Alain de Botton is one of those authors I love to hate. The man is apparently a genius when it comes to writing fiction, as his last six novels can demonstrate, but that’s not reason enough. My personal tipping point for slipping into fond hatred from casual jealousy occurred about ten minutes ago when, while in the midst of doing some background research, I realized this prolific author �?? whose carefully structured prose, witty insights, and dazzling (to the point of near blindness) erudition will surely destine some if not all of his novels to the realm of classics �?? is a mere two years older than yours truly who, I’m sure I needn’t remind you, hasn’t published a scrap of fiction. This, ladies and gentlemen, is how critics are born.But I digress. In keeping with this valentine-themed LitD issue, I’d like to tell you about de Botton’s first novel, Essays in Love �?? or, as it is known here in America where we stupidly might mistake a book thusly titled to be non-fiction, On Love. (The joke is on me, of course because I still can’t decide whether to call it fiction posing as fact or fact posing as fiction. Note for example that On Love is cleverly divided into essay-like chapters with such stirring titles as “The Subtext of Seduction,�? “Marxism,�? and “The Fear of Happiness.�?)

Regardless of its placement in the library sciences hierarchy, On Love is a masterful examination of the process of finding and losing love. From the emotional, psychological, and physiological effects that falling in love elicits to the even more dramatic consequences of losing love, de Botton’s novel engages as it observes, questions, and remarks. The opening paragraph of the first chapter, “Romantic Fatalism,�? establishes the posit/inquiry/response dynamic found in any good essay or thesis:

The longing for a destiny is nowhere stronger than in our romantic life. All too often forced to share our bed with those who cannot fathom our soul, can we not be forgiven if we believe ourselves fated to stumble one day upon the man or woman of our dreams? Can we not be excused a certain superstitious faith in a creature who will prove the solution to our relentless yearnings? And though our prayers may never be answered, though there may be no end to the dismal cycle of mutual incomprehension, if the heavens should come to take pity on us, then can we really be expected to attribute the encounter with this prince or princess to mere coincidence? Or can we not for once escape rational censure and read it as nothing other than an inevitable part of our romantic destiny?

Our nameless narrator then goes on to describe how he randomly meets and falls in love with Chloe in the economy section of a British Airways flight from Paris to London, thereby describing the impetus for the chapter title:

Through romantic fatalism we avoid the unthinkable thought that the need to love is always prior to our love for anyone in particular…My mistake had been to confuse a destiny to love with a destiny to love a given person. It was the error of thinking that Chloe, rather than love, was inevitable…But my fatalistic interpretation…was at least proof of one thing: that I was in love with Chloe.

Through the novel, de Botton continues to explore the natural progression of relationships as if the narrator and Chloe are subjects in some metaphysical experiment. Each stage corresponds conveniently to the essay-chapter title, such as: Idealization (“What is so frightening is the extent to which one may idealize another, when one has such trouble even tolerating oneself.�?); The Subtext of Seduction (“For those in love with certainty, seduction is no territory in which to stray. Every smile and every word reveals itself as an avenue leading to a dozen if not twelve thousand possibilities.�?); and Speaking Love:

Inexplicably from a semantic point of view, it suddenly seemed clear to me that I did not love Chloe so much as marshmallow her…the word seemed to capture the essence of my amorous state with an accuracy that the word love, weary with overuse, simply could not aspire to…And from then on, love was…a sugary, puffy object a few millimeters in diameter that melts deliciously in the mouth.

Of course, de Botton discourses on loss and redemption as well, but I’d hate to give away too much. On Love is purely-crafted fiction written with a meticulous, methodological approach found more often in non-fiction. Already a decade old, it continues to stand the test of time and will surely be on the shelves �?? er, my shelves at any rate �?? for at least one jealous decade more.