The fantasy novels of CS Lewis can barely touch the fanciful nature of love, but in
The Four Loves, his work on the subject feels so in tune with the complexity of its forms that it seems as if it MUST be written by some learned/aged Don Juan reflecting back on the lusts and loves of his past, so much so that you forget all about Lewis, the pasty white English professor and his faerie books.
The Four Loves made a strong impression on me in my youth. Perhaps I didn't, and maybe still don't, take his every word on love as the end-all truth, the absolute definition, the incontrovertible conclusion, but his ideas struck me as sound and intriguing in the very least. It's been quite some time since I last read this. I think it's due for a reread, as I'm curious to see how my perception has change.
