Saturday, September 11

the moronic religion of eros

My title refers to the alternate name of the story of Tristan and Iseult. I made it up because I find them stupid. Iseult's mother was the stupidest woman on earth. She made a potion that would render the two that partook of it endlessly subjected to a bond of human love between them. It would be their idol, their god of everlasting importance that overmasters them effortlessly. (Don't you just love alliteration?) Well, what happens when the wrong people drink of it? What then?

Even by accident, it causes the downfall of two people who do not deserve to fall by such witchcraft. They must be absolved of their guilt, of course, because the potion must dissolve the bonds of free will and therefore make them inhuman, demons. Can you imagine being the figure behind the mask in your own nightmare?

Their worship of Truth and Beauty and every good thing becomes a twisted freakish obeisance to every whim of lust.

The potion they drink tastes like wine, and it is something like the fruit of the vine used for holy communion with the Holy Spirit. Instead of bringing them closer to reality in truth and purity, which in their drugged stupor they mistake, it brings them closer to each other in physical embrace.

They made a pilgrimage to The Cave of Lovers after they were banished from her husband's kingdom. That cave is their temple, a Mecca for their love. The great marble bed stands like an altar in the center of the cave, where nothing is sacrificed to any higher cause than a couple's sex drive.

The real problem I have with this is not that they were actually given over to it, but that the author goes through the motion of writing about them as if they were in the right! It is enough to bring tears to the eyes that there was somebody with such stupidity given the gift of literacy.

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