This chapter examines how early relationships become established relationships. It reviews varying relationship trajectories (e.g., ascent, peak, and descent) and then describes the three key components of the relationship that develop over time: love, intimacy, and commitment. First, the chapter defines and differentiates the various forms of love (e.g., passionate love, companionate love, compassionate love) and reviews how love develops and changes over time. Second, this chapter explores how interpersonal intimacy develops through repeated instances of self-disclosure and perceived partner responsiveness and how developing intimate relationships change the self. Third, this chapter reviews how people make and communicate their commitment decisions, as well as how social network members shape commitment. Finally, it provides an overview of common major transitions (cohabitation, marriage, parenthood) and some key challenges therein.

Tinder, other dating apps, ‘marriage for all’: some are turned off by the new world of love, others welcome it as an embodiment of greater freedom and self-determination. This chapter leads us back to the 1920s, when the question of who could love whom in what way and with what consequences was an issue, too. During the Nazi period, same-sex relationships were prohibited, as were those between Jews and non-Jews or between Germans and workers from Eastern Europe. In the early years of the Federal Republic, ‘mixed marriages’ between Catholics and Protestants were strongly opposed. Only gradually did the view that love was a private affair gain foothold. The state, too, had fallen out of favour as an object of desire, at least in the West. Whereas East German teachers had to instil in their pupils ‘love for the socialist fatherland’, Federal President-elect Gustav Heinemann remarked in 1969, in response to the question of whether he loved his country: ‘I love my wife. That’s all.’

Australian women writers have always been among the most internationally successful producers of anglophone romantic fiction. This chapter explores Australian romance novels from the mid-nineteenth to the early twentieth century to consider how Australian women writers thought and wrote about romantic love, marriage and gender relations. It argues that early Australian romances display unexpectedly unromantic misgivings about love and marriage for women, and that Australian women writers used the genre to argue that love, marriage and domesticity are not enough to make women happy and provide them with fulfilling lives. The novels of Rosa Praed and Marie Bjelke Petersen, among others, suggest that, in addition to love and a life partner, Australian women need the opportunity of meaningful work and a higher purpose to make marriage successful and to find satisfaction in their lives.

The intimate relationship between affect and the art of memory lies at the heart of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, this chapter argues, represented as a Platonic (and anti-Platonic) allegory of love. The art of memory – a colloquial term for an art or method that goes by many names, including artificial memory, the architectural mnemonic, and locational memory – is more than a rhetorical method of memorization, as traditionally understood. The origin story of the art of memory, its discovery by a poet who remembers a ruined edifice and the dead therein, instead suggests that this art was first and foremost a strategy of artistic creation: a poetics, as will be shown, whose affective power – the emotional force that makes it memorable by marking and moving both mind and body – derives paradigmatically from memories of love and stories about it. The ars memorativa meets the ars amatoria, the psyche and poetics, in Shakespeare’s Sonnets as throughout the poetic tradition that he remembers anew in metapoetic fashion.

In this chapter, we consider a group of philosophers who formed their views in opposition to voluntarist natural law. Although there are important differences between Spinoza, Cudworth, Shaftesbury, and Leibniz, all four were united by their opposition to voluntarism. For voluntarists, even natural law is a kind of positive law since it is created by God’s discretionary imposition. Against this, Cudworth complained that voluntarism makes morality “positive, arbitrary and factitious only” and unable to explain morality’s “eternal and immutable” character. Leibniz was also a critic of positivist law, and he subversively reinterprets law in terms of love. Justice, he says, is the “charity of the wise.” For his part, Spinoza opposes not just positivist law but law itself. Indeed, although his great metaphysical work is titled Ethics, it constitutes nothing less than a metaphysical reduction of ethical or normative categories. At the same time, he develops a deeply attractive account of human freedom that inspired thinkers to come (including Nietzsche). Shaftesbury draws mostly from Cudworth, but in a way that gives rise to the moral sense tradition of Hutcheson, Hume, and Smith.

There are few issues in South African politics, culture and literature more resonant, more freighted, more emotive, than land. Chapter 5 begins by observing the ongoing centrality of land and ownership, especially in the wake of land reform programmes and populist shifts in political rhetoric. Novels by Anne Landsman, Marlene van Niekerk and Damon Galgut engage in detail with the crucial question of ownership, which is linked to race. They explore connections between the abject, labour and ownership, with the bodily and affective experiences shared by white women farmers and their brown or black workers being central themes of each novel. These novels struggle to articulate answers to the challenges of land reform, but they also foreground intimate gestures of recompense. In relation to the ethics of care, and the practices associated with love, they mark an important beginning of the conversation between the post-apartheid pastoral on the one hand, and land reform on the other.

Romance was created in twelfth-century England and France for aristocratic patrons and audiences whose courtly lifestyle it idealized and celebrated; as the earliest genre to celebrate love as life’s goal, it was revolutionary. Initially translating Latin sources, romance authors innovatively combined pre-existing genres: classical epic’s historical drive was disrupted by the lyric’s focus on individual emotional experience, creating a new kind of narrative fiction. Where earlier heroes had sacrificed their lives fighting for great causes, the romance hero suffers and fights to prove his worthiness to a beloved, and wins marriage, wealth, and reputation as confirmation of his value. Here the fictional genre betrays its real-world ideological role: to justify the patriarchal, misogynistic, exploitative and exclusionary structures of aristocratic chivalric society, representing – literally romanticizing – its values as morally admirable. Within decades the romance took multiple paths: in the creation of pseudohistorical heroes and legendary pasts; in the limitless proliferation of fictional quests from King Arthur’s court; and in parody and critique, such as Chrétien de Troyes’s helplessly subservient Lancelot, or Marie de France’s assertive female protagonists. Finally, Thomas of Britain’s Tristan transforms the romance into tragedy, another new development in this most capacious and influential genre, forerunner of the novel.

This chapter explores the ethical tension between kinship and love in the realm of self-chosen marriages or ‘love-marriages’ in India. Central to the discussion are notions of personal autonomy as revealed in the deliberations of young people who must contend with normative ideas about acquiescing to marital ‘arrangement’ (by parents, elders, or kin) and who appear to eschew them by seeking to base their self-made kinship on love. In contrast, societal delineations of selfishness and selflessness play an unusually large part in narratives about love-marriages in North India and impose a measure of authenticity of self and of ethical distinctiveness between persons. This chapter seeks to explore the meanings of the ‘selfishness’ of love-marriages ethnographically by identifying bekhudiyat (literally, ‘losing the self’) as a form of self-forgetting that is poignantly linked to experiences of love and marriage in Delhi.

This chapter argues that emotions are a way of practicing community, that feeling rules delineate the boundaries of what is acceptable and who can be part of the communities imagined within medieval romance. Attentiveness to the diction of emotions offers a new and potentially rich avenue of inquiry into how courtly readers imagined connection. Emotion words function like a contract between people: they negotiate, enact, and destroy relationships. And in romance, these utterances most frequently misfire, sowing confusion, misunderstanding, and, most of all, despair among the lovers and knights who are propelled to repair the damage of these misperformances to their relationships. Emotional misfirings – the moments where love fails, or where shame, anger, and grief take over – are the very building blocks through which romance negotiates and narrates elite communities.

This essay reads the Roman de la Rose as taking up Ovid’s playful association of sex with the origins of human society. Jean de Meun’s Rose returns repeatedly to the narration of political origins – the fall from a Golden Age – imagining an idyllic communal past before it was shattered by conflict over wealth and women. These stories frame erotic desire as inevitably linked to the law and to possession, associating eros with desire for private property. I argue that Aristotle’s Politics functions as an unacknowledged literal referent that troubles the poem’s allegorical treatment of justice and social origins. Whereas Golden Age fables typically speak in unmarked terms about human comity and common possessions, Aristotle and medieval Aristotelian commentaries speak in terms of gendered power dynamics, masculine ownership and the fate of women as property. The Rose reveals the literal truths of scholastic philosophy to be in conflict with mythic truth, while anatomising the necessarily gendered dynamics of human sociality. In a political sphere in which women are considered in the same category as property, the heterosexual desire for possession will always be political. The Rose also leads us to consider whether the political, in turn, is always erotic.

This chapter explores how the concept of sympathy is explored and interrogated in three Elizabethan prose texts: John Lyly’s Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit (1578); Sidney’s The Old Arcadia (c. 1580); and Thomas Lodge’s Rosalynde (1590). Lyly’s Euphues represents an important transitional moment in the history of the concept, as it employs both the earlier Latin form sympathia and the newer English word sympathy to describe the ‘sympathy of manners’ between two male friends: Euphues and Philautus. It is argued that the pair share each other’s emotions because of a common set of circumstances, rather than sympathetic magic or humanist models of friendship. The chapter reads these three prose fictions in the context of other works that reproduce or complicate the notion of a ‘sympathy of affections’ between friends or lovers. Within this discourse we can see the term sympathy increasingly used to describe a correspondence of woe, or what the narrator of Anthony Munday’s translation of Palmerin (1588), in a suggestive modification of the trope, refers to as a ‘sympathy of afflictions’.

Chapter 1 explores the concept of nihilism in two works by the German writer Jean Paul. In “The Dead Christ Proclaims That There Is No God,” Jean Paul tries to follow the scientifically based denial of God to its logical conclusion to show that this leads to a horrifying view that no one can accept. In the work, Christ descends down to earth and declares that there is no God. A terrible scene of death and destruction follows, which provides a powerful image of nihilism. The rest of the chapter analyzes the novella The Valley of Campan. While “The Dead Christ” was concerned with refuting the denial of God, this work tries to refute the denial of the doctrine of immortality. A small group takes an excursion in the Valley of Campan in the Pyrenees, and they discuss the issue of immortality as they go. Each member of the group tries to convince the scientist Karlson of the truth of immortality, but he stubbornly refutes all their arguments. However, in the end he capitulates to the idea since he cannot bear the thought of the complete and final destruction of his beloved Gione. The argument is that it is impossible to live a happy life without belief in immortality.

Chapter 2 gives a reading of the obscure work The Nightwatches by the dramatist August Klingemann. The protagonist Kreuzgang is an odd outsider, highly critical of society around him. He is a night watchman, who goes out each night and observes people in their ordinary lives. Kreuzgang begins with some semblance of normalcy but then becomes increasingly disenchanted with the world until he finally fully embraces nihilism. Klingemann presents a mishmash of carefully framed scenes of horror and despair. It is a gallery of personalities with strange images and stories. People are portrayed as vain, pretentious, cruel, and hypocritical. The work raises the question of whether we, as human beings, are really anything beyond the social masks that we wear. Theater metaphors are often used to emphasize the idea there is nothing substantial in human life, but we are all playing meaningless roles, and then we die. Kreuzgang’s description of his fellow inmates in the insane asylum reveals an inverted world where what is usually accepted as reasonable by mainstream society is in fact irrational, and vice versa. The mad are the sane in an insane world.

Chapter 5 is dedicated to a reading of the drama by Georg Büchner entitled Danton’s Death. The work concerns the trial and execution of the French revolutionary Georges Danton and his comrades. By choosing the French Revolution as his background, Büchner sets the stage for a questioning of the meaning of human existence. The reader knows from the start that most of the main characters in the piece will end up on the guillotine. It is a cruel and inhuman world, where love and friendship play little role. The threat of death is everywhere, and suicide is a frequent theme. Danton represents a voice of nihilism. He despairs of the lack of meaning of human existence and even meets his death with a kind of indifference or even relief. He claims that since we will all die sooner or later, it does not really matter when it happens. The immediate situation of the prisoners awaiting their execution can be regarded as a metaphor for human life in general. Once we are born, we are all destined for death. There is no sign of redemption, reconciliation, or a peace in an afterlife. Death and life are equally meaningless. The world is a cruel and inhuman place, where we suffer merely to survive.

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.

For many in the late nineteenth-century Pater was a by-word for sensual pleasure and sexual licence, and it is this Pater that dominates Decadent Studies today. But many Victorians read Pater as recommending austere discipline and sensuous continence. Restraint can be read as central to Pater’s attempt to base a practical ethic on sceptical, aesthetic principles. Sense experience was crucially important to this ethic. But Pater repeatedly distinguishes between healthy, productive sensuousness, and a harmful sensuality that he associates with an excess of transience, disease, and death. He represents continence as evidence of the personal discipline that allows the aesthete to effectively filter the good from the bad, the healthy from the unhealthy, in objects or periods or people; as he put it, to make ‘use of the flower, when the fruit perhaps was useless or poisonous’. And although Pater always leaves interpretative space for continent eroticism, especially homoeroticism, in his texts, attending to restraint is crucial for understanding his late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century reception.