to the supernatural, every part of lifenmust — and does — seem a game, anclosed entity defined strictly by its ownnself-referentiality. Modern “philosophy”nassures us that such an entity isnsimply “reality,” and contemporaryn”criticism,” which is deconstruction,nseconds the conclusion.n”What we have lost,” Walter Sullivannconcludes, “—let me repeat it —nis a sense of the sacred in literature andnlife.”nChilton Williamson, ]r. is seniorneditor for books at Chronicles, andnthe author of, most recently. ThenHomestead.nLove’s Old SweetnSongnbyf.O. TatenErotic Faith: Being in Love FromnJane Austen to D.H. Lawrencenby Robert M. PolhemusnChicago and London: The Universitynof Chicago Press; 376 pp., $29.95nIonce had the privilege of hearingnProfessor Polhemus deliver some ofnthese pages as a lecture — the passagenon the terrible end of Miss Havisham innGreat Expectations, which I havenfound as superb to read in 1990 as itnwas to hear in 1986. I also oncenheard — and watched — him do annumber on The Old Curiosity Shop,nin which he not only recited a passagenfrom Dickens but came close to actingnout all the parts. When he is in thisnvein, we might say of him what BettynHigden said of a foundling in ChapternXVI of Our Mutual Friend: “‘Younmightn’t think it, but Sloppy is a beautifulnreader of a newspaper. He do thenPolice in different voices.'”nProfessor Polhemus can be a verynfunny man. He ought to be. After all,nhe is the author of Comic Faith: ThenGreat Tradition from Austen to Joycen(1980), in which he argued that therenwas promoted in a certain continuumnof fiction a comic sense that served as anunidng faith — a special religion of thenhumorous dispensation. That argumentnstands on its own merits; but Inthink that the earlier book’s case was an40/CHRONICLESnmore sustained exposition of a narrowernthesis.nNevertheless, the brilliance ofnPolhemus’s free-wheeling, vigorous,nand exhilarating textural forays, commentaries,nanalyses, and speculationsnin Erotic Faith cannot be denied. Nonone who cares about Dickens cannafford to miss “The Fixation of Love,”nPolhemus’s chapter on Great Expectationsnin Erotic Faith, and his dissectionnof the scenes of Miss Havisham’s combustionnand death needs to be read innits entirety.nAs we should expect, there are variousnother passages and chapters thatnthose who care about the British novelnand about literary criticism would notnwant to miss. Because Polhemus is anmaster of metaphorical investigation,nan accomplished wit, and an eloquentnexpositor, we can always find somethingnvaluable in his pages. I particularlynrelished, for example, the parts onnCharlotte Bronte’s Villette andnHardy’s Far From the MaddingnCrowd. But I also found that the morenI read of it, the less I was pleased withnhis book as a whole.nIn the first place, his argumentnabout the love religion is basically anrehash of what everyone has known forna long time. The rise of romantic lovenin the 12th century has always beennrecognized as a Christian heresy concurrentnwith the Cathars, one no doubtninfluenced by the Moors. Dante’s subtlenrendering of Paolo and Francescanputs romantic love in perfect perspective,nand implies a judgment lacking innPolhemus, though the sympathy is not.nPolhemus’s claim that “the novelistsn. . . created the job” of telling what itnmeans to be in love just isn’t true. Thentroubadours and other poets did, wellnbefore the British 19th century thatnPolhemus knows so well. And wenmight add that Vergil and Ovid and thenRenaissance and Restoration playwrightsnstood in the background, thenliterary memory of British novelists.nThere was romance before Romanticism,nlove before novels, passion beforenthe Brontes, coitus before Dr. Ruth,nand the War between the Sexes beforenfeminism (though not, of course, withnas much cause).nIn the second place, Polhemus hasndaringly thickened a complex argumentnwith an apparatus of art criticism.nI think he has not so much enriched hisnnnexposition as he has muddled it. Hisnanalyses of various paintings are provokingnand illuminating, but are anneedless counterpoint to an alreadyndemanding discourse. The interdisciplinarynexperiment reminds me thatnRobert K. Wallace’s fine books, JanenAusten and Mozart and Emily Brontenand Beethoven, are oddly missing fromnhis bibliographies — oddly, that is, fromna compiler who attempts to comparenthe arts while writing about Austen andnEmily Bronte.nA third point is a sag of standards ofnmind and expression. There could benonly one thing more dishearteningnthan seeing one of the most penetratingnminds in academe co-opted bynfeminist jargon — “sexism,” “gendernidentity,” etc. — and that is to behold anstraight-faced assertion that D.H.nLawrence’s absurd celebration of sodomynin Lady Chatterley’s Lover “has annintentional religious resonance.” Hownquickly, even in an extended essay, wenmove from Pride & Prejudice to analnintercourse, sliding down the slipperynslope.nI think Erotic Faith is underminednby an error that becomes more obviousnas the book proceeds, which is tonconfuse art and life. Even the cannynPolhemus stoops to pleading that ancertain fictional passage is “good”nbecause . . . life is like that: “Somehownthat mock prose [in Ulysses] reallyndoes represent the spirit and pleasurenof orgasm.” And a sentence like thenfollowing one must give us pause,nbeing both untrue about Erotic Faith,nand, I daresay, about erotic faith asnwell: “As I have tried to make clear,nwhat’s missing in nineteenth centurynnovels is the direct rendering of thosenmoments of high intimacy and religiousnoneness that sexual intercoursencan bring.” That’s a bit of a downernafter 282 pages — there’s somethingndefective with those same novels wenwere supposed to love for their eroticnpower! Robert Polhemus’s study seemsnto contradict itself in that way and innothers; but because of its striking insightsnand powerful arguments, thenbook succeeds. Whether the horse heninsistently beats — secular humanism,nsentimental version — is dead meat,nthat is another question.nJ.O. Tate is a professor of English atnDowling College on Long Island.n