or not the relationship goes on or not, this bonding will remain somewhat static, once it is it achieved.

After all, ecstasy cannot be improved upon, can it?

Hence this kind of love becomes more and more irrelevant as time goes on.


You’ve got the breathless head-over-heals feeling? Good! Still there? Good! Let’s hope it lasts a long, long time…

Will this determine whether the relationship works?

Not really that much, I think.


In other words, it definitely isn’t cosmic. It’s quite the opposite.

It is, seen plainly, a very earthly, very material thing:

What is Eros?

It is the beginning of a relationship.

Now the fun is really about to start!


Parental Love


How could I say those disparaging things about Eros, about romantic love, Tom?

It is tremendously important to the people in it! It’s life and death! Have you not watched Pride and Prejudice? Have you not read The Sorrows of Young Werther? Have you never listened to Lionel Richie?

Yes, yes.

I get it. It works!

People come careening off of the high of the first 3 weeks or so of a dizzying love affair, and that makes them bear down and endure the next 6 months of “getting to know each other.”

And that 6 months, or two years, or three years, what have you, can make them prepared to raise babies together and to create a stable home for an extended period.

Without Eros where would we be? …A bunch of lonely hipsters sipping coffee at Philz, doing crossword puzzles, something like that.


Let me say it again: GO FOR IT. Enjoy Eros to the hilt.

But don’t worry too much about it.


Oh, and when you have enjoyed romantic love” to the hilt” for a while, funny how it happens about nine months later, you may experience a new kind of passion…

Parental love.

The thing about this love you feel for your children – it is not anticipated by anything in your life.

It hits you like a piano falling from the sky. Crunch! Tinkle! Twaaang!

One day you are a person with wishes, dreams, opinions, habits – and then – CRASH – you are a protector of your little ones.

This is what Eros hath wrought.

Farewell Eros!

Welcome, milk and diapers.


You thought falling in love was bad. This is the one that really gets under your skin.

It commands you.

It surges through you when you look at your babies, sleeping in their cribs, curled up in your arms, crawling or waddling across the room for a Cheerio or to pet a gray kitten or to grab a tipped-over bottle or to fall into your outstretched arms again, pressed against your chest.

It is a passion, like Eros. Sure. But it is usually a more lasting one, and it has its own qualities.

I am wondering if you will agree with this… But for me, being Dad has meant, above all else – from the beginning – a constant alternation between two opposing states: exaltation and worry.


The exaltation part is easy.

Whenever I so much as look at my children, from each of their births up to today, I feel it. (Parents, you know what I am talking about.) I can’t help it: I look at my children and I am convinced… they are perfect!

Absolutely perfect! They might frustrate me, fuss, whine, spill their drinks, break a window, forget their manners, but all of that is superficial. Underneath, I remain convinced that everything about each of them is exactly as it should be in the best of all possible worlds.

This was a new experience.

Things are never supposed to be perfect!

“Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing was ever made,” right? (Originally a line from Immanuel Kant, appropriated by our old friend Isaiah Berlin)

So it came as a surprise to discover that, when you become a mom or a dad, there is something that strikes you as perfect in this world after all.

I hadn’t thought that was possible. But then, I hadn’t had children yet.


And the opposite? The worry part?

Unfortunately, this part is easy too. For me it began right away, from the first minutes of my first child George’s life outside the womb, right through Cole’s and Adeline’s births to the present.

What if he falls and hits his head?

How can I keep her warm?

What if I don’t do the right things as a parent?

Where should they go to school? What if others are cruel to them? Are they eating the right food to get the nourishment they need? Should we be putting them to sleep earlier?

Why doesn’t her fever go down?

Is that cough the beginning of the croup?

It is endless.

As all parents do, though, Renée and I soon learned to carry on, despite our worries.

We even learned to mute that exaltation part on occasion, so as not to annoy our friends more than we could help (an all-important skill for any new parents: training yourself to shut up, on occasion, about your own children!).

My outlook on life, which had been so caught up in what I wanted to achieve, shifted immediately upon becoming a dad.

The central question of my and Renée’s life became:

What is best for our babies?


But Parental love is not merely an alternating effusion of tenderness… and concern, adoration… and terror, exaltation… and worry.

As any parent soon learns, it involves boundary-setting, rules, discipline – in short, it involves the setting down of values, the use of frames of reference, the imposition of some kind of order, to all the blooming, buzzing confusion of everyday life.

When you express disapproval for a child’s rude tone, when you take away the driving privileges of a teenager who spent a weekend binge-drinking with friends, when you have a tearful talk about how you, as the parent, or she, as your child, or both of you, may have overreacted and your need to apologize – all of these actions are grounded in a set of largely unchanging (though constantly revised) values that trump the effusions of feeling.

So Parental love, we might say, unlike Eros, is as I see it, a commitment to an ongoing process.


This is not to say that the rewards aren’t huge. That you don’t have moment of supreme satisfaction and dizzy joy in your children’s company.

But the interface of your Parental love with everyday obligations is – it seems to me – notably different from that of Romantic love.

It is something akin to a long, nuanced code, a collaborative work by the parents (or any other responsible adults involved), with actions and consequences dictated by changing circumstances as you age, but constraints written into the programming.

And this code, if read properly, tells much about who you are as a person (not only what you do as a parent).


What can the contrast of Eros and Parental love reveal to us about the nature of love?

Is it even useful to compare them, considering how different their expression is?

I think so.

First, the similarities…

They both, obviously, release enormous reserves of passion and emotion and dedication.

The lover can perch under her window, all night, hoping for a glimpse of his beloved on the balcony.

The parent can sit at the side of a child, all night, applying damp washcloths to his head.

But there are obvious differences too…

Whereas one is a wild ride, a heart-throbbing trance, damn the consequences – the other is a drawn-out act of devotion and service, informed by clear values. (Well, in theory – though on a day to day basis it too feels like a wild ride.)

This progression is a natural one, as we age.

But I believe that it is significant; my sense is that it represents a progression from the springs, the waterfall, the source, to the thing itself, the river.


Parental love, I want to suggest to you therefore, is a kind of preparation.

We are – it seems to me – learning, through our acts of devotion to our children, what it is to love more deeply.

We are learning that love is not simply a feeling. That it is not a single gesture.

It is a sequence of actions over time.

It is a modulation. It is us, in time, interacting with the world around us, grounded in our deepest estimation of what matters in that world.

(Is this true, this progression that I am perceiving? Or this just a crackpot valuation, based on my own psychological needs as a dad? Do the different forms of “love” really have different depths? Again, I am going to rely on you all to challenge me on all this.)



So we started with love for another human being, specifically.

And now we have arrived at the third form of love in my breakdown: love for all human beings, generally.

How do we get from one… to the other?


This one, the awakening of compassion, is the most widely venerated and celebrated form of love in the world, perhaps.

This is the one that Buddha awakened to. The one that Jesus preached. That Saints emulate. That Gandhi showed.

Love for a stranger, uncaused, unprompted, unprovoked, naturally occurring.

We all bow down to it.

(Well, except some hard-core libertarians, I guess? Rand Paul, Paul Ryan, do you want to comment?)


Let’s conjure some examples in our minds.

The Good Samaritan stopping to give aid and comfort.

The stranger giving mouth-to-mouth to a near-drowned child.

The neighbor stopping by with a casserole, a fresh peach pie, an electric drill.

The congregation praying. The doctor healing with a hug. The driver stopping to give a homeless man a blanket.

The soldier, rescuing an injured enemy from the battlefield.

The love that needs not specificity.

The love that is powerful for the very reason that it is not specific.



The first thing to remark about compassion is that it is… highly unreliable.

Sometimes we can experience it, access it, without trouble.

Watching some play or movie full of strong sentiment, Schindler’s List or the like, we want to bolt out of our seats to help. We want to defy the authorities that be and risk our lives in helping someone else. At these times we are all but compelled by emotions, and an unusually clear narrative.

What about the other times, though? What about the times when we are late for work, fixated on a deadline, feeling grouchy, just about to run out of fuel, stressed about our own finances?

What about when the person is annoying, or disgusting, or odd?

What about when we know we will be dragged in to another family’s drama, a friend’s relationship?

In those times, unless we are a saint, then — we have to admit it, don’t we? — we may very well want to keep walking, live and let live, narrow our focus.

What, then, is the importance of this form of love we are calling compassion, if it is so unreliable?

And why should we have celebrate it, venerate it, consider it, anyway?


In some religious traditions there is a command from God to love other people. In others, there is a belief in some kind of unity, some divine Oneness, which leads humans to care for one another.

Even in secular thinking, as it has emerged over the past two centuries, there are fundamental precepts that protect the dignity of all human beings and the sanctity of all life. These have, in many cases, been inherited from religion but then stripped of God-references. Often they are grounded, instead, in some kind mix of Natural Law theory and Utilitarian ethics – the unexamined, hand-me-down moral presumptions of our contemporary culture.

But when you look at ourselves more accurately, of course, as the products of evolution, a particular species of nearly hairless, bipedal primates, who evolved over time to have quite complicated methods of manipulating symbols and the material world around us for purposes of survival – well, you start to wonder where compassion falls into this.

A person might privately wonder:

Is it really so useful for me?

Should I bother to aspire to it anyway, if it so arbitrary and unreliable – and often so hypocritical?


The obvious, first-line response to this is that we do – each of us – have an interest in survival of our gene pool through community defense.

There may have been a process of natural selection that favored those homo sapiens who were willing to share their resources, on occasion, with others, even, on occasion, sacrifice for others. These genes – and these tendencies – may have survived more assaults, diseases, and other catastrophic events and threats, through the millennia. (The scientist and writer E.O. Wilson, for one, is a vocal proponent of this point of view. Others dispute it.)


Yet, even if this were true, that compassion and self-sacrifice and altruism fulfill some evolutionary function (in replicating our DNA), why should we practice compassion now?

Knowing now, in the light of modern science and knowledge of the universe, that there is no dictate from God (at least, we can all agree, there is no evidence in support of such a hypothesis), then what is our relationship with compassion?

Should we foster it? Nurture it? Continue to venerate and celebrate it?


Studies show that everyone’s compassion has definite limits. We are more inclined to send money in response to an ad with the image of a single African child with a hair-lip, rather than a large group of children with hair-lips. Advertising campaigns for non-profits know this.

Our brains seem designed for personal, face-to-face compassion. Oddly, as the numbers get larger – 10, 10,000, 1,000,000 – our compassion is reduced rather than increased!

Also we have a remarkable tendency to feel compassion for people who look like us. If we consider someone “one of us” we tend to care for his or her welfare more than if we… other them.

These may be familiar quirks of the human brain. But they are significant for our discussion, because they indicate to us that our compassion may very well be merely a neurochemically induced adaptive behavior…

Again: why should we care?


I want to argue that, just as for Parental Love, the form of love that we call Compassion is – in its best form – not merely a reactive experience.

The sensations of empathy and moral righteousness that we watch when we see a stirring movie, or that prompt us to send money to a cause based on a photo of a child with an unfortunate birth defect – these are more feelings than true compassion. They represent a neurochemical surge, a habit of the mind, an evolutionary gambit by our genes.

Nothing wrong with that at all. We all enjoy feelings of empathy and moral righteousness – I do… Don’t you?

Still, let’s be honest.


When we talk about the love of the form of Compassion, I believe that we are more accurate if we talk about it in terms of a series of underlying commitments.

We choose certain commitments, in this case about the larger world that we want to live in, and then we act on them.

For me, one commitment I am making is that the world I want to live in has a default position of concern and care for each individual. Even strangers to me.

There are times, no doubt, when this is trumped by other considerations, such as emergency conditions, threats to my own immediate family and close friends, or even a persistent lack of efficacy, when weighed against the costs to other aspects of life. But these exceptions don’t delegitimize the default position.


There are aspects of my experience that lead me to experience compassion…

Coming as I do from a resource-rich country, when I look at the global distribution of resources and opportunities, I am willing to subscribe to a basic world-wide safety net, through aid programs and the like, even though it will impact my personal resources.

Or another: I want the political framework of my own country to reflect the value and dignity and life of each person individually – as we do under the Due Process clause of the 14th Amendment for example, or the Bill of Rights.

When I can, I want to donate my money or time to reliable groups serving those who are poor or otherwise hurting.


At the same time, if I am honest then I have to recognize that there are limits to my compassion.

I do not drain my bank account by thousands of dollars to send my resources to, say, victims of the international sex trade, or tsunami victims, or struggling farmers in Somalia. (Even though I have a feeling that I would like to do more.)

The brutal truth is that, in these cases, I don’t calculate that my dollars and resources will effect enough of a change to compensate for the loss of opportunity and pleasure for myself and my own family.

There is no doubt, that to each of those victims and recipients, my generosity would certainly compensate for the marginal loss of utility I would experience. But not to me!

In other words, there is, sadly, a limit to my compassion.

I would guess that it is a limit to yours as well?

If we didn’t have these limits, we would be spending every waking hour working on the behalf of defenseless and abused children, wouldn’t we? (Is there something we should be doing instead of that on grounds of compassion? I don’t think there is.)


So what am I saying?

Do we love too little? Are we too uncharitable?

That’s not what I am saying. No.

My point is that each of us has made commitments – some of which we would die for.

If the government of the United States began rounding up the poor or homeless, we would, I am confident, form a militia and go into rebellion – at the risk of our lives, even if we face no threat ourselves.

We are committed to a basic vision of how we want the world to look, filled with concern and care for others.

But our vision has limits. This is unreasonable only if you think that this world is perfectible. Only if you think that we could have an agreed-upon distribution of resources ensuring everyone’s happiness.

I suspect that the key to this form of love (as in all love, ultimately?) is the tragic sense, knowing the limits: i.e., sadness.

Once we recognize that the world is tragic, that there are always costs and benefits, trade-offs, compromises, irreconcilables, then we can accept love as it really is: a hodge-podge, a compromise itself, but a glorious one.


The strictures of the world’s religion were certainly helpful for many millennia.

They had a downside too though: they often inspired us/them thinking, ingroup/outgroup mentalities, stubbornly perfectionist thinking and its attendant moral guilt and confusion. (Not to mention they encouraged habits of looking for absolute certainty and respecting lies and disregarding evidence…)

When we get clearer about the nature of compassion, then we see that this form of love may be amazing, may bring tears to our eyes… But at the same time it is inextricably human, the experience of one particular nearly hairless bipedal species of primate on one planet.

Keeping both aspects of compassion in mind clears our vision, makes us more capable of loving this way.

We aren’t as sanctimonious. We aren’t as hypocritical. Neither are we as paralyzed by indecision.


So, the way I see it anyway, the question for this kind of love is not: How can I care for all of humankind?

Or: How can I get a strong emotional hit from Doing Good today?

No, the question is more modest, something along the lines of: Who needs my help today, to the extent I can give it?

Or: What am I willing to do that, even considering the cost is worth it, because it is how I want the world to look?


Sympathy is part of this, but only part. More important, it seems to me, is whether we have gotten clear about our underlying priorities. This is what makes compassion an act of love and not simply a one-off, a gesture, a mere feeling.


I want to reemphasize, though, that I don’t think there is anything wrong with feelings.

They are the core drivers of what we do. They are the basis of reason, in fact – contrary to most people’s dualistic way of thinking.

It’s just that love is, I think, not merely a bunch of feelings – it is not a quiver of emotion-tipped arrows, ready to shoot at a given target (a date in the candlelight, your new-born child, a refugee from a war-zone).

It is – is it? – so much more than that.

Which brings us to the most important one, in my estimation…



What do we mean, in practical terms, if we say that we are trying to love more deeply?

So far, we have looked at three forms of love: Eros, Parental Love and Compassion.

As we progressed from Eros – pure passion – to…

Parental Love, which, although passionate, requires clear values and unyielding attention over a lifetime – to…

Compassion, which, if meaningful, must be based on an underlying moral outlook, willing to stake claims and make distinctions…

We have seen these streams meet, and our idea of love has deepened along the way.

To love more deeply (I have said too many times already) is not merely about feeling more deeply.

My point is that loving more deeply is, surprisingly, weirdly, wonderfully, about getting clear on values.

It is, in fact, living.


Now we come to the deep, dark channel, the one I am listing (quite arbitrarily, I know) as the fourth kind of love.

This one underlies the others, I think; it absorbs them.

It is lined with green life, with tangled trees, with weeds, with bird life and water-scooters and reptiles and fish. The mud oozes. The bacteria breed. The dragonflies buzz around our heads.

This dark channel is deep because it is bounded only by your whole life.

It is bounded by the limits of your character, the preferences and habits you accumulate, the reach of your language and even your imagination.

This form of love I am calling Commitment.


What are the commitments I am making in my life?

What are the commitments you are making?

(I’ll leave this here. Thinking is one thing… actually going there is another! Let’s all take a moment to go there on our own…)



Are we done? Have I gotten us started? Have I provoked you enough, then?

(How long is this ramble going to go on for anyway, Tom?)


Almost. But we are not quite done.

There is one additional form of love – one additional stream – that I don’t think we should neglect:



It strikes me that Reverence is far more organic than the other kinds of love I have been talking about.

It grows, unguided, unnoticed even.


The Zen practitioner begins to love the chilly air in the morning. The glint of light on the side of the mountain.

The marine biologist begins to love the chirping sound of an approaching dolphin.

The football fan loves the “ba-ba-ba-baaa” of the opening theme music for Monday Night Football.


These experiences become habits, become rituals, become written in our hearts.

Reverence, we might say, is the echo of the choices we make in our lives.

It is the after-image burned on our eyes.

Even better, perhaps we should think of it as the shape that is pressed into the raw material of the world around us, each of us individually, by our bodies and our brains.


If you grow up in the Sierra Nevadas. With that crisp pine needle smell in the air, the dry boulders, the quiet whisper of rivers and the borders of lakes – these become a great love. A wild fire burning the mountaintops is more than a news story. It is a wound, a source of heartbreak.

If you grow up in Berkeley, as I did, and we grow accustomed to the feeling of fall in the air in November (it comes late here!), then you grow into a great love for the red berries that cluster on bushes, the rivulets of rainwater in storm drains on the sides of the residential streets, the yellow-leafing Japanese maples with their jagged edges dancing, the smoke from chimneys lingering in the air in the evening. This becomes a form of love, a reverence we have for place that is quite different from that of the Sierras.

When we encounter, over a lifetime, the patter of squirrels chasing each other in the branches, or…

the time we entered into the green eyes of a black panther in a random National Geographic we were reading when we were young, or…

when we became interested in the patterns in the webs of spiders in a school lesson, or…

when we follow, for many years, the political scene, with its claims and cross-claims of freedom and equality and, above all, fairness –

all this can become for us a form of love.


Work is born of such love. Many careers are born of such love.

Love what you do, goes the maxim.

But this implies that they were ever separate.

In fact, when people “love what they do,” they actually have grown love – in the form of Reverence – alongside their devotion to the tasks involved in their work.

The doing and the loving are overlapping – and in many ways inseparable.


This understanding of love helps me to understand religion, actually.

For surely, the study of the Talmud, the practice of Zen meditation, the discipline of praying to Allah, the door to door persistence of the Jehovah’s Witness – all of these are forms of Reverence as well.

They are, of course, entirely without any evidence to support their claims.

They pledge themselves to an imaginary God – or a make-believe mythos, in the case of Buddhism – crafted by men and women of… the Bronze or the Iron age, as the case may be.

But I see now that this suits some people’s purposes just fine – it gives them a mental image, a guide, a useful structure, if you will, upon which to project their anxieties and wisdom and intuitions.


Looking at religious devotion through the prism of love, then, we can see that, what religious devotion is enacting is… at its deepest level, not a truth-claim about the existence of God or a particular mythos (nirvana and the world of illusions, heaven and hell, etc.).

Rather, it is enacting a set of associations with the material world – an active and ongoing relationship, actually.

Hence Christian devotion, for example, is a form of love because it asks of its followers to adopt a set of habits and resources, as well as the aesthetics of a particular sect (the Roman Catholic Latin mass; the African-American gospel choir; the paunchy, sunglasses and Hawaiian print shirt-wearing parishioner of the glass-windowed, high-tech, Californian evangelical church, and so on).

Jewish devotion and love is attached to the rituals and identity claims of the Jewish temple, but also the idea of Israel, the Sabbath, the story of Yom Kippur, Manischewitz wine, and all the rest. Islam is… well, you get the point.

This is a more understandable way of looking at religion, for a secular person like me. It comes as a relief.


So this is why when you point out the unsupported nature of the truth-claims in a given religion you make no headway at all with a believer! For the “beliefs” that you are shattering are only a surface, a thin sheet of ice.

The stuff that lies underneath – the Reverence that lies underneath – remains untouched.

Hence the utter failure of atheists to de-convert religious people.

(At least in the moment… Over time I suspect that even our Reverence for places and things and rituals and habits requires, on some level, a sense of the accuracy and truth-telling of the choices that formed it. So the effect of breaking the taboos surrounding criticizing religion might be delayed, but still may be worth it in the interest of saving the planet.)


Reverence can also become excessive.

Think of Sinatra’s “I did it myyyyyyy way!”

Think of the narcissistic personality type.

Sometimes the contour of one’s life choices and variegated experiences becomes more than a form of love. It becomes, itself, an object of adoration, of self-love.

Or someone’s attachment to a place or a thing can take the form of fanaticism – nationalism, tribalism, an “in-group” mentality and all costs.

Or it can lead to unthinking submission to authority, passivity, even sloth.


In the end, though, this form of love, like a waterfall tumbling over rocks, often has a beautiful form of its own, despite being an organic creation.

The fuller the life lived, I suspect, the greater feeling of reverence at the end of it.

Not a bad way to end the play, with that glow you get as the leave the theater.


Okay. That’s a lot of words. Take anything you find useful and forget the rest! See you at the meeting. What shall we do there? I hope this helps us to clarify what we are talking about when we talk about love. A more difficult question, perhaps, is how do we actually go about loving?

Reading for Seventh Meeting — THE WORLD WITHOUT GOD


For the meeting on November 18, we will read Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra and/or John Gray’s The Silence of Animals.

Some Brief Thoughts in Anticipation of the Meeting

Though written some 130 years apart, both Zarathustra and The Silence of Animals vigorously reject religion and supernatural claims of all kinds. So far so good.

Both also make every effort to provoke their readers into new ways of looking at the world. We like that!

Yet both, to my mind, represent wrong turns in non-supernaturalist thinking, and that’s why I grouped them together.

After pronouncing that “God is dead,” Nietzsche, through Zarathustra, argues for a life of unbridled selfishness, captured in his vision of the übermensch, driven by the “Will to Power”. Nietzsche’s is a doctrine of cruelty and dominance, and he rejects any countervailing concerns for kindness, mutuality, respect for others.

It seems to me that Nietzsche seriously underestimates the complexity of the human animal. No doubt affected by thousands of years of conditioning, despite his brave and unorthodox mind, he conflates goodness with godliness. So once he strips humanity of its supernatural pretensions, he reflexively strips it of much that is to be valued in life. It’s a “throwing out the baby with the bathwater” kind of problem.

What about our inclination to love, Friedrich? What about our inclination to shape our values collectively?

Gray’s approach is at once more passive, and also more bleak than Nietzsche’s (you didn’t think that was possible? just wait). First the good news: Gray’s picture of a human being shorn of supernatural certainties is far more complex and up-to-date: he sees each of us, I think rightly, as a confused bundle of conflicting impulses, desperately conjuring myths to give our lives meaning. We are not dominated by a “Will to Power” anymore than we are dominated by a “Will to be Liked” — it’s all in a tangle.

Unlike Nietzsche, then, Gray recognizes that along with our self-interest and potential for cruelty, we are also capable of strong sentimental attachments to one another.

But to Gray, it’s all myth and therefore barren and pointless. He paints a picture of the human animal in a state of nature as a helpless, but vicious, beast. Society, he thinks, clothes us in a meaning that is only threadbare at best: a cheap suit, poorly tailored, called “progress,” or “humanistic” showing skin at the elbows and knees.

So in the end Gray throws up his hands, considering  our severe cognitive limitations and unresolvable internal conflicts. Whereas Nietzsche urges humans to be creative and active (though sociopathic), Gray urges us to focus merely on “seeing” the world more clearly.

This too seems to me to leave out much of what makes our lives interesting. Surely we can recognize our severe limitations while also acting in the world, no? Perhaps people can collectively, over time, improve their lot? Why does our status as animals (homo rapians, he calls us) eliminate this possibility altogether?

I hope you are provoked as I was. Enjoy the readings!


Reading for the Eighth Meeting — ON BEING ANIMALS


For the meeting on Monday, December 14, 2015, we will read Beyond Words: How Animals Think and Feel by Carl Safina.

In this book, Safina focuses in particular on the day-to-day experiences of elephants, wolves and killer whales, three species which — who — have highly developed social lives, as do humans.

By doing so, he draws our attention to the practice of considering animals as subjects instead of objects; in other words, to step outside of our human-centered worldview, established by thousands of years of habit. He urges us to see ourselves as merely one possible subjectivity among many.

If we learn to relate to these and other animals with the term “who” rather than “what,” how will that change us?

Certainly vegetarianism arises as a pertinent question, but there’s more than that, isn’t there? Does this shift in worldview change our self-understanding in a significant way? Are there notable effects on how we live our lives?

If I know that we are merely one of many species who feel and recognize joy, heartbreak, jealousy, loyalty, even stress… If I finally accept that my ability to describe such experiences with spoken or written words does not set me apart as much as I assumed, what then? Will this awareness flatten experience or heighten it? Will I act more primate, or less? (Or can we change that at all?)

Enjoy the reading. See you at the meeting.

Some Additional Readings — ON BEING ANIMALS


I thought it might be good to add some supplementary readings for this meeting.

So I pulled some books of poetry off the shelf and looked through them for anything speaking to the relationship between humans and other animals.


(If any other writings or poems or images come to mind, please send them in. I’ll add them on to the end of this post as they arrive.)


Before we get to the poems, here’s a thoughtful chapter Setenay sent in from John Berger’s celebrated book, About Looking (1977). The chapter in question is entitled, “Why Look at Animals?”.

Click here —  John_Berger_Why_Look_at_Animals — for the link.


ECHO by Lawrence Durrell

Nothing is lost, sweet self,

Nothing is ever lost

The unspoken word

Is not exhausted but can be heard.

Music that stains

The silence remains

O echo is everywhere, the unbeckonable bird!


WHALES WEEP NOT! by D.H. Lawrence

They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains

the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs

The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers

there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea!

And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages

on the depths of the seven seas,

and through the salt they reel with drunk delight

and in the tropics tremble they with love

and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.

Then the great bull lies up against his bride

in the blue deep bed of the sea,

as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:

and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood

the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and comes to rest

in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of the she-whale’s fathomless body.

And over the bridge of whale’s strong phallus, linking the wonder of whales,

the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and forth, keep passing, archangels of bliss

from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim

that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea

great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.

And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender young

and dreaming with strange whale-eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.

And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring when danger threatens, on the surface of the great ceaseless flood

and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat encircling their huddled monsters of love.

And all this happens in the sea, in the salt,

where God is also love, but without words:

and Aphrodite is the wife of whales

most happy, happy she!

and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin

she is gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea

she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males

and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.



It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,

Tugging at banks, until they seemed

Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,

That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,

The breath of turgid summer, and

Heavy with thunder’s rattapallax,

That the man who erected this cabin, planted

This field, and tended it awhile,

Knew not the quirks of imagery,

That the hours of his indolent, arid days,

Grotesque with this nosing in banks,

This somnolence and rattapallax,

Seemed to suckle themselves in his arid being,

As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves

While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.


THE TYGER by William Blake

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deep or skies,

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears

And water’d heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


Three Poems by Emily Dickinson


With thee in the Desert —

With thee in the thirst —

With thee in the Tamarind wood —

Leopard breathes — at last!


A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an Angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass—
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all around—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his Velvet Head

Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—

Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, plashless as they swim.


The most triumphant Bird I ever knew or met

Embarked upon a twig today

And till Dominion set

I famish to behold so eminent a sight

And sang for nothing scrutible

But intimate Delight.

Retired, and resumed his transitive Estate —

To what delicious Accident

Does finest Glory fit!



dogs, sheep, cows, goats

and sometimes deer, hear loud noises

crackling in bushes, and they flick

fly or creep, as rabbits do

does too, into warm nests. no talk

but chatters there, small throat sounds

ear-pricks, up or back. hooves

tinkle on creekbeds. who fears a talk-

less landscape, crowded with creatures

leaves. falls. undergrowth

crawls all night, and summer smells

deep in the bushes. crouch!

at the thorny stalks.


Five more poems sent in by Setenay!


HYMN TO LIFE by Nazim Hikmet

The hair falling on your forehead
suddenly lifted.
Suddenly something stirred on the ground.
The trees are whispering
in the dark.
Your bare arms will be cold.

Far off
where we can’t see,
the moon must be rising.
It hasn’t reached us yet,
slipping through the leaves
to light up your shoulder.
But I know
a wind comes up with the moon.
The trees are whispering.
Your bare arms will be cold.

From above,
from the branches lost in the dark,
something dropped at your feet.
You moved closer to me.
Under my hand your bare flesh is like the fuzzy skin of a fruit.
Neither a song of the heart nor “common sense”–
before the trees, birds, and insects,
my hand on my wife’s flesh
is thinking.
Tonight my hand
can’t read or write.
Neither loving nor unloving…
It’s the tongue of a leopard at a spring,
a grape leaf,
a wolf’s paw.
To move, breathe, eat, drink.
My hand is like a seed
splitting open underground.
Neither a song of the heart nor “common sense,”
neither loving nor unloving.
My hand thinking on my wife’s flesh
is the hand of the first man.
Like a root that finds water underground,
it says to me:
“To eat, drink, cold, hot, struggle, smell, color–
not to live in order to die
but to die to live…”

And now
as red female hair blows across my face,
as something stirs on the ground,
as the trees whisper in the dark,
and as the moon rises far off
where we can’t see,
my hand on my wife’s flesh
before the trees, birds, and insects,
I want the right of life,
of the leopard at the spring, of the seed splitting open–

I want the right of the first man.

LUKE by Mary Oliver

I had a dog
who loved flowers.
Briskly she went
through the fields,

yet paused
for the honeysuckle
or the rose,
her dark head

and her wet nose
the face
of every one

with its petals
of silk,
with its fragrance

into the air
where the bees,
their bodies
heavy with pollen,

and easily
she adored
every blossom,

not in the serious,
careful way
that we choose
this blossom or that blossom—

the way we praise or don’t praise—
the way we love
or don’t love—
but the way

we long to be—
that happy
in the heaven of earth—
that wild, that loving.


WILD GEESE by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.



All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragonflies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst, into nimble
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.


Not speaking and speaking are both human ways of being in the world, and there are kinds and grades of each. There is the dumb silence of slumber or apathy; the sober silence that goes with a solemn animal face; the fertile silence of awareness, pasturing the soul, whence emerge new thoughts; the alive silence of alert perception, ready to say, “This… this…”; the musical silence that accompanies absorbed activity; the silence of listening to another speak, catching the drift and helping him be clear; the noisy silence of resentment and self-recrimination, loud and subvocal speech but sullen to say it; baffled silence; the silence of peaceful accord with other persons or communion with the cosmos.

All human activity is prompted by desire. There is a wholly fallacious theory advanced by some earnest moralists to the effect that it is possible to resist desire in the interests of duty and moral principle. I say this is fallacious, not because no man ever acts from a sense of duty, but because duty has no hold on him unless he desires to be dutiful. If you wish to know what men will do, you must know not only, or principally, their material circumstances, but rather the whole system of their desires with their relative strengths.
Man differs from other animals in one very important respect, and that is that he has some desires which are, so to speak, infinite, which can never be fully gratified, and which would keep him restless even in Paradise. The boa constrictor, when he has had an adequate meal, goes to sleep, and does not wake until he needs another meal. Human beings, for the most part, are not like this.
They have infinite desires — acquisitivenessrivalryvanity, and love of power
A few more from Tom…

Snake by D.H. Lawrence
A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
i o And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

Taormina, 1923


Animals by Robinson Jeffers

At dawn a knot of sea-lions lies off the shore
In the slow swell between the rock and the cliff,
Sharp flippers lifted, or great-eyed heads, as they roll in the sea,
Bigger than draft-horses, and barking like dogs
Their all-night song. It makes me wonder a little
That life near kind to human, intelligent, hot-blooded, idle and singing,
can float at ease
In the ice-cold winter water. Then, yellow dawn
Colors the south, I think about the rapid and furious lives in the sun:
They have little to do with ours; they have nothing to do with oxygen
and salted water; the would look monstrous
If we could see them: the beautiful passionate bodies of living flame,
batlike flapping and screaming,
Tortured with burning lust and acute awareness, that ride
the storm-tides
Of the great fire-globe. They are animals, as we are. There are many
other chemistries of animal life
Beside the slow oxidation of carbohydrates and amino acids.


Come Into Animal Presence by Denise Levertov

Come into animal presence.
No man is so guileless as
the serpent. The lonely white
rabbit on the roof is a star
twitching its ears at the rain.
The llama intricately
folding its hind legs to be seated
not disdains but mildly
disregards human approval.
What joy when the insouciant
armadillo glances at us and doesn’t
quicken his trotting
across the track into the palm brush.
What is this joy? That no animal
falters, but knows what it must do?
That the snake has no blemish,
that the rabbit inspects his strange surroundings
in white star-silence? The llama
rests in dignity, the armadillo
has some intention to pursue in the palm-forest.
Those who were sacred have remained so,
holiness does not dissolve, it is a presence
of bronze, only the sight that saw it
faltered and turned from it.
An old joy returns in holy presence.