". . .Heloise is consistent. She is also deeply willful, the least submissive self-proclaimed doormat in human history. Her abnegation is its own form of self-aggrandizement, a serpentine Mobius strip of pride. Even Etienne Gilson, whose sympathy for both lovers comes through on every page of his terrific study Heloise and Abelard, finds himself forced to note, "One hesitates to say this, but the passion for spiritual grandeur which is the secret source of their life story seems never to have been completely pure." Gilson portrays her, believably, as a woman whose thirst for heroism was her tragic flaw. Better to serve Abelard in Hell -- where she can find no reward, and thus face no accusation of self-interest, her heroism shining brightly and alone -- than to serve God in Heaven.


When I first read the Letters, I found it hard to sympathize with the lovers. I was an undergraduate, so I was very hard on Heloise's melodrama -- people enmeshed in melodrama themselves tend to judge other players very harshly. Abelard came across as creepily detached and self-absorbed: She pours out her anguish, he replies with the gas bill and the grocery list.

This time around, I approached them more tenderly. Heloise is shockingly lonely, having followed her love for Abelard -- the one piece of herself she clings to -- into a desolate plain where neither lover nor God can be found. Meanwhile, Abelard fumbles through his responses and attempts to efface himself from their correspondence as completely as possible. He throws himself away with both hands. She never surrenders; he never does anything else. He was prepared to love God by his prior love for Heloise, his superior in so many ways. She had no similar preparation, since idolatry, devotion to what is less than oneself, is the opposite of love of God. . ."

posted by maggie at 3:28 PM | link

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