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The History and Psychology of Love—and What It Reveals About Love Itself

The Sacrifice of Isaac, by Caravaggio.
The Sacrifice of Isaac, by Caravaggio. Before romantic love, the highest form of love was directed not to another person, but to God.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Many of us expect romantic love to make us whole, tell us who we are, and even give our lives meaning. But these expectations are surprisingly recent—and may help explain why modern love so often disappoints us.

The meaning of love has changed over the centuries. Today, we tend to think about love primarily in terms of romantic love. But, if you consider it, the concept of romantic love barely features among the 66 books of the Bible. The two greatest ‘love’ stories in the Bible are not of husband and wife, nor even of man and woman, but of man and man, and woman and woman: David and Jonathan, and Ruth and Naomi.

When Love Belonged to God

Instead, all love in the Bible is directed at God, and the love for the spouse, and more generally for the other, is subsumed under the love of God, of which it is an expression. Thus, in the Sacrifice of Isaac, Abraham’s love for God trumps his love for his own longed-for son Isaac, whom he is willing to sacrifice for no other reason than that God commanded it.

In ancient times, people did sometimes fall in love, but they did not believe that their love might in some sense save them, as we tend to today.

When, in the Iliad, Helen eloped with Paris, sparking the Trojan War, neither she nor he (nor anyone else) conceived of their attraction as pure or ennobling or exalting. When, in the Aeneid, Dido fell in love with Aeneas, Virgil portrays her love as a kind of divine affliction that distracts both lovers from their duties and ends in ruin and death. One might also think of Phaedra and Hippolytus, Medea and Jason, and Antony and Cleopatra.

The Rise of Romantic Love

But over the centuries, the sacred seeped out of God and into romantic love, which came to take the place of the retreating religion in lending purpose, weight, and meaning to our lives. People had once loved God, but now they loved love: more than with their beloved, they fell in love with love itself.

Abraham had surrendered himself and Isaac out of love for God. But in the Romantic era, around the time of the French Revolution, love grew into quite the opposite: a means of finding and validating oneself, of lending texture, substance, and solidity to one’s life—as encapsulated by Sylvester’s 1978 hit, You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real), the final kissing scene in Cinema Paradiso, the ‘You complete me’ scene in Jerry Maguire, and countless other popular songs and films.

In the time of God, ‘finding oneself’—or, more accurately, losing oneself in God—had demanded years of patient spiritual practice. But after the French Revolution, romantic love could come to the rescue of anyone, with very little effort or sacrifice on their part. Being saved became a simple matter of luck.

If love is a word with a meaning that has changed over time, it is also a word with multiple meanings, one that points at a diversity of distinct concepts with only a family resemblance between them.

What Is Love?

Unlike us, the Greeks had several words for love, enabling them to distinguish more clearly between the different types. For example, eros referred to sexual or passionate love; philia to friendship; storge to familial love; and agape to universal love, such as the love for strangers, nature, or God.

Having many more words for ‘love’ enables us to think and talk about love in new and different ways. For example, we might say that people in the early stages of a romantic relationship often expect unconditional storge, but find only the hunger and dependency of eros, and, if they are lucky, the maturity and fertility of philia. Or, like Plato, we might say that the best kind of philia is one that is born of eros, and that in turn feeds back into eros to strengthen and develop it, transforming it from a lust for possession into an impulse for philosophy.

But if we are to understand the deep meaning of the word ‘love’, then we need to uncover what all these different types of love have in common. In other words, what is it that unites eros, philia, storge, and agape? What is the common element that makes them all types of love?

What all these instances of love have in common, I think, is a reaching out beyond our own being to things that are able to lend purpose, weight, and meaning to our lives, even to the point of ingesting or incorporating those things into our inner being—whence the hug, the love bite, and the sacramental bread and wine of the Eucharist.

Love is the force of nature that enables us to cross the boundary between ourselves and the world, like the lobster, to shed our shell and grow beyond it—which is why people with little love are so small.

Romantic love can do this. But it can also do the opposite. If we ask it merely to complete us, validate us, or save us, it closes us in upon ourselves instead of opening us to the world. In that case, romantic love works against the very meaning of love.

The question each of us must ask is this: Am I loving another person—or am I asking them to save me?

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If this essay spoke to you, you might also look into For Better For Worse, an unconventional exploration of romantic love, marriage, and lasting relationships. For a broader exploration of love, desire, jealousy, and the emotions that shape our lives, see Heaven and Hell: The Psychology of the Emotions.

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What Kissing Reveals About Us

Gustav Klimt: The Kiss
Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss (1907–08). Few human gestures have carried more meanings than a kiss.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Kissing is not universal among human beings and, even today, there are some cultures that have no place for it. This suggests that the behaviour is not purely innate or intuitive, as it may seem to us, but culturally shaped and historically variable—one of the ways in which human beings negotiate the boundary between self and other.

It could be that kissing is a learnt behaviour that developed from ‘kiss feeding’, the process by which mothers in some cultures feed their infants by passing masticated food from mouth to mouth. Yet, there are some present-day indigenous cultures that practise kiss feeding but not social kissing. Another possibility is that kissing is a culturally determined form of grooming behaviour, or, in the case of deep or erotic kissing, a representation of, substitute for, and complement to penetrative intercourse.

Whatever the case, kissing behaviour is not specific or unique to human beings. Primates such as Bonobo apes frequently kiss one another; dogs and cats lick and nuzzle one another and members of other species; even snails and insects engage in antennal play. It could be that, rather than kissing, these animals are in fact grooming, smelling, or communicating with one another, but even so, their behaviour implies and strengthens trust and bonding.

Ancient Kisses

Vedic texts from Ancient India seem to talk about kissing, and the Kama Sutra, which probably dates back to the second century CE, devotes an entire chapter to modes of kissing. Certain anthropologists have suggested that the Greeks learnt about erotic kissing from the Indians after Alexander the Great invaded India in 326 BCE. But even if true, this need not mean that erotic kissing originated in India, or that it does not predate the oral roots of the Vedas.

In Homer’s Iliad, which dates back to the ninth century BCE, King Priam of Troy memorably kisses the hand of Achilles in pleading for the return of Hector’s defiled corpse:

Fear, O Achilles, the wrath of heaven; think on your own father and have compassion upon me, who am the more pitiable, for I have steeled myself as no man yet has ever steeled himself before me, and have raised to my lips the hand of him who slew my son.

In the Histories (fifth century BCE), Herodotus speaks of kissing among the Persians, who greeted men of equal rank with a kiss on the mouth and those of slightly lower rank with a kiss on the cheek. Herodotus reports that, because the Greeks ate of the cow, which was sacred to the Egyptians, the Egyptians objected to kissing them on the mouth.

Biblical Kisses

Kissing also features in the Old Testament. Disguised as Esau, Jacob deceives his blind father Isaac and steals his brother Esau’s blessing, sealing the deception with a kiss. When Jacob returns after years of exile, Esau runs to him, embraces him, falls on his neck, kisses him, and they weep. Naomi, insisting that her Moabite daughters-in-law Ruth and Orpah remain in Moab to make new lives for themselves, kisses them farewell, and they weep. Absalom wins the hearts of Israel by kissing all who come to him seeking justice. In the Song of Songs, which celebrates sexual love, a lover implores, ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine.’

The Roman Art of Kissing

Under the Romans, kissing became much more commonplace. Romans kissed their partners or lovers, family and friends, and rulers. They distinguished a kiss on the hand or cheek (osculum) from a kiss on the lips (basium) and a deep or passionate kiss (suavium).

Roman kisses fulfilled a range of purposes, from the political and legal to the social and sexual. The status of a Roman citizen determined the part of the body—ranging from cheek to foot—on which he or she would be allowed to kiss the emperor. In an age of widespread illiteracy, kisses served to seal agreements—hence the ‘X’ on the dotted line, and the expression ‘to seal with a kiss.’ Couples were wed by kissing before a gathering, a practice that carries on to this day.

Kissing and Desire

Roman poets such as Catullus and Martial treat erotic kissing as something far removed from sentimental delicacy. Kissing is intensely physical, emotionally charged, and often unsettling in its implications.

In Catullus, kisses emerge within the turbulence of erotic attachment and jealousy, where intimacy is inseparable from fear of loss and replacement. ‘Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?’ is not celebratory, but a bitter imagining of desire redirected elsewhere.

In Martial, kissing becomes more explicitly corporeal and public in character, sometimes figured as excessive or intrusive—an act that overwhelms the boundaries of the self and edges into domination or comic excess.

Across both poets, kissing is less a gentle emblem of love than an occasion in which desire becomes unstable, contested, and materially insistent. In short, in Roman poetry, kissing is not a symbol of love so much as one of its problems.

The Holy Kiss

Customs changed with the decline of Rome. Early Christians often greeted one another with a ‘holy kiss’, which was believed to lead to a transfer of spirit. The Latin anima means both ‘breath of air’ and ‘soul’, and, like animus [mind], comes down from the Proto-Indo-European root ane- [to breathe, blow]. Although St Peter had spoken of the ‘kiss of charity’, and St Paul of the ‘holy kiss’, early Christian sects omitted kissing on Maundy Thursday, the day of the year on which Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. Outside of the Church, kissing was used to cement rank and social order, for instance, subjects and vassals kissed the robe of the king, or the slippers or ring of the pope.

The Rise of Romantic Love

After the fall of Rome, the romantic kiss (as distinct from other types of kiss) becomes less prominent in surviving literature for several centuries, before re-emerging in new forms with the rise of courtly love from the late eleventh century. The kiss in Romeo and Juliet is emblematic of this long cultural trajectory, which sought to remove courtship from the purview of family and broader society and celebrate romantic love as a liberating, self-determining, and potentially subversive force.

The fate of the star-crossed lovers reminds us that such carefree abandon is not without risk, and it may be that vampirism evolved as a representation of the dangers—to health, rank, reputation, prospects, and happiness—of crossing too easily between selves.

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If this essay spoke to you, you might look into Heaven and Hell: The Psychology of the Emotions.

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What Kantian Aesthetics Reveals About Human Nature

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Essay substantially revised on 17 August 2026.

Kant’s third critique, The Critique of Judgment, was published in 1790, two years after the Critique of Practical Reason. Although it did not receive the immediate attention of the previous two critiques—some even dismissed it as the product of senility—its historical impact has been significant. Kant himself looked upon it as the completion of his critical project.

Kant’s first two critiques had left us inhabiting two very different worlds: the deterministic world of nature and knowledge, and the free world of morality. The purpose of the Critique of Judgement was to serve as ‘a bridge between realms’ and help bring these two worlds together.

Hierarchy of the Arts

Kant has much to say about beauty in both art and nature, beginning with the fine arts. He established a hierarchy of the arts based on their capacity to engage the imagination and understanding, and their potential for moral and intellectual improvement and the stimulation of afterthought (Nachdenken). First came the speaking arts of poetry and rhetoric, then the ‘formative arts’ such as painting, sculpture, and architecture, and, finally, the ‘arts of the play of sensations’ such as music. Schopenhauer, by contrast, would place music at the top of the hierarchy.

Nature as a Model

For Kant, nature, which appears purposive (Zweckmäßig) to the human mind, is the model or standard for artistic beauty. An appreciation of natural beauty suggests a moral disposition, whereas even ‘a hardened old usurer’ could take an interest in art—pointing to the pre-eminence of natural beauty. The artist (genius) aims to create art that appears as if it were a product of nature.

The core of aesthetic judgement of both nature and art is the perception of ‘formal purposiveness’, or ‘purposiveness without a purpose’ (Zweckmässigkeit ohne Zweck), which allows for the ‘free play’ of the cognitive faculties and leads to aesthetic pleasure.

When Friedrich Schiller (d. 1805) wrote that a person ‘is only fully human when he is at play’, he was building on Kant. When contemplating beauty, or playing, we temporarily escape the tyranny of practical ends. We engage in something not because it leads to something else, but because it is worthwhile in itself.

The Four Moments of a Pure Aesthetic Judgement

For Kant, a pure aesthetic judgement has four complementary aspects, or ‘moments’, based on the logical functions of judgement: quality, quantity, relation, and modality. These are, respectively, disinterested satisfaction, universal subjectivity, purposiveness without a purpose, and necessary delight.

Disinterestedness: Our satisfaction in beauty must be purely disinterested, that is, without any consideration for instrumentality (for example, the utility of the vase, the worth of the painting), moral significance, or even existence. Our focus ought to be purely on the contemplative experience of the object itself. In other words, we ought to look upon the object, or its beauty, not as a means to an end but as an end in itself. If something merely satisfies or gratifies our appetites, it is agreeable rather than beautiful.

Thus, Canary wine is merely agreeable—unless, it has been argued, we adopt a disinterested attitude towards it, swishing it and spitting it out.

Universal subjectivity: When we call something beautiful, we expect other disinterested, right-thinking people to agree with our judgement, as if beauty were an inherent property of the object. The agreeable, on the other hand, is a ‘private feeling’, and we are not indignant if others do not share our penchant for blue cheese or anchovies. Whereas the judgement of the agreeable is born out of our personal characteristics, the judgement of beauty is disinterested and grounded in cognitive faculties that we have in common with every other human being.

Here again, in his aesthetics as in his morality, is this Kantian notion of the objectivity of intersubjectivity. Judgements of taste are neither purely subjective (based solely on individual pleasure), as Hume believed, nor purely objective (based on a perfect standard in the object itself), as Baumgarten believed. Instead, they are an expression of the free play of the cognitive faculties that all human beings have in common.

Purposiveness without a purpose: Beauty does not reside in an object’s instrumentality. Nor is it an inherent property of the object. Instead, the judgement of beauty arises from the object’s form displaying a ‘purposiveness without a purpose’. The object’s form appears to have been designed with some indeterminate purpose, exhibiting order and harmony. ‘Beauty is a form of purposiveness in an object, so far as this is perceived in it apart from the representation of an end.’

Kant argued, controversially, that the ingénue is at greater liberty to enjoy the beauty of a flower than is the botanist, who gets caught up in the various ends of the flower and its parts. Kant’s philosophy of beauty significantly influenced the development of a movement in art criticism known as formalism, which emphasises compositional elements such as form, colour, and spatial arrangement over content or context.

Necessary delight: The object is the source of necessary pleasure or satisfaction. Even though this pleasure is not an objective property of the object, it is grounded in an a priori principle of the mind, namely, the free play of the cognitive faculties, especially the imagination and understanding. As such, it ought to be universally shared and acknowledged.

The Experience of Beauty

The feeling of beauty, uniquely, bridges the divide between the deterministic world of nature and knowledge and the free world of judgement and morality. In experiencing beauty, we reveal our dual nature: we belong to the phenomenal world of cause and effect, but also to the noumenal world of reason and freedom. Computers, and non-rational beings, do not straddle these two worlds.

But there is another reason why a computer could never experience beauty. A computer might learn which patterns human beings call beautiful. It might recognise a beautiful face, predict our aesthetic preferences, and even generate a poem, picture, or piece of music that moves us. But recognising, predicting, or even producing beauty is not the same as experiencing it.

For Kant, beauty is not simply a property to be detected. It is a feeling that arises from the free play of our cognitive faculties, and from our disinterested contemplation of an object without regard to what it can do for us. A computer is always directed towards an end, and has no opportunity or desire to stop and admire the view.

For Kant, then, beauty gives us a glimpse of a world in which nature and freedom, reality and our highest aspirations, are somehow reconciled. Beauty, in other words, is a vision of heaven on earth—which is why we should value beauty and surround ourselves with beautiful things.

Beauty and beautiful things make the world feel like a better place, a place, finally, that feels like home.

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To explore Kant’s ideas in their historical context—and discover how they influenced Hegel, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche—see my book, The German Greeks.

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The Psychology and Philosophy of Humiliation

Teddybear hanging out of a trouser pocket

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Essay substantially revised on 31 August 2026.

Nemo congressu, nemo aditu, nemo suffragio, nemo civitate, nemo luce dignum putet.

Let no one deem him worthy of company, of admittance, of support, of citizenship, of the light of day.

— Cicero, In Vatinium

Embarrassment, shame, guilt, and humiliation all imply the existence of value systems. Shame and guilt arise primarily from self-appraisal, whereas embarrassment and humiliation arise from the perceived appraisal of others, even if those others exist only in imagination. The distinction between embarrassment and humiliation is that embarrassment often results from our own social missteps, whereas humiliation is imposed upon us through the degrading actions of others.

Jamie tells his teacher that he forgot to do his homework. He feels embarrassment. The teacher reveals this to the whole class. Now he feels even greater embarrassment. The teacher makes him sit in a corner facing the wall, and the whole class laughs at him. This time, he feels humiliation. Had the teacher discreetly given Jamie a failing grade, he would have felt not humiliated but offended. Offence arises primarily from the perception that we have been wronged, insulted, or treated contrary to our values or expectations. Humiliation, on the other hand, arises from the perception that we have been debased, degraded, or stripped of dignity in the eyes of others. Compared to embarrassment, humiliation tends to be more socially exposing and more threatening to one’s sense of status or self-worth.

The mediaeval motif of Aristotle and Phyllis depicts the great philosopher on all fours, bridled and ridden like a horse. Yet, according to the story, Aristotle consented to the arrangement out of lust for Phyllis. Consent can transform the meaning of an otherwise degrading act—which is why the philosopher Gilles Deleuze argued that a true masochist could never fulfil the fantasies of a true sadist.

The Latin root of ‘humiliation’ is humus, which means ‘earth’ or ‘dirt’. Humiliation involves abasement of honour and dignity and, with that, loss of status and standing. We all make certain status claims, however modest they may be, for example, ‘I am a competent doctor’, ‘I am a happily married mother’, or even, ‘I am a human being’. When we are merely embarrassed, our status claims are not seriously undermined—or if they are, they are easily recovered. But when we are humiliated, our status claims cannot so readily be recovered because, in this case, it is our very authority to make status claims that has been called into question. Usually, a person in the run of being humiliated is left stunned and speechless, and, more than that, voiceless. When criticising people, especially people with poor self-esteem, we must find the line between disputing their claims and denying their standing to make those claims.

In short, humiliation is the public failure (or severe undermining) of one’s status claims. It is the experience of having one’s dignity, status, or standing publicly diminished, especially in a way that invites contempt, ridicule, or loss of respect. Private failures may lead to shame, grief, or painful self-realisation, but they are humiliating only insofar as one sees them through the eyes of others.

Notice that humiliation need not be accompanied by shame. Jesus may have been crucified and humiliated, but he surely did not feel any shame. Secure people with the courage of their convictions rarely feel shame at their humiliation—which is, in essence, an attempt to discredit them and their claims.

The Uses of Humiliation

Still today, humiliation is a common form of punishment, abuse, and oppression. Conversely, the fear of humiliation is ordinarily thought to deter crime, and history has devised many forms of humiliating mob punishments. Pillories and stocks restrained victims in a degrading position while people gathered to taunt and torment them. The last recorded use in England of the pillory dates back to 1830, and of the stocks to 1872. Tarring and feathering, which emerged in feudal Europe, involved covering victims with scalding pine tar and feathers before parading them on a cart or wooden rail. In Game of Thrones, Cersei Lannister is stripped and sheared and forced to walk through the streets of King’s Landing to jeers and cries of ‘Shame!’ The ordeal is aimed not merely at punishing her, but at destroying her status claims as a queen and, ultimately, as a person.

In traditional societies and American universities, ritual humiliation can serve to enforce a particular social order, or to reinforce that the group takes precedence over its individual members. Many tribal societies feature complex initiation rites designed to defuse the threat posed by fit, fertile, and often arrogant young men to the male gerontocracy. These rites sometimes include a painful circumcision, which is symbolic of castration.

In more complex, hierarchical societies, the elites go to great lengths to display and defend their social standing, while the lower orders submit to prescribed degrees of abasement. As a society becomes more egalitarian, such rituals are increasingly resented and resisted, which can give rise to violent outbursts and outright revolution. Thus Meghan Markle, who came from a more egalitarian society, famously mocked the practice of curtseying to Queen Elizabeth II, while her husband the duke squirmed by her side.

Because elites live by their pride, and because they embody their people and culture, their humiliation can be especially poignant and emblematic. In 260 CE, the Roman emperor Valerian, after losing the Battle of Edessa, arranged a meeting with Shapur I, the Shahanshah (King of Kings) of the Sassanid Empire. Shapur betrayed the truce and seized Valerian, holding him captive for the rest of his life. According to some accounts, Shapur used Valerian as a footstool when mounting his horse. After Valerian offered Shapur a huge ransom for his release, he was flayed alive or, by another account, made to swallow molten gold. His skin was then stuffed with straw and displayed as a trophy. Even if these accounts of humiliation are invented, or grossly exaggerated, they were invented for a reason.

Humiliation and Human Dignity

Humiliation need not involve aggression or coercion. People can readily be humiliated through more passive means such as being ignored or overlooked, taken for granted, or denied a right or privilege. They can also be humiliated by being rejected, abandoned, abused, betrayed, or used as a means to an end.

Immanuel Kant (d. 1804) argued that, by virtue of their reason and free will, human beings are not means to an end but ends in themselves, with a moral dimension that invests them with dignity and the right to ethical treatment. Therefore, to humiliate people, that is, to treat them as something less than ends-in-themselves, is to deny them their very humanity. Kant sought to ground human dignity in metaphysics; but even if this project must fail, civilisation requires us to behave as if it were a brute fact of nature.

Humiliation can befall anyone at any time—and this is all the more true in the age of social media. As British Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change, Chris Huhne was a credible contender for the leadership of the Liberal Democrat Party. But in February 2012, he was charged with perverting the course of justice over a 2003 speeding ticket. His ex-wife claimed that he had coerced her into accepting the penalty points on his behalf. Huhne resigned from the Cabinet while denying the charge. When the trial opened in February 2013, he changed his plea to ‘guilty’, resigned as a Member of Parliament, and left the Privy Council. By the end of this sorry saga, he had traded a seat in Cabinet for a mattress in a prison cell. Every twist and turn of his downfall had been chronicled in the media, which went so far as to publish highly personal text messages between him and his then 18-year-old son that laid bare their fractious relationship. In a video statement for the 2007 Liberal Democrat Party leadership election campaign, Huhne had stated: ‘Relationships, including particularly family relationships, are actually the most important things in making people happy and fulfilled.’ Although his misdemeanours had been mundane—Huhne was hardly Jack the Ripper—his humiliation could not have been more complete.

Why Humiliation Is Worse Than Death

When we are humiliated, we can almost feel our heart shrivelling. For many months, sometimes years, we may be preoccupied or obsessed by our humiliation and its real or imagined perpetrators. We may respond with anger, fantasies of revenge, sadism, delinquency, or terrorism, among others. We may also internalise the trauma, leading to emotional disturbances such as fear and anxiety, flashbacks, nightmares, sleeplessness, paranoia, social isolation, apathy, depression, and suicidal ideation.

Severe humiliation is, arguably, a fate worse than death itself, insofar as death merely destroys our life, whereas humiliation destroys our standing as well as our life—and leaves us standing, ghostlike, to survey the ruins. For this reason, prison inmates who have suffered severe humiliation are routinely placed on suicide watch.

It is in the nature of humiliation that it undermines the ability of victims to defend themselves against their aggressors. In any case, anger, violence, and revenge are ineffectual responses to humiliation because they do little to reverse or repair the damage done. Victims of humiliation have to find the strength and self-esteem to come to terms with their humiliation—or, if that proves too difficult, abandon the lives that they had made in the hope of starting in another.

I notice that, throughout this essay, I have subconsciously chosen to refer to the subjects of humiliation as ‘victims’, and to the perpetrators as ‘aggressors’. This suggests, along with Kant, that humiliation is rarely if ever a measured or justified response.

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