Darwin on the spirituality of wonder, Hannah Arendt on love and how to live with the fundamental fear of loss, the eclipse that went extinct

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[The Messiah in the Mountain: Darwin on Wonder and the Spirituality of Nature]( Here we are, matter yearning for meaning, each of us a fragile constellation of chemistry and chance hurtling through a cold cosmos that has no accord for our wishes, takes no interest in our dreams. “I can’t but believe that all that majesty and all that beauty, those fated and unfailing appearances and exits, are something more than mathematics and horrible temperatures,” Willa Cather [wrote to the love of her life]( while watching the transcendent spectacle of Jupiter and Venus rising in the summer sky. “If they are not, then we are the only wonderful things — because we can wonder.” That we can wonder is what saves us. The price evolution had us pay for our exquisite consciousness is an awareness of our mortality — an awareness unbearable without the capacity for wonder at the miracle of existing at all, improbable as we each are against [the staggering odds of never having been born]( alive on an improbable world unlike any other known. Wonder is the religion nature invented long before we told our first myths of prophets and messiahs, the great benediction of our fate as borrowed stardust on short-term loan from an entropic universe. A century before the pioneering neuroscientist Charles Scott Sherrington formulated his notion of [“Natural Religion,”]( placing at its center our capacity for and responsibility to wonder, before Rachel Carson insisted that [wonder is our greatest antidote to self-destruction]( and that [“natural beauty has a necessary place in the spiritual development of any individual or any society,”]( the young Charles Darwin (February 12, 1809–April 19, 1882) discovered that experiences of wonder — which he defined as [“a chaos of delight”]( — are profoundly spiritual and come most readily in raw nature. Charles Darwin in his twenties In early 1835, with the Beagle docked in Chile for repairs four years into its voyage, the twenty-six-year-old Darwin hired muleteers and set out to cross the Andes on foot and hoof, relishing the exposed face of Earth’s geologic history in the dramatic landscape. By mid-March, he reached the Piuquenes pass connecting Argentina and Chile and began the trying ascent. Breathing became “deep and laborious.” He felt the tightness in his chest. The mules panted and stopped every fifty feet. But when he stumbled upon some fossil shells on the ridge, he “entirely forgot” the altitude sickness in his delight. And then, approaching the summit against wind “impetuous and extremely cold,” he encountered something belonging to the enchanting canon of [the unphotographable](. Standing there amid the austere beauty of the mountain and the elements in their extreme, with petrified pieces of deep time in his pocket, Darwin touched God. “View of Nature in Ascending Regions” by Levi Walter Yaggy from Geographical Portfolio, 1893. (Available as [a print]( and as [stationery cards]( In an account later included in his memoir [A Naturalist’s Voyage Round the World]( ([public library]( | [free ebook]( he writes: When near the summit, the wind, as generally happens, was impetuous and extremely cold. On each side of the ridge we had to pass over broad bands of perpetual snow, which were now soon to be covered by a fresh layer. When we reached the crest and looked backwards, a glorious view was presented. The atmosphere resplendently clear; the sky an intense blue; the profound valleys; the wild broken forms: the heaps of ruins, piled up during the lapse of ages; the bright-coloured rocks, contrasted with the quiet mountains of snow, all these together produced a scene no one could have imagined. Neither plant nor bird, excepting a few condors wheeling around the higher pinnacles, distracted my attention from the inanimate mass. I felt glad that I was alone: it was like watching a thunderstorm, or hearing in full orchestra a chorus of the Messiah. Complement with Coleridge’s [transcendent experience of a thunderstorm]( and René Daumal on [the mountain and the meaning of life]( then revisit Darwin’s [deathbed reflection on what makes life worth living]( and [the bittersweet story of his beloved daughter](. [Forward to a friend]( Online]( on Facebook]( donating=loving Each month, I spend hundreds of hours and tens of thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For seventeen years, it has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference. monthly donation You can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch.  one-time donation Or you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. [Start Now]( [Give Now]( Partial to Bitcoin? You can beam some bit-love my way: 197usDS6AsL9wDKxtGM6xaWjmR5ejgqem7 Need to cancel an existing donation? (It's okay — life changes course. I treasure your kindness and appreciate your support for as long as it lasted.) You can do so [on this page](. [Thunder, Bells, and Silence: The Eclipse that Went Extinct]( What was it like for Martha, the [endling]( of her species, to die alone at the Cincinnati Zoo that late-summer day in 1914, all the other passenger pigeons gone from the face of the Earth, having once filled its skies with an immensity of beating wings, so many that John James Audubon likened their migration to an eclipse? And what made the difference between the people who killed them with glee — like the man in Austin who bragged about slaying 475 birds with a single stick — and those who reverenced their beauty, their majesty, their symphonic expression of life itself? A mere generation before Martha was born in captivity, [Margaret Fuller]( had exulted: Every afternoon [the pigeons] came sweeping across the lawn, positively in clouds, and with a swiftness and softness of winged motion, more beautiful than anything of the kind I ever knew. Had I been a musician, such as Mendelssohn, I felt that I could have improvised a music quite peculiar, from the sound they made, which should have indicated all the beauty over which their wings bore them. Male and female passenger pigeons by John James Audubon, 1842. (Available as [a print]( and as [stationery cards]( benefitting The Nature Conservancy.) They were emissaries of the sublime, migrating by the millions, appearing like an immense blue wave rolling toward you, sounding like thunder — an experience we shall never know first-hand. One of the most vivid and poetic accounts of it, found in Joel Greenberg’s altogether fascinating and bittersweet book [A Feathered River Across the Sky: The Passenger Pigeon’s Flight to Extinction]( ([public library]( comes from the Potawatomi Chief Pokagon, who wrote with such touching tenderness in May 1850, as all over America the birds were being killed for food and for pleasure: One morning on leaving my wigwam I was startled by hearing a gurgling, rumbling sound, as though an army of horses laden with sleigh bells was advancing through the deep forests towards me. As I listened more intently I concluded that instead of the tramping of horses it was distant thunder; and yet the morning was clear, calm and beautiful. Nearer and nearer came the strange comingling sounds of sleigh bells, mixed with the rumbling of an approaching storm. While I gazed in wonder and astonishment, I beheld moving towards me in an unbroken front millions of pigeons, the first I had seen that season. They passed like a cloud through the branches of the big trees, through the underbrush and over the ground… Statue-like I stood, half-concealed by cedar boughs. They fluttered all about me, lighting on my head and shoulders; gently I caught two in my hands and carefully concealed them under my blanket. I now began to realize they were mating, preparatory to nesting. It was an event which I had long hoped to witness; so I sat down and carefully watched their movements, amid the greatest tumult. I tried to understand their strange language, and why they all chatted in concert… The trees were still filled with them sitting in pairs in convenient crotches of the limbs, now and then gently fluttering their half-spread wings and uttering to their mates those strange, bell-like wooing notes which I had mistaken for the ringing of bells in the distance. Within two generations, the bells had fallen silent. Vocalization of male passenger pigeon recorded by Wallace Craig, 1911. (Library of Congress) Because the world is a kaleidoscope of qualia, because each creature has a singular sensorium not shared and never fully comprehended by creatures shaped by a different biology, with the loss of any species a particular way of seeing and a particular way of being is lost, a verse redacted from the epic poem of Life. The fate of the passenger pigeon stands as a haunting monument to the deadliest defect of human nature — the hubris of seeing ourselves not as fractals of nature but as its overlords, the same hubris that gave us the atomic bomb. It is more than a cautionary tale to be heard in the mind — it is a mirror, harsh and clear, held up to the soul of humanity, a stark and sobering incantation to recover our reverence for life in all its myriad manifestations. Passenger pigeon by Mark Catesby, 1731. (Available as [a print]( and as [stationery cards]( benefitting The Nature Conservancy.) The erasure of the passenger pigeon by the human hand comes alive with disquieting poignancy in this 1935 poem by [Robinson Jeffers]( part indictment and part invitation to revise our regard for the rest of nature: PASSENGER PIGEONS by Robinson Jeffers Slowly the passenger pigeons increased, then suddenly their numbers Became enormous, they would flatten ten miles of forest When they flew down to roost, and the cloud of their rising Eclipsed the dawns. They became too many, they are all dead Not one remains. And the American bison: their hordes Would hide a prairie from horizon to horizon, great heads and storm-cloud shoulders, a torrent of life — How many are left? For a time, for a few years, their bones Turned the dark prairies white. You, Death, you watch for these things. These explosions of life: they are your food. They make your feasts. But turn your great rolling eyes away from humanity Those grossly craving black eyes. It is true we increase. A man from Britain landing in Gaul when Rome had fallen He journeyed fourteen days inland through that beautiful Rich land, the orchards and rivers and the looted villas: he reports he saw No living man. But now we fill the gaps. In spite of wars, famines and pestilences we are quite suddenly Three billion people: our bones, ours too, would make Wide prairies white, a beautiful snow of unburied bones: Bones that have twitched and quivered in the nights of love, Bones that have shaken with laughter and hung slack in sorrow, coward bones Worn out with trembling, strong bones broken on the rack, bones broken in battle, Broad bones gnarled with hard labor, and the little bones of sweet young children, and the white empty skulls, Little carved ivory wine-jugs that used to contain Passion and thought and love and insane delirium, where now Not even worms live. Respect humanity, Death, these shameless black eyes of yours, It is not necessary to take all at once — besides that, you cannot do it, we are too powerful, We are men, not pigeons; you may take the old, the useless and helpless, the cancer-bitten and the tender young, But the human race has still history to make. For look — look now At our achievements: we have bridled the cloud-leaper lightning, a lion whipped by a man, to carry our messages And work our will, we have snatched the thunderbolt Out of God’s hands. Ha? That was little and last year — for now we have taken The primal powers, creation and annihilation; we make new elements, such as God never saw, We can explode atoms and annul the fragments, nothing left but pure energy, we shall use it In peace and war — “Very clever,” he answered in his thin piping voice, Cruel and a eunuch. Roll those idiot black eyes of yours On the field-beats, not on intelligent man, We are not in your order. You watched the dinosaurs Grow into horror: they had been little elves in the ditches and presently became enormous with leaping flanks And tearing teeth, plated with armor, nothing could stand against them, nothing but you, Death, and they died. You watched the sabre-tooth tigers Develop those huge fangs, unnecessary as our sciences, and presently they died. You have their bones In the oil-pits and layer rock, you will not have ours. With pain and wonder and labor we have bought intelligence. We have minds like the tusks of those forgotten tigers, hypertrophied and terrible, We have counted the stars and half-understood them, we have watched the farther galaxies fleeing away from us, wild herds Of panic horses — or a trick of distance deceived by the prism —   ;we outfly falcons and eagles and meteors, Faster than sound, higher than the nourishing air; we have enormous privilege, we do not fear you, We have invented the jet-plane and the death-bomb and the cross of Christ — “Oh,” he said, “surely You’ll live forever” — grinning like a skull, covering his mouth with his hand — “What could exterminate you?” A decade later, the poetic conservationist Aldo Leopold memorialized the vanished bird in a moving speech delivered at the opening of a monument to the passenger pigeon erected at Wyalusing State Park by the Wisconsin Society for Ornithology. Lamenting that “for one species to mourn the death of another is a new thing under the sun,” he writes: There will always be pigeons in books and in museums, but these are effigies and images, dead to all hardships and to all delights. Book-pigeons cannot dive out of a cloud to make the deer run for cover, nor clap their wings in thunderous applause of mast-laden woods. They know no urge of seasons; they feel no kiss of sun, no lash of wind and weather; they live forever by not living at all. […] Man[*]( is only a fellow-voyager with other creatures in the Odyssey of evolution… We should, in the century since Darwin, have achieved a sense of community with living things, and of wonder over the magnitude and duration of the biotic enterprise. Reflecting on this “monument to a bird we have lost, and to a doubt we have gained,” he adds: Our grandfathers, who did the actual killing, were our agents. They were our agents in the sense that they shared the conviction, which we have only now begun to doubt, that it is more important to multiply people and comforts than to cherish the beauty of the land in which they live. What we are doing here today is publicly to confess a doubt whether this is true. […] Our grandfathers, who saw the glory of the fluttering hosts, were less well-housed, well-fed, well-clothed than we are. The strivings by which they bettered our lot are also those which deprived us of pigeons. Perhaps we now grieve because we are not sure, in our hearts, that we have gained by the exchange. The Later Flights of the Passenger Pigeon by Frank Bond, 1920. (Available as [a print]( and as [stationery cards]( benefitting The Nature Conservancy.) Couple with [a poem inspired by the last Moho braccatus]( which went extinct in our lifetime, then revisit Robinson Jeffers’s [staggering poem about the interwoven mystery of mind and universe](. For a bright counterpoint of what human nature is also capable of, savor the story of [the woman who saved the hawks](. [Forward to a friend]( Online]( on Facebook]( donating=loving Each month, I spend hundreds of hours and tens of thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For seventeen years, it has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference. monthly donation You can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch.  one-time donation Or you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. [Start Now]( [Give Now]( Partial to Bitcoin? You can beam some bit-love my way: 197usDS6AsL9wDKxtGM6xaWjmR5ejgqem7 Need to cancel an existing donation? (It's okay — life changes course. I treasure your kindness and appreciate your support for as long as it lasted.) You can do so [on this page](. [Hannah Arendt on Love and How to Live with the Fundamental Fear of Loss]( “Love, but be careful what you love,” the Roman African philosopher Saint Augustine wrote in the final years of the fourth century. We are, in some deep sense, what we love — we become it as much as it becomes us, beckoned from our myriad conscious and unconscious longings, despairs, and patterned desires. And yet there is something profoundly paradoxical about such an appeal to reason in the notion that we can exercise prudence in matters of love — to have loved is to have known the straitjacket of irrationality that slips over even the most willful mind when the heart takes over with its delicious carelessness. How to heed Augustine’s caution, not by subjugating but by better understanding our experience of love, is what Hannah Arendt (October 14, 1906–December 4, 1975) explores in her least known but in many ways most beautiful work, [Love and Saint Augustine]( ([public library]( — Arendt’s first book-length manuscript and the last to be published in English, posthumously salvaged from her papers by political scientist Joanna Vecchiarelli Scott and philosopher Judith Chelius Stark. Hannah Arendt (photograph by Fred Stein, 1944); Saint Augustine (painting by Gerard Seghers, circa 1600-1650.) For half a century after she wrote it as her doctoral thesis in 1929 — a time when this apostle of reason, who would become one of the twentieth century’s keenest and most coolly analytical minds, was composing her [fiery love letters to Martin Heidegger]( — Arendt obsessively revised and annotated the manuscript. Against Augustine’s whetstone, she came to hone her core philosophical ideas — chiefly the troublesome disconnect she saw between philosophy and politics as evidenced by the rise of ideologies like totalitarianism, the origins of which she [so memorably and incisively examined](. It was from Augustine that she borrowed the phrase amor mundi — “love of the world” — which would become a defining feature of her philosophy. Occupied by questions of [why we succumb to and normalize evil]( Arendt identified as the root of tyranny the act of making other human beings irrelevant. Again and again, she returned to Augustine for the antidote: love. But while this ancient notion of neighborly love, which would come to [inspire Martin Luther King, Jr.]( was central to Arendt’s philosophical concern and her interest in Augustine, its political significance is inseparable from the deepest wellspring of love: the personal. For all of the political and philosophical wisdom she draws from it, Augustine’s Confessions is animated by his experience of personal love — that eternal force that governs the Sun and the Moon and the stars of our interior lives, reflected and codified in our cultural and social structures. Illustration from [An ABZ of Love]( Kurt Vonnegut’s favorite vintage Danish guide to sexuality With an eye to Augustine’s conception of love as “a kind of craving” — the Latin appetitus, from which the word appetite is derived — and his assertion that “to love is indeed nothing else than to crave something for its own sake,” Arendt considers this directional desire propelling love: Every craving is tied to a definite object, and it takes this object to spark the craving itself, thus providing an aim for it. Craving is determined by the definitely given thing it seeks, just as a movement is set by the goal toward which it moves. For, as Augustine writes, love is “a kind of motion, and all motion is toward something.” What determines the motion of desire is always previously given. Our craving aims at a world we know; it does not discover anything new. The thing we know and desire is a “good,” otherwise we would not seek it for its own sake. All the goods we desire in our questing love are independent objects, unrelated to other objects. Each of them represents nothing but its isolated goodness. The distinctive trait of this good that we desire is that we do not have it. Once we have the object our desire ends, unless we are threatened with its loss. In that case the desire to have turns into a fear of losing. As a quest for the particular good rather than for things at random, desire is a combination of “aiming at” and “referring back to.” It refers back to the individual who knows the world’s good and evil and seeks to live happily. It is because we know happiness that we want to be happy, and since nothing is more certain than our wanting to be happy, our notion of happiness guides us in determining the respective goods that then became objects of our desires. Craving, or love, is a human being’s possibility of gaining possession of the good that will make him happy, that is, of gaining possession of what is most his own. Illustration by Maurice Sendak from [I’ll Be You and You Be Me]( by Ruth Krauss. That is why a generous and unpossessive love — a love undiminished by the failure to attain the good for which it craves — can seem like a feat nothing short of superhuman. (“If equal affection cannot be, / Let the more loving one be me,” Arendt’s good friend and great admirer W.H. Auden wrote in his [sublime ode]( to that superhuman triumph of the heart.) But a love predicated on possession, Arendt cautions, inevitably turns into fear — the fear of losing what was gained. Two millennia after Epictetus offered [his cure for heartbreak]( in the acceptance that all things are perishable and therefore even love ought to be held with the loose fingers of nonattachment, Arendt — who notes Augustine’s debt to the Stoics — writes: So long as we desire temporal things, we are constantly under this threat, and our fear of losing always corresponds to our desire to have. Temporal goods originate and perish independently of man, who is tied to them by his desire. Constantly bound by craving and fear to a future full of uncertainties, we strip each present moment of its calm, its intrinsic import, which we are unable to enjoy. And so, the future destroys the present. Half a century after Tolstoy admonished that [“future love does not exist [for] love is a present activity only,”]( Arendt adds: The present is not determined by the future as such… but by certain events which we hope for or fear from the future, and which we accordingly crave and pursue, or shun and avoid. Happiness consists in possession, in having and holding our good, and even more in being sure of not losing it. Sorrow consists in having lost our good and in enduring this loss. However, for Augustine the happiness of having is not contrasted by sorrow but by fear of losing. The trouble with human happiness is that it is constantly beset by fear. It is not the lack of possessing but the safety of possession that is at stake. Death, of course, is the ultimate loss — of love as well as life — and therefore the ultimate object of our future-oriented dread. And yet this escape from presence via the portal of anxiety — perhaps [the commonest malady]( to which human beings are susceptible — is itself a living death. Arendt writes: In their fear of death, those living fear life itself, a life that is doomed to die… The mode in which life knows and perceives itself is worry. Thus the object of fear comes to be fear itself. Even if we should assume that there is nothing to fear, that death is no evil, the fact of fear (that all living things shun death) remains. Art by Catherine Lepange from [Thin Slices of Anxiety: Observations and Advice to Ease a Worried Mind]( Against this background of negative space, Arendt casts the shape of love’s ultimate object according to Augustine: Fearlessness is what love seeks. Love as craving is determined by its goal, and this goal is freedom from fear. In a sentiment that illuminates the central mechanism by which [frustration fuels (temporary) satisfaction in romantic love]( she adds: A love that seeks anything safe and disposable on earth is constantly frustrated, because everything is doomed to die. In this frustration love turns about and its object becomes a negation, so that nothing is to be desired except freedom from fear. Such fearlessness exists only in the complete calm that can no longer be shaken by events expected of the future. If presence — the removal of expectancy — is a prerequisite for a true experience of love, then time is the elemental infrastructure of love. Nearly half a century later, in becoming the first woman to speak at the prestigious Gifford Lectures in the 85-year history of the series, Arendt would make this notion of [time as the locus of our thinking ego]( a centerpiece of her landmark lecture, [The Life of the Mind](. Now, quoting from Augustine’s writings, she considers the paradox of love beyond time for creatures as temporal as we are: Even if things should last, human life does not. We lose it daily. As we live the years pass through us and they wear us out into nothingness. It seems that only the present is real, for “things past and things to come are not”; but how can the present (which I cannot measure) be real since it has no “space”? Life is always either no more or not yet. Like time, life “comes from what is not yet, passes through what is without space, and disappears into what is no longer.” Can life be said to exist at all? Still the fact is that man does measure time. Perhaps man possesses a “space” where time can be conserved long enough to be measured, and would not this “space,” which man carries with himself, transcend both life and time? Time exists only insofar as it can be measured, and the yardstick by which we measure it is space. Art by Lisbeth Zwerger for [a special edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland]( For Augustine, she notes, memory is the space in which time is measured and cached: Memory, the storehouse of time, is the presence of the “no more” (iam non) as expectation is the presence of the “not yet” (nondum). Therefore, I do not measure what is no more, but something in my memory that remains fixed in it. It is only by calling past and future into the present of remembrance and expectation that time exists at all. Hence the only valid tense is the present, the Now. One of the major themes I explore in [Figuring]( is this question of the temporality of even our lushest experiences. “The union of two natures for a time is so great,” Margaret Fuller — one of my key figures — wrote. Are we to despair or rejoice over the fact that even the greatest loves exist only “for a time”? The time scales are elastic, contracting and expanding with the depth and magnitude of each love, but they are always finite — like books, like lives, like the universe itself. The triumph of love is in the courage and integrity with which we inhabit the transcendent transience that binds two people for the time it binds them, before letting go with equal courage and integrity. Fuller’s exclamation upon seeing the paintings of Correggio for the first time, overcome with beauty she had not known before, radiates a larger truth about the human heart: “Sweet soul of love! I should weary of you, too; but it was glorious that day.” Jupiter and Io, Correggio, circa 1530 Arendt locates this fundamental fact of the heart in Augustine’s writings. A century after Kierkegaard asserted that [“the moment is not properly an atom of time but an atom of eternity,”]( she observes: The Now is what measures time backwards and forwards, because the Now, strictly speaking, is not time but outside time. In the Now, past and future meet. For a fleeting moment they are simultaneous so that they can be stored up by memory, which remembers things past and holds the expectation of things to come. For a fleeting moment (the temporal Now) it is as though time stands still, and it is this Now that becomes Augustine’s model of eternity. Augustine himself captures this transcendent temporality: Who will hold [the heart], and fix it so that it may stand still for a little while and catch for a moment the splendor of eternity which stands still forever, and compare this with temporal moments that never stand still, and see that it is incomparable… but that all this while in the eternal, nothing passes but the whole is present. Arendt hones in on the heart of the paradox: What prevents man from “living” in the timeless present is life itself, which never “stands still.” The good for which love craves lies beyond all mere desires. If it were merely a question of desiring, all desires would end in fear. And since whatever confronts life from the outside as the object of its craving is sought for life’s sake (a life we are going to lose), the ultimate object of all desires is life itself. Life is the good we ought to seek, namely true life. She returns to desire, which simultaneously takes us out of life and plunges us into it: Desire mediates between subject and object, and it annihilates the distance between them by transforming the subject into a lover and the object into the beloved. For the lover is never isolated from what he loves; he belongs to it… Since man is not self-sufficient and therefore always desires something outside himself, the question of who he is can only be resolved by the object of his desire and not, as the Stoics thought, by the suppression of the impulse of desire itself: “Such is each as is his love” [Augustine wrote]. Strictly speaking, he who does not love and desire at all is a nobody. […] Man as such, his essence, cannot be defined because he always desires to belong to something outside himself and changes accordingly… If he could be said to have an essential nature at all, it would be lack of self-sufficiency. Hence, he is driven to break out of his isolation by means of love… for happiness, which is the reversal of isolation, more is required than mere belonging. Happiness is achieved only when the beloved becomes a permanently inherent element of one’s own being. It is stunning to trace the line of these ideas across the life of Arendt’s mind. Decades after her doctoral days, she would compose her influential treatise on [how tyrants use isolation as a weapon of oppression]( — totalitarianism, in other words, is not only the denial of love but an assault on the essence of human beings. In the remainder of [Love and Saint Augustine]( Arendt goes on to examine Augustine’s hierarchy of love, the psychological structure of craving, the perils of anticipation, and the building blocks of that “love of the world” so vital to a harmonious life and a harmonious society. Couple it with Elizabeth Barrett Browning on [happiness as a moral obligation]( then revisit Arendt on [action and the pursuit of happiness]( [lying in politics]( [the power of being an outsider]( and [the difference between how art and science illuminate the human condition](. [Forward to a friend]( Online]( on Facebook]( donating=loving Every month, I spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars keeping The Marginalian going. For seventeen years, it has remained free and ad-free and alive thanks to patronage from readers. I have no staff, no interns, not even an assistant — a thoroughly one-woman labor of love that is also my life and my livelihood. If this labor makes your own life more livable in any way, please consider aiding its sustenance with a one-time or loyal donation. Your support makes all the difference. monthly donation You can become a Sustaining Patron with a recurring monthly donation of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a Brooklyn lunch.  one-time donation Or you can become a Spontaneous Supporter with a one-time donation in any amount. [Start Now]( [Give Now]( Partial to Bitcoin? You can beam some bit-love my way: 197usDS6AsL9wDKxtGM6xaWjmR5ejgqem7 Need to cancel an existing donation? (It's okay — life changes course. I treasure your kindness and appreciate your support for as long as it lasted.) You can do so [on this page](. ALSO [THE UNIVERSE IN VERSE BOOK]( [---]( You're receiving this email because you subscribed on TheMarginalian.org (formerly BrainPickings.org). This weekly newsletter comes out on Sunday mornings and synthesizes what I publish on the site throughout the week. 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