I nominate my own book, Spheres of Change: A guide to you singing your song.
What is love? Jesus was a warrior for love, and who came with a sword. A sword is a weapon of war. Can there be war on behalf of love?1 What is its truth? To respond, it is necessary to distinguish between being a warrior and a solider. A warrior is named by war, a soldier is named by soulde ‘(soldier's) pay,’ from Latin solidus. A warrior fights in the name of his/her cause while a solider does so for pay. A true warrior, moreover, fights for truth, and this cannot be bought or sold.
Why? Truth is of betrothal, of engagement, and the object of betrothal is marriage, union with the Beloved, and true love is given freely, not bought or sold, commercialized love, love degraded and debased. What of the warrior? Does this mean that the warrior fights because he or she loves war? Yes, if 'war' means a 'good fight.' A true warrior fights for what is good, and this is not necessarily what is conventional, accepted, or understood. However, how does one know what is true? What is true love? However the topic is considered, the problem of love has never been simply one problem among others. But never as much as at present has it invaded, as much, the global horizon of the most diverse researches and the most heterogeneous discourses, diverse and heterogeneous in their intention, method, and ideology...The Wolfman feels his chin itching with new growth, and he scratches it.
VOILÀ, THE WOLFMAN GROWS A BARD!
In Shakespeare's work, the Wolfman imagines the talk of heterogeneous discourses, diverse and heterogeneous in their intention, method, and ideology beginning with a bit from As You Like It.
Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me; at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking, proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him, that I drave my suitor from his mad
humour of love to a living humour of madness, which was to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him, and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in ’t. (As You Like It, Act 3, Scene 2)2
Love is neither infatuation (moonishness) nor lust (pornography, venality). How so? Consider desire, wolf-man pondered. He wanted to recall the place before he became a failure and thought of, when thinking of love, the harmonic series. That is the Place, the fundamental tone, and things became dark. The dark earth; he could smell the scent of the Earth, and it was death. Lucifer could smell ashes. Towering infernos, blazing in the hellish night. A rich, powerful nature. Shouting voices. He wanted to run – to where? He wanted to embrace his destruction, run into the pit. Then he saw prisoners, uniforms and barracks, a work camp. It did and it didn't exist.