In Hopkins’s writing, eroticism centres on eros or amor and loving the body of Christ. In the framework of Hopkins’s spiritual eroticism, eros or amor is love. Understanding the significance of love and the body in Hopkins’s writings – his poems, sermons, spiritual writings, diaries, essays, and letters – allows us to come to a fuller understanding of his relationship with Christ. Hopkins’s vow of celibacy afforded him the freedom to express his passion for Christ through romantic and sexual tropes such as touching hands, melting and merging subjects, beating hearts, magnetic attraction, mutual gazes, kisses, embraces, fecundity, and homecoming. We shall look at some of these tropes in this chapter, many of which can be traced back to ancient Greece and the early church fathers. Ultimately, Hopkins wrote about erotic desires and tactile pleasures in a manner that was broad and expansive.

This chapter treats love, desire and eroticism, arguing that eros and philotes serve as metapoetic structuring principles of epic narrative. It begins with a preliminary survey of the foundational texts, focusing on the scene of Helen at the loom as she weaves a tapestry of warriors in battle, essentially a figuration of the Iliad as an artistic product of sexual longing. The chapter then moves forward to consider how these same erotic structuring principles play out in imperial Greek epic, which absorbs Homer’s models through the filter of romantic fiction. Smith focuses on the first three books of Quintus of Smyrna’s Posthomerica – the events surrounding Penthesileia, Memnon, and the death of Achilles – reading them as flirtatious manipulations that intensify readerly anticipation, and then turns to Nonnus’ Dionysiaca, specifically the tendril imagery in the Ampelos episode and its sequel, the romance of Calamus and Carpus. These episodes serve as exemplars of the regenerative powers of epic desire.

This chapter studies H.D.’s translations of choruses from Euripides’s Iphigeneia in Aulis (1915) and Hippolytus (1919). Tracing her shifting concern from image to sound, the author argues that her work mirrors Eliot’s and Pound’s preoccupations of that period; her play Hippolytus Temporizes (1927) – abstract and formalist, yet rooted in the specific circumstances of its time – especially reflects this. More specifically, she show that the “Choruses from Iphigeneia” are a first attempt to compose, on the one hand, a long Imagist poem and, on the other, to write a “poem including history.” She then homes in on H.D.’s treatment of Euripidean rhythm and meter in the Hippolytus plays, through which H.D. questions the relationship between “antiquity” and “modernity” as well as the possibility and value of writing poetry itself. H.D. engages with discourses on Greek antiquity, which are woven into her translations and play; unlike Pound and Eliot’s mostly rhetorical engagement, H.D. measures out in her work how to translate Greek poetics into English, and yet is almost as ambivalent as Pound about the value of Greek.

The Epilogue offers some concluding remarks while explaining why later Jacobean and Caroline plays are excluded from this study. In the process, it offers a brief consideration of Beaumont and Fletcher’s Cupid’s Revenge.

A common view of the Gorgias is that Plato is portraying the limits of Socratic discussion. Interlocutors become hostile, little agreement seems reached, and conversation breaks down. Furthermore, non-rational forces, by which may be included pleasures, pains, epithumiai, and the pathos of eros, come to the fore at various points. These twin factors have led to a growing consensus that what is shown is that discussion is not effective with persons in whom non-rational forces are strong. This chapter questions this consensus, bolstering Socrates’ optimistic reply to Callicles, that if the same things are examined “often and better”, Callicles will be persuaded. It argues that dialogue is a normative practice, which exemplifies the virtues that constitute its subject matter; this enables greater appreciation of how it can play a role in shaping cognition and behaviour. If values are involved in the very operation of dialogue, then participants can become accustomed to the values that form the explicit content of discussion by learning to adhere correctly to its form. Seen as such, Socratic argument is not just determined by the desires of its participants (unlike rhetoric), but is capable of shaping them.

We have referred elsewhere to Aristotle’s pronouncement in his Poetics on the role of the chorus in tragedy: ‘the chorus must be regarded as one of the actors; being part of the whole, it should take part in the action (sunagonízesthai), not as in Euripides, but as in Sophocles’. In the wake of this famous normative statement it is often said that the chorus of Euripides’ tragedies no longer played the central role it had played in those of Sophocles. According to Aristotle the tragic poet Agathon had been the first to turn the chorus’ interventions into mere musical intermezzos or embólima, and many have ascribed the same tendency to Euripides. If there is one play of Euripides that does not justify this belief it is his second Hippolytus. This play shows the master tragedian at the apex of his poetic career.

This chapter finds that Augustine self-consciously departed from Stoicism and Platonism (while remaining within eudaimonism) in finding that there were other natural objects of human beings’ eros-love besides the highest good. This finding leads to a new explanation of Augustine’s distinction between use and enjoyment and to a new explanation of his view that grief would be found not only in the lives of the vicious but in the lives of the virtuous as well.

This chapter finds that Augustine thought of self-love and neighbour-love as both eros and philia and that he found that vicious people were able to love other people unselfishly, even though their love for others would always be sinful as the love for something temporal. This chapter establishes that eros for our neighbours was not a self-centred love – it did not instrumentalise others by making them the ‘means’ to our happiness; rather, for Augustine, eros for the neighbour, whether this love was sinful or virtuous, was a form of benevolence.

This chapter asks whether Augustine criticised Stoicism and Platonism because he thought that there was something fundamentally flawed about the eudaimonist approach to ethics, or whether he criticised Stoicism and Platonism because he thought that these philosophies had insufficiently understood eudaimonism itself. It finds that the latter explanation is correct: in reaching this conclusion, this chapter establishes that Augustine defined virtue and vice, or sin, from within the eudaimonist tradition, making use of the ideas of love as eros and philia, and of the highest good, or summum bonum.

Kisses have an uneasy relationship with time. They are ever desired, withheld, stolen, and multiplied because they create more longing than they satiate. The kiss is both sensual and spiritual, direct and oblique, unifying and dividing – it is the embodiment of the erotic paradox. From its origins in the Song of Songs and Catullus, to the Basia of Secundus and the baci mordaci of Marino, the tradition of kiss-poetry conveys the pleasurable frustration of talking about love instead of making it: the necessity of speech acts in bringing about the physical act of kissing, and the impossibility of simultaneity between the two. Monteverdi’s engagement with the poetic conceit of kisses – mouths uttering delights by actions, words, and song – dates to his introduction to the poetry of Torquato Tasso (1544–95) during his final years in Cremona. This chapter traces the history of kiss poetry to focus on Monteverdi's earliest interactions with kiss poetry, the madrigals from his Second Book of 1590.

In Plato’s Symposium, the central insights are gleaned from a wise woman from whom Socrates learnt the single thing to which he laid claim to expertise: ta erotika. Since there is a widespread view that Plato stands at the head of a tradition of philosophical thinking in which women are eclipsed, or marginalised, this fact has been seen as significant. This chapter explores whether Diotima’s gender is significant for the philosophy of the Symposium. Gender categories are an explicit feature of this text, but Plato’s playful and provocative use of them is not just a dialectical ploy to provoke reflection on the social norms around sexuality and gender that held sway in his day; toying with them exposes the contingency of gendered categories and, ultimately, their irrelevance to the philosophical life. The wisdom of Diotima is that philosophy is beyond gender; it is, in that respect at least, inclusive.

This chapter is focused on aspects ot the superordinate Idea of the Good. Why is the first principle of all a normative principle (Section 2.1)? How does the Idea of the Good differ from an “ordinary” Form of the Good (Section 2.2)? Why is the unhypothetical first principle of all also the goal of everything, that which all desire (Section 2.3)? How does the Idea of the Good differ from the Demiurge? Why is the Demiurge good but not the Good (Section 2.4)? How is the admonition in Theaetetus to “assimilate to god” related to the Good as goal (Section 2.5)? In Symposium, the relation between eros and the Good is explored (Section 2.6). In Lysis, the idea of a “prōton philon” is comapred to the Idea of the Good as goal (Section 2.7). The evidence frrom Aristotle and from the indirect tradition that Plato identified the Good with “the One” is assembled. Why is oneness an index of goodness? The idea of integrated unity according to kind is introduced (Section 2.8).

This chapter defends the unity of the Charmides as a dramatic whole. It does so by a close analysis of Socrates’ interactions with Charmides throughout the dialogue. The chapter argues that Socrates is presented as driven by an erotic quest for discovering beauty in Charmides’ soul. This explains the nature of Socrates’ initial interactions with Charmides; his abandonment of Charmides for the long discussion with Critias that follows; and his recalling of Charmides into the conversation at the end of the dialogue. It is argued that Socrates’ procedure for seducing Charmides into exposing his soul consists of the interplay of two arts, which I describe and analyse: the art of soul-medicine and the art of erotics, with the former art deployed by Socrates in service of the latter.

This chapter analyses several roles of silence in Greek novels before Heliodorus. On a macro-level, it suggests that the writing of the text was itself a breaking of silence, manifested in narrators’ openings in Achilles Tatius and Longus. Moving to characters, it reviews situations where the choice of silence is crucial to plot development – most far-reaching in Longus, where the couple’s origins must be concealed for four fifths of the narrative to allow them to grow up as simple herdsfolk. In Chariton too the choice between speech and silence repeatedly affects plot development. Silence is often allied with deception, twice with fear. In three novels a protagonist’s romantic involvement with a third party is crucially suppressed in communications between the couple. Next addressed are types of silence closely related to the novels’ central theme of eros, whether as a symptom, or the silent kissing Cleinias suggests to Cleitophon. Different is the silent awe a protagonist’s dazzling beauty triggers. Finally some topoi shared with other genres are examined: ‘everybody else was silent, but X began to speak’; and ‘for a long time X was silent, but eventually began to speak’. It is concluded that silence’s uses reveal it as an important element in constructing an engaging narrative, noting that of these writers only Longus has an ‘unmarked’ use of σιωπ- to mean little more than ‘he/she stopped speaking’.

The longing for love and the possibility of its loss are consistent concerns in Ishiguro’s production. Through references to ancient and modern conceptualizations, the chapter addresses the varieties of love that dominate Ishiguro’s works. It moves from the guilt-ridden love of a mother for her suicided daughter in A Pale View of Hills, through Stevens’s barely acknowledged love for Miss Kenton in Remains of the Day, to the unresolved tension between the devotion to our nearest and dearest and the pursuit of a higher ideal in The Unconsoled and When We Were Orphans. After minor excursions into songwriting and short stories, the chapter focuses on the most recent three novels, considering the deceptive possibility of romantic love’s redemptive power in Never Let Me Go, the long-standing but apparently doomed conjugal love of Axl and Beatrice in The Buried Giant, and Klara’s touching devotion to the sick Josie in Klara and the Sun.

Eriugena’s concept of love seems to be twofold. On the one hand, he adopts the Platonic concept of love (ἔρως). It is well known that the Platonic eros stands ‘between’ the lover and the loved. Of course, its function is anagogic but, therefore, eros, as a mediator, cannot be conceived of as God himself. On the other hand, Eriugena states that the Absolute loves itself. To be sure, God’s self-referential love is not egoistic but caritative, soteriological and eschatological. It is the outcome, in short, of divine providence (ἀγάπη). Eriugena follows Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, his most important intellectual precursor, and combines both concepts of love. But how, we must ask, can he combine both concepts? How can these two different concepts become one? Or is their difference only an apparent one? We shall answer these crucial questions by considering the two most important concepts of Eriugena’s metaphysics: the transcendence and immanence of the Absolute, or God. Thinkers tend to put these terms in diametrical opposition, but this view, besides leading to confusion, is fundamentally mistaken.

One very important kind of love in Plato is love of wisdom, or philosophy (philosophia). Philo-sophia is, literally, ‘friendship for wisdom’, not erōs, which is love in the sense of passionate desire, often with a sexual component. Nevertheless, I argue that philosophia in Plato often has close connections with erōs. For example, philosophia is portrayed as the object of erōs, or as a passionate desire to attain wisdom, or as the search for wisdom together with another person who is the object of erōs. Moreover, throughout the dialogues, Socrates the philosopher is characterized by his close association with both philosophia and erōs. Socrates says that he has erōs for two objects, Alcibiades and philosophia (Gorgias), and he is himself the object of erōs (Symposium, Alcibiades I). He claims to know nothing except erotic matters, and he resembles the daimōn Eros in desiring the wisdom he recognizes that he lacks (Symposium). He invents an ideal state in which the rulers are philosophers, those who have erōs for learning (Republic). In the Phaedrus, Socrates prays to Eros not to take away the erotic art that Eros has given him. Just before drinking the hemlock (Phaedo), Socrates, who has chosen to philosophize all his life, says that he does not regret that this practice has led to his execution, because after death philosophers hope to attain the wisdom that was the object of their erōs in life.