The Sharp Hook of Love by Sherry Jones Page A

my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, I relished the bristle of his unshaven cheek, his flavor like wine, his heat—Abelard, for whom I had ached these past months, Abelard at last. “I worry that the price will be too dear.”
    His voice broke and quivered. “For one night with you, my love, I would give my life, which, without you, would be no life at all.”
    His murmurs turned to whispers as he held me close, closer, kissing my ear, stroking my hair, my love, my lovely Heloise, words bubbling like a spring from his tongue. I, trembling against his chest, heard his heart’s beat and, playing like a song, his words more beautiful than any poem: my love my love my love.

9

    To her love most pure, worthy of inner fidelity; through the state of true love, the secret of tender faith.
    â€”HELOISE TO ABELARD
    T he sun shone more brightly, it seemed, after Abelard came to live in our home. Warm breezes blew across the city, delaying the autumn; the birds rivaled the morning trumpet with their cheerful song. No more did I tarry in the scriptorium and arrive home late for supper, but waited eagerly for Abelard’s arrival every day after the vespers bell. Home was where we all wanted to be—all, that is, except Jean, who scowled as the rest of us laughed at Abelard’s witticisms, and as he complimented Pauline on her cooking and begged her to divorce Jean and marry him. Even I joined in the merriment, I who had not truly laughed since my seventh year, when my mother and I had danced in the sunlight singing nonsense songs and wearing chains of daisies in our hair.
    As much as I enjoyed our suppers, however, I cherished the hours afterward even more, when Jean and Pauline’s son, Jean-Paul, had come to accompany his mother home and Jean and my uncle had retired. Then Abelard would join me in the study, and we would resume our lessons, in which I learned little of philosophy but much of love.
    He spared no effort to please me, plumping the cushion for my chair; presenting me with a pen made from the quill of a peacock; taking his seat so near that I could scarcely breathe—and yet I would not have had him move away, not even were I gasping for air.
    â€œHere you have wished me ‘the secret of tender faith’ through ‘the state of true love,’ ” he said one evening, critiquing the letters I had sent to him in Brittany. “You have mistaken spiritual love, caritas ”—he gestured toward the words I had written—“for carnal love, amor .” His fingers brushed against my arm, standing the hair on its ends, as he spoke the word carnal .
    â€œBut love is love. It is all the same.”
    â€œThen why do we utter one word for God’s love, another for the love of a friend, and another for erotic love?” His brusque tone made it clear that he did not expect an answer. “Of course a difference exists. Do you feel the same love for your uncle as you do for God?”
    I did not feel love for my uncle, but only gratitude and, at times, fear—but I forbore straying from the topic at hand. “Are you saying that different types of love exist because of the words we use? Having read your Dialectica , I am surprised to hear you take this position.”
    â€œYou have read Dialectica ?” Pleasure shone on his face.
    â€œI devoured every word.”
    â€œAnd what did you think of my arguments? The Count of Poitiers praised them as ‘skillfully and subtly written.’ ”
    â€œI cannot argue with that assessment, although I found the discourse rather too subtle at times. You dwell at length on the functions of words but little on the ideas which they express.”
    His expression changed. He slid his chair away from me. The chill night air blew into the space between us.
    â€œThe subject matter is too abstract for a woman’s mind,” he said.
    â€œAnd yet I did appreciate your theories about universals and