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The Real Power of Generosity

Sharon Salzberg

April 19, 2015

When we think about generosity, most of us probably don’t think immediately of a powerful force, an inner resource, a real tool for changing how we relate to ourselves , to others and to our world.

Instead, we may think of it similarly to how we think of kindness or compassion — qualities that are gentle, tender, potentially self-effacing — and, as a big misconception, more aligned with weakness than strength. Largely this is because, culturally, we think of generosity purely in terms of the act of giving something up for someone else. This dynamic, by definition, implies at least some degree of self-sacrifice.

Generosity is more than just “giving up.” Generosity generates its power from the gesture of letting go. Being able to give to others shows us our ability to let go of attachments that otherwise can limit our beliefs and our experiences. It might be in our nature to think, “That object is mine for X, Y or Z reason.” But that thought can simply dissolve. This doesn’t just happen passively; we choose to let it through the cultivation of generosity. It is in that choice to dissolve that we carry ourselves to a state of greater freedom.

Our attachments might want to put a cap on our generosity and say, “I will give this much and no more,” or “I will give this article or object if I am appreciated enough for this act of giving.” But it is through the practice of generosity that we learn to see through the attachments, and create space for ourselves.

This doesn’t mean generosity eradicates all attachment automatically or immediately. When we practice the act of simply observing our attachments through acts of generosity, they loosen. They become less opaque, less solid. In that place, we can find greater spaciousness in our minds and tap into a greater sense of inner happiness.

From there, we can continue a deep investigation, cultivating further strength and flexibility to look at everything in our experience this way.

In other words, generosity can make us happier! According to sociologists Christian Smith and Hilary Davidson in their new book The Paradox of Generosity , there is a scientific, inarguable connection between generosity and happiness. Smith and Davidson surveyed 2,000 individuals (comprised of 40 families in 12 different states, all from different classes and races) over a five-year period about their spending habits and lifestyles. The participants who identified as “very happy” were those who reported volunteering for 5.8 hours per month; among those who donated more than 10% of their income, participants reported lower depression rates.

Smith and Davidson also found that participants who were emotionally generous in relationships — through giving love and emotional availability — were in much better health (48%) than those who were not (31%). In short, being able to step outside of oneself and give is an essential ingredient for happiness.

The idea that we benefit from being generous may seem like a strange thing to think about. Does that knowledge somehow taint our generous actions, making them corrupted and selfish? No. I think it’s OK to practice generosity knowing that it is beneficial to ourselves as well as to the recipient. It’s not selfishness, it’s an honest recognition that love and generosity creates an exchange of positive energy, and fuels further love and generosity.

I’m asked this all the time by meditation students who want to create better lives for themselves as well as others, but who feel a little squeamish when thinking about bolstering their own happiness through giving. I commonly respond with, “Seeing how the universe operates, having a sense of conditionality and cause and effect, that generosity brings happiness to the giver, isn’t selfish — it’s science!”

Our tendency is to look at other people around us and see them as “other,” that they are fundamentally disconnected from us. It’s self-protective but also keeps us at arms length from others and ourselves. Thinking of the world in this dualistic way causes us to feel a tighter grip on our habitual thoughts that tend to inform the way we act and define ourselves.

The most common problem happens when we act generously along with feeling a strong expectation for our offering to be received by another in a particular way: I want to give you that present because it will make you like me, or, I will bring my coworker a coffee so that she will say something nice about me to our boss. By contrast, a nourishing generosity emerges when we give without the need for our offering to be received in a certain way, perhaps wishing to be recognized or validated, but not needing it. When generosity lets go of these kinds of expectations, it is a movement toward freedom. That is how and why generosity can be a force, a resource, a tool.

The Buddhist tradition says that whenever the Buddha was teaching lay people, he would always begin with a teaching on generosity because it can bring so much joy and self-respect. This is a good platform from which to look at all of our experiences, including very painful ones, and not feel overwhelmed by them. And, it is said, the Buddha always began talking about generosity because we all have something to give. It might not be material. It might be paying attention to someone. It might be listening fully. It might be smiling at someone, or thanking them. These are all displaying generosity of the spirit.

Generosity is the bread and butter of feeling connected in our lives — to ourselves, to others, and to life itself. And it’s a practice. “I might read it next year even though it’s been sitting on that bedside pile for 4 years,“ or “I don’t know what advantage it is to me to pay attention to you,” or “If I give you this, I wonder if you’ll give me that,” or “How loudly and vociferously will you thank me?” You can experiment with making certain thoughts like these. They are the signal to take a deep breath, relax our grip, and take a chance on generosity.

Contributors

Sharon Salzberg is one of the original three young Americans who traveled to India in the 1960s and ‘70s and introduced Buddhist meditation into mainstream Western culture. She is a globally renowned meditation teacher and co-founder of the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts. Her books include Real Happiness , Lovingkindness , and most recently, Real Change: Mindfulness To Heal Ourselves and the World .

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The Moral Quality of Our Own Intentions Is What’s At Stake

Written by Sharon Salzberg

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The Importance and Benefits of Generosity

The Importance and Benefits of Generosity

March 26, 2023

Introduction

Generosity is a trait that has been praised and admired throughout history. From the charitable acts of Mother Teresa to the generous donations of Bill Gates, generosity has played a crucial role in making our world a better place. But generosity isn’t just about giving money or material possessions; it’s also about showing others your time, energy, and empathy. In this blog post, we’ll explore why being generous is important and how it can benefit you and those around you. So sit, unwind, and explore the beautiful world of generosity!

What is generosity?

Generosity is being kind and giving, especially with your time or money. When generous, you put others first without expecting anything in return. Charity is about giving more than you can afford and is often a way to show your love for someone.

Being generous doesn’t mean giving away all your possessions or constantly putting others before yourself. It simply means finding ways to help when you can, whether picking up a shift for a coworker or donating to a worthy cause. Generosity is often its reward, but there are also some science-backed benefits of being generous.

For one, generosity has been linked with happiness. In one study, people who gave money to charity were happier than those who didn’t. And in another study, people who performed acts of kindness were more satisfied than those who didn’t.

There is evidence suggesting that being generous is associated with improved physical health. For instance, one study found that individuals over 50 who volunteered for two or more organizations had a 44% lower chance of dying over five years than those who didn’t volunteer. In addition, another study discovered that people who assisted others had a reduced likelihood of developing high blood pressure compared to those who did not offer help.

So if you’re looking for ways to be happier and healthier, consider being more generous

Why is generosity important?

Being generous is one of the most crucial things you can do for yourself and others. Generosity has many benefits, including making you happier, improving your relationships, and helping those in need.

When you exhibit generosity, you are offering something that does not incur a high cost to you but can profoundly impact another person. Such an act of kindness has the potential to bring joy and light to their day and even improve their life. Even a small act of generosity can make a meaningful difference in someone’s life.

Being generous also makes you feel good about yourself. It’s a great way to boost your self-esteem and confidence. When you give to others, it feels good knowing that you have helped make someone’s life better.

In addition to making you feel good, being generous also improves your relationships. People will start to see you as kind and caring when you are always giving. They will be more likely to want to be around you and be your friend.

Lastly, one of the most important reasons to be generous is because it helps those in need. So many people in the world are less fortunate than we are. When we give to them, we are helping make their lives just a little bit easier. Even if we cannot alter the world, we can impact someone’s life by being kind.

The benefits of generosity

Generosity is often described as the quality of being kind and giving. It is a virtue that can be applied in many ways, from donating money to charities to volunteering your time to help others.

Many benefits come from being generous. One of the most obvious benefits is that it makes you feel good. When you give to someone else, it feels like you are making a positive difference in their life, which can help boost your mood and self-esteem.

Being generous can also help build strong relationships. When you give to others, they are more likely to reciprocate, creating a cycle of giving that strengthens your bond with them. Additionally, generosity can inspire others to give more, creating a ripple effect of kindness.

Finally, generosity has been shown to affect the giver positively. Studies have found that people who give regularly have lower blood pressure and longer lifespans than those who do not. So not only does generosity make you feel good, but it is also good for your health!

How to be more generous

Generosity is often thought of as giving money to charity, but it can be so much more than that. Generosity is about being kind and giving without expecting anything in return. It’s about changing someone else’s life, even if it’s just a little bit.

There are many ways to be more generous. You can give your time, energy, or resources. You can also be more generous with your words and actions. Here are some suggestions for how to improve:

Give your time: Volunteer for a local organization or spend time with someone who may need some company.
Give compliments: A kind word goes a long way and can brighten someone’s day.
Give donations: If you have the means, consider donating to a cause or charity that is important to you.
Pay it forward: When you receive generosity, be generous to others when you can.

Generosity has many benefits. It can make you happier and healthier, help build stronger relationships, and improve the world. So next time you have the opportunity, consider being more generous!

Generosity is a powerful emotion that can bring immense joy and satisfaction to our lives. Not only does it make us feel more connected to the people around us, but it can also lift our spirits and make us happier. Furthermore, generosity helps us create meaningful relationships with others, increases creativity, boosts self-esteem, and contributes to a healthier society overall. Therefore, if you have ever felt disconnected from those around you or unsatisfied with your life somehow, being generous could be the answer that unlocks all the answers!

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Understanding the True Purpose Of Giving: The Joy in Generosity

Aurora Simon

As human beings, we are wired to seek joy and fulfillment in our lives. While there are many ways to achieve this, giving to others has been found to be one of the most impactful and rewarding experiences. The Purpose Of Giving goes beyond materialistic gain and instant gratification, but instead, it brings a sense of purpose and meaning to our lives.

Table of Contents

When we give, we experience a sense of joy that cannot be found through any other means. The act of giving triggers a release of endorphins in our brains, making us feel happier and more fulfilled. It allows us to connect with others deeper and creates a sense of unity and compassion within our communities.

Giving has countless benefits, from improving our mental and physical well-being to strengthening our relationships with others. In the upcoming sections, we will explore the various reasons for giving, the impact of giving on our communities and the world, and how we can cultivate a culture of giving in our society.

Why Giving Matters

Giving is not just an act of kindness but a powerful tool for personal growth and social change. At its core, giving is about connecting with others and positively impacting the world. Here, we will explore the significance of giving and the many benefits it can bring to our lives.

What is the Purpose of Giving?

The purpose of giving is to create a sense of community, to help those in need, and to foster a spirit of generosity and empathy. When we give, we contribute to the betterment of society, reinforcing our shared values and beliefs. At the same time, giving can help us connect with others, build relationships, and experience the joy and fulfillment of helping others.

Why is Giving Important?

Giving is important because it allows us to impact the world, no matter how small positively. Whether we give our time, money, or resources, our acts of generosity can create a ripple effect, inspiring others to do the same. Moreover, giving can help us develop a sense of purpose and meaning in our lives, contributing to our overall well-being and happiness.

What are the Benefits of Giving?

Many benefits arise from giving, both for the giver and the recipient. For the giver, giving can enhance our sense of self-worth, promote feelings of compassion and empathy, and foster personal growth. Giving can also improve our mental and physical health, reducing stress and promoting a sense of well-being. For the recipient, giving can provide much-needed relief, support, and assistance, helping them overcome adversity and achieve their goals.

Ultimately, giving is a transformative act that can bring joy, fulfillment, and a sense of purpose to our lives. Whether we give to others, to charity, or to our communities, we can positively impact the world and inspire others to do the same. So let us embrace the spirit of generosity and compassion and make giving a part of our daily lives.

The Benefits of Giving

Giving has numerous benefits that extend beyond assisting those in need. Research has shown that those who regularly give experience positive effects such as increased happiness and improved well-being. These benefits are not only experienced by the giver, but they also profoundly impact the recipient and the community as a whole.

The benefits of giving include:

Additionally, giving back to the community can positively impact society. Charitable acts not only benefit the individual, but they also contribute to the greater good of the community. Donating to a charity, volunteering, or simply helping a neighbor can ignite a ripple effect of kindness and inspire others to give.

giving back to the community dance event

“No one has ever become poor by giving.” – Anne Frank

The Joy of Giving

Giving is often accompanied by a sense of joy and fulfillment. Seeing the positive impact that one’s actions have on others can be an advantageous experience. Scientific studies have also shown that the joy experienced from giving is comparable to the feeling of happiness one experiences after receiving a gift.

When we give, we also develop a greater gratitude for what we have and a deeper appreciation for the simple things in life. Giving provides a sense of purpose and meaning, allowing individuals to feel as though they are making a positive difference in the world around them. This feeling of significance and fulfillment makes giving such a powerful and rewarding experience.

Giving Back to the Community

One of the most significant ways to give is by giving back to our communities. Whether volunteering our time, donating resources, or supporting local businesses, giving back can help create a positive impact on society as a whole. Investing in our communities can help create a better tomorrow for ourselves and those around us.

Communities comprise individuals, families, businesses, and organizations working together to achieve common goals. When we give back, we become an integral part of this ecosystem, providing support, resources, and guidance where needed most. Our contributions can help strengthen the fabric of the community, fostering a sense of pride and belonging among its members.

There are many ways to give back to our communities, from volunteering at local events to supporting local businesses to donating to charitable causes. The key is to find a reason or organization that resonates with your values and passions, and then commit to supporting it however you can.

When we give back to our communities, we help those around us and experience a sense of fulfillment and purpose. Giving back allows us to connect with others, build new relationships, and positively impact the world. It reminds us that we are all connected and that our actions, no matter how small, can make a difference in the lives of others.

Finding Joy in Giving to Charity

One of the most rewarding forms of giving is donating to charitable causes. It allows us to positively impact the world and create meaningful change in the lives of others. The joy of giving to charity is unparalleled, as we see firsthand the difference that our contributions can make.

Charitable giving can take many forms, including monetary donations, volunteering our time and skills, or donating goods and services. Whatever form it takes, giving to charity allows us to make a tangible difference in the world and bring joy and hope to those in need.

Not only does giving to charity benefit those on the receiving end, but it also brings joy and fulfillment to the giver. Research shows that giving to charity releases endorphins in our brains, leading to increased happiness and well-being.

Giving to charity can also help us feel more connected to the world around us. Through supporting causes that align with our values and beliefs, we can feel a sense of purpose and belonging, knowing that we are making a difference in the lives of others.

Finally, giving to charity can also be a powerful way to inspire others to join in the spirit of generosity. By sharing our giving stories and encouraging friends and family to get involved, we can create a ripple effect of positive change that reaches far beyond our contributions.

“When I donated to my local animal shelter, I never expected how much joy it would bring me. Seeing the happy faces of the pets and the shelter workers made me feel like I was making a real difference in the world. Plus, I was able to connect with other like-minded individuals who were passionate about animal welfare. It was an experience that brought me immense joy and gratitude.”

The Impact of Giving on Others

When we give to others, we not only benefit ourselves, but we also make a positive impact on the lives of those around us. Our actions of generosity can inspire kindness and positivity, fostering a culture of giving that extends far beyond our sphere.

Whether it’s a small act of kindness or a significant contribution to a charitable cause, our giving has the power to transform lives. By sharing our resources and time with others, we can help provide crucial support to those in need, creating a ripple effect of change that reaches far beyond our immediate community.

Moreover, the act of giving can inspire others to follow suit, creating a domino effect of kindness and generosity. When we selflessly give to others, we encourage those around us to do the same, amplifying the collective impact of our actions.

“A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees.” – Amelia Earhart

By acting as a role model and inspiring others to give, we can help nurture a culture of giving that encourages compassion, empathy, and a sense of community. Through acts of kindness and generosity, we can come together and create a better world for all.

Cultivating Generosity for Inner Growth

When we give from our hearts, we receive much more than we give. Giving is not only about providing material or financial support to others, but it is also about cultivating inner growth, gratitude, and a sense of purpose in our own lives.

Generosity is a way of life that involves developing a giving mindset and a willingness to serve others. It requires us to shift our focus from our own needs to the needs of others, creating a ripple effect of positivity in our lives and the lives of those around us.

As we cultivate generosity, we learn to appreciate the simple things we may have taken for granted. Giving helps us develop deeper empathy and compassion towards others, ultimately leading to a more fulfilling and enriching life.

Moreover, generosity not only benefits us as individuals but has the power to transform entire communities. When we lead by example, our giving inspires others to follow suit, creating a culture of generosity and kindness that can bring about significant positive change.

In a world where materialistic desires often take center stage, cultivating generosity provides a counterbalance that promotes personal and collective growth, love, and happiness.

“The practice of generosity is as much about receiving as it is about giving. When we give from a place of love and compassion, we receive joy, inner peace, and a deeper sense of connection to others and the world around us.”

Giving as an Expression of Love

One of the most profound reasons for giving is the opportunity it provides to express our love to those around us. Whether it’s our family, friends, or even strangers, giving allows us to show compassion, kindness, and generosity, all rooted in love.

When we give to others, we are saying, “I care about you, and I want to make your life better.” This act of selflessness not only helps the recipient but also strengthens our own connections and relationships. By giving, we create a sense of belonging and unity that resonates throughout our communities.

At the heart of giving as an expression of love is the idea that we are all connected, and our actions have the power to inspire and uplift others. As we give to those around us, we create a ripple effect of positivity that spreads far beyond our own circles.

So, whether it’s a small act of kindness or a significant gesture, giving as an expression of love can bring joy and fulfillment to both the giver and the recipient.

“The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in.” -Morrie Schwartz

Inspiring Others Through Giving

One of the most beautiful outcomes of giving is its ability to inspire others. When we act to help others or contribute to a cause we care about, we set an example for those around us. Our acts of generosity can help create a ripple effect that inspires others to join us in giving back.

Whether donating to a charity, volunteering at a local organization, or simply offering a helping hand to a neighbor in need, our actions can inspire those around us. Seeing the impact that giving can have on others can motivate people to take action and make a difference in their own way.

Through our acts of giving, we can also instill a sense of compassion and empathy in those around us. When we show kindness and generosity, we promote a culture of empathy and inspire others to do the same.

As we inspire others through giving, we also benefit from the joy and fulfillment that comes from helping those in need. It’s a win-win situation that benefits the recipient and brings joy and satisfaction to the giver.

So let’s continue to inspire others through our acts of giving, creating a world filled with compassion, empathy, and generosity.

Overcoming Barriers to Giving

Giving is often associated with financial donations, but it can also include giving our time, skills, and resources to make a positive impact. However, many people may feel hesitant to give due to various reasons. Here are some common barriers to giving and suggestions for how to overcome them:

By recognizing and overcoming these barriers, we can embrace the joy of giving and make a positive impact on our communities and beyond.

Nurturing a Culture of Giving

Imagine a world where giving is a way of life, where everyone feels compelled to help those in need, and where kindness and compassion are the norm. This is the culture of giving that we should strive to nurture, both as individuals and as a society.

But how do we create a culture of giving? It starts with each one of us. We can inspire by example, showing others the joy and fulfillment that comes with giving. Whether it’s volunteering at a local charity, donating to a cause we believe in, or simply offering a helping hand to those in need, our acts of giving can inspire others to follow suit.

Another way to nurture a culture of giving is to make it a part of our everyday lives. We can look for opportunities to give back to our communities, whether it’s through small acts of kindness or larger initiatives. We can encourage our friends and family to do the same, creating a ripple effect of positivity that can spread far and wide.

It’s important to recognize that giving doesn’t always have to involve money or material possessions. We can give our time, our skills, and our support to those who need it most. By doing so, we can create meaningful connections with others and forge a sense of purpose in our own lives.

Ultimately, nurturing a culture of giving requires a shift in mindset. We need to recognize the inherent value of generosity and compassion, and we need to prioritize these values in our own lives. We can start by reflecting on the impact that giving has had on our own lives, and then consider how we can pay it forward to others.

Promoting a Culture of Giving in the community

By nurturing a culture of giving, we can create a better world for ourselves and future generations. We can inspire positivity, promote kindness, and make a profound impact on the world around us. So let us all embrace the joy of giving and work towards a brighter future for all.

FAQ – Frequently Asked Questions about Purpose Of Giving

Q: Why is giving important?

A: Giving allows us to make a positive impact on the lives of others and our communities. It also benefits us by promoting personal growth, a sense of purpose, and improved well-being.

Q: What are some benefits of giving?

A: Giving promotes personal growth, gratitude, and a sense of purpose. It also strengthens relationships and enhances overall well-being.

Q: How can I overcome barriers to giving?

A: Start small, set giving goals, and find causes that resonate with your values. Additionally, surround yourself with like-minded individuals who also prioritize giving.

Q: How can I find a charity to give to?

A: Research organizations that align with your values and have a proven track record of making a positive impact. Websites such as Charity Navigator or GuideStar can provide helpful information and resources.

Q: What is the impact of giving on others?

A: Giving can have a profound impact on the lives of others, fostering compassion, and inspiring positivity. It can also create a ripple effect of positive change and inspire others to join in the spirit of generosity.

Q: How can I cultivate a culture of giving?

A: Encourage and model giving behaviors, volunteer in your community, and support organizations that promote giving and generosity.

Q: Can giving be an expression of love?

A: Yes, giving allows us to express love and strengthen our connections with loved ones and the broader community.

Q: How can giving cultivate inner growth ?

A: Giving promotes gratitude, a sense of purpose, and personal growth, leading to a greater understanding of ourselves and the world around us.

Q: How does giving back to the community create a positive impact?

A: Giving back to our communities promotes a sense of belonging and fosters positive relationships. It also helps create a positive impact on society by addressing social and economic challenges.

About the author

With an enduring passion for human potential, I have dedicated my life to learning, growing, and most importantly, empowering others to discover their own unique paths to self-improvement. As a personal development blogger, I distill the wisdom gathered from various life experiences, books, seminars, and thought leaders to provide you with actionable insights and tools for your own growth. I believe that each one of us is capable of extraordinary things, and my mission is to help you unlock that potential. Join me on this journey of self-discovery, and together let’s cultivate a life filled with purpose, fulfillment, and joy. You can contact us here.

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The Values of Christmas: Love, Family, Generosity, and Gratitude

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THE JOY OF GIVING: The more you give of yourself, the more you find of yourself

We all know how great it feels to receive gifts. However, the joy of getting is short-lived. Our lives are richer when we share, and that great inner joy comes from helping others to better their lives.

Truly giving from the heart fills your life with joy and nourishes your soul. Giving provides an intrinsic reward that’s far more valuable than the gift. As Mahatma Gandhi said, “To find yourself, lose yourself in the service of others.”

Giving takes you out of yourself and allows you to expand beyond earthly limitations. True joy lies in the act of giving without an expectation of receiving something in return.

Academic research and thousands of years of human history confirm that achieving meaning, fulfillment, and happiness in life comes from making others happy, and not from being self-centred. Mother Teresa is a famous example. She found fulfillment in giving of herself to others. She helped change the expression on dying people’s faces from distress and fear to calmness and serenity. She made their undeniable pain a little easier to bear.

Adventure, Height, Climbing, Mountain, Peak, Summit

When people are asked why they give, the readiest answers include: God wants me to; I feel better about myself; others need, and I have; I want to share; it’s only right. The question I would ask is how did you feel? I imagine you felt very pleased with yourself and happy inside.

It has been my experience that when you’re focused on giving to others you’re less likely to become consumed by your own concerns and challenges. Giving provides an opportunity to look beyond our own world and see the bigger picture.

A great perspective can be achieved by stepping out of our own world and venturing into the world of other people. Your worries and challenges may not seem as significant when compared to other people’s situations.

The act of giving kindles self-esteem and brings happiness. Scientists have discovered that happiness is related to how much gratitude you show. After several years of soul searching, I discovered that my unhappiness was due to my want for things to fill the void of loneliness.

My search for inner happiness led me towards gratitude. During this process of self-realization, I also discovered “ The Purpose of Living.” Yes, I believe that giving thanks makes you happier. But don’t take my word for it—try it out for yourself.

The power of giving and the joy of helping others

Giving is one of the best investments you can make towards achieving genuine happiness. True giving comes from the heart, with no expectation of reciprocation. You’ll find that the more you give, the more you’ll receive.

Frog giving another frog flowers - The joy of giving

The power of giving is manifested in the kindness and generosity that you bestow on someone else. When you give to another unselfishly, the vibrational energy emitting from your subconscious is at its strongest. The power of giving, according to neuroscience, is that it feels good.

A Chinese proverb says: “If you always give, you will always have.” A famous American author and management expert, Ken Blanchard, declared “The more I give away, the more comes back.”

If you find yourself feeling unhappy, try making someone else happy and see what happens. If you’re feeling empty and unfulfilled, try doing some meaningful and worthwhile work and see how you feel. The catch is that you must do this work with passion and enthusiasm.

There are many organizations, institutions and people who are engaged in exemplary works of giving. Narayanan Krishnan is a management graduate from Madurai, India who gave up his career as chef with a five-star hotel when he saw a man so hungry that he was feeding on his own excreta. From there on Krishnan started his noble initiative to feed thousands of destitute and homeless people in his state—free of cost.

Another example of giving is Sanjit “Bunker” Roy, founder of the Barefoot College . Since graduating from college in 1965, Mr. Roy has committed his life to serve the poor and to help rural communities become self-sufficient. The Barefoot College education program encourages learning-by-doing, such as training grandmothers from Africa and the Himalayan region to be solar engineers so they could bring electricity to their remote villages.

It’s the joy and love that we extend to others that brings true happiness or union with God. When we give, we reap the joy of seeing a bright smile, laughter, tears of joy and gratitude for life . We know that if people give just a little more—of their time, skills, knowledge, wisdom, compassion, wealth and love—the world would be a more peaceful and healthier place.

The rewards of giving are priceless. If you want to have happiness, you need to give happiness. If you want love, you need to give love. It is only in giving that you receive. No matter what your circumstances in life, you have the ability to give.

I encourage you to look for opportunities where you can give and help others. The gift of joy will come to you when you give of yourself to others. That’s what life is all about. Let’s practice and commit our lives to giving joy. Try it! It works!

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Generosity Is How Love Smiles

Martin buber and the xmas/holiday spirit.

Posted December 23, 2011

generosity makes love shine

Researchers from the University of Virginia's National Marriage Project studied the role of generosity in the marriages of 2,870 men and women.

They found what they describe as generosity ranks in the top three as a predictor of marital happiness along with sexual intimacy and commitment.

Studying generosity in relationships couldn't be timelier or more central to helping couples develop more loving relationships. But what does generosity in a relationship mean? How do we distinguish between when a partner is extending themselves generously as opposed to over-extending themselves and possibly being taken advantage of or stoking their own feelings of resentment?

And what does that have to do with Martin Buber and the Christmas spirit?

Is there anything that can be stuffed in a Xmas stocking or beneath a Hanukah bush that will increase trust, healing and love?

the smile of generosity

In order to determine whether a partner demonstrates real generosity - the above average kind - a quiz was administered to marital partners. Sample questions include these four items: How often do you express (1) Affection or love? (2) Respect or admiration? (3) How often do you perform small acts of kindness for your partner (like making him or her coffee)? (4) How often do you forgive your partner for their mistakes or failings?

Participants in the quiz were asked to respond to these questions on a continuum. Choices ranged from ‘Never' to ‘Seldom' to ‘Sometimes' to ‘Often' to ‘Always.'

The test was scored this way -- a partner who responded that they often express love or affection and respect or admiration, often perform small acts of kindness, often forgive their partner for mistakes and failings would NOT be considered an above average or genuinely generous partner.

Does that surprise you? It astounds me. It calls into question the way generosity is being defined in the study.

A consistency of kindness that shows no variance whatsoever raises concerns as to whether it is genuinely heartfelt as opposed to rote or learned behavior - role-playing.

Is it humanly possible to be generous, according to this test's standards, without qualifying for canonization?

And is that the kind of generosity, unstinting giving, that we are most wanting to underscore and study?

Let's explore the concept of generosity further.

Is generosity like some form of confetti that you have at the ready on all occasions regardless of what is going on? Isn't it connected and responsive to the atmosphere and activities in your relationship?

Is a person - someone who always and unfailingly does the loving thing - available for contact when issues require acknowledgement and/or acceptance of the grit and gristle of everyday difficulties in living?

I and Thou: the meeting of minds

Martin Buber differentiates two modes of relationship. One is intimate, a meeting of minds. In this type of connection, he termed it an ‘I-Thou' bond, participants are indeed generous with their sense of mutual acknowledgement and attention . In the second, the more common mode - termed ‘I-It' - people engage each other for utilitarian, impersonal purposes. If the language suits you, consider the I-Thou mode sacred, loving, deeply personal and profoundly generous.

The ‘I-It', business-like mode, has little to do with generosity of spirit but may include kind gestures. The intention to grasp another's inner experience is not involved in the ‘I-It' mode. This is what I missed from the research-based exploration of the concept of generosity done at the University of Virginia.

You make coffee for your partner day and in and day out. What can make the difference between this being a comforting ritual as opposed to a mechanical routine?

Perhaps if you discuss how you and/or your partner feel about the regimen it would make a difference? What is their attitude? Do they take your kindness for granted? Does it warm their heart? Whether they actually do take you for granted or not, do you feel appreciated? Do they reciprocate? Not necessarily in a quid pro quo fashion but with a spirit of generosity in return.

Kindness rendered without feeling or even awareness does not necessarily develop intimacy or healing.

Discussion that brings back a sense of awareness can refresh a spirit of generosity if it is there. Discussion can develop this spirit if it is missing.

If you are the person who prepares the coffee - and you can substitute any act of kindness for the making of coffee to make this conversation relevant to you - do you long for reciprocity? For acknowledgement? Appreciation? Do you wish your partner would prepare the coffee for you occasionally?

Perhaps you would be performing an act of generosity to yourself if you initiated a dialogue with your partner on any regular exchange that you feel is taken for granted? That's another dimension of generosity - giving to your own self - that also figures into the overall topic.

Care to share your thoughts about generosity with me? That would make me feel gifted ! I'd consider you generous for taking the time to do so. We may even have a meeting of the minds - I promise to respond - and create an I-Thou moment.

xmas cookies

Happy Holiday and Best Wishes for the New Year!

Remember, love and good feelings are plentiful yet elusive; I'll be around to help you locate and develop them in the Middle Ground.

Marty Babits is Co-Director of Family and Couples Treatment Service, a division of the Institute for Contemporary Psychotherapy in New York City.

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4 Lessons John’s Gospel Teaches Us about Love and Generosity

Updated august 29, 2023 | jayson d. bradley.

Becoming more like Jesus is the goal of all spiritual formation. John says it this way, “By this we may know that we are in him: whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked” (1 Jn. 2:5–6).

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While there are many Christ-like traits to focus on, sacrificial, generous giving is one of the most important. As his letter progresses, the Apostle John goes on to link Jesus’ selfless love to our own generosity:

“By this we know love, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers. But if anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth” (1 Jn. 3:16–18)

Here are a couple important points we need to pull out of these three sentences:

1. We don’t have to define love for ourselves

If you ask ten people what love is, you’ll get many different responses. Like anything else, we all have opinions we’ve culled from our cultural influences. But love is too important a concept to leave to us to figure out on our own, so God has demonstrated what love is through Jesus Christ.

Love is defined by sacrifice. Even the qualifiers in 1 Corinthians 13 are proofs that, in order to love, we need to be willing to give things up. For example:

Love is patient: the lover sacrifices their timetable
Love is kind: the lover lays aside their own feelings
Love doesn’t envy: the lover gives up their greedy desires
Love doesn’t boast: the lover passes on opportunities to elevate their own accomplishments

Even the Bible’s most well-known verse is a testimony to love being defined by generosity and sacrifice. John 3:16 explicitly tells us that “God so loved the world that he gave . . .” And what did he give?

He sacrificed his only begotten son.

2. There’s no limit on generosity

How much should we be expected to give? That very question reveals a misunderstanding of love, but it’s indicative of our nature that just wants to be given the entry-level requirement in any expectation. We just want to be told what we need to do to get by.

John says that Jesus was willing to make the greatest sacrifice. He was willing to give his very life. Love doesn’t withhold. Love doesn’t say, “the price tag is too high.”

It’s not enough that John defines love by pointing at Jesus’ death; he goes on to place an expectation on Christ’s followers to be willing to make the same level of sacrifice for each other.

3. To love is to give

Thankfully, very few of us will ever find ourselves in a position to give up our lives for another. The problem is that we can tell ourselves we would, knowing that we’d never have to, and then convince ourselves that we love like Christ.

John knows better, so he goes on to lay out more pedestrian examples of love. He tells us that if we know of a need but don’t respond, it’s time to seriously reconsider our understanding of God’s love.

It’s also interesting to consider that—no matter what reasons we have for justifying our lack of response to need—John lumps it all together as “closing our ears to the poor.”

4. Love isn’t simply a philosophy

In the end, loving others is infinitely more valuable than defining love. We might articulate the value of love in our books, sermons, conferences, and platforms, but the only thing that truly matters is that we’re doing it.

God’s not calling us to write a three hundred word essay describing love. He’s calling us to practice sacrificial, generous love. We need to be careful that we’re not convincing ourselves that talking about loving is fulfilling Christ’s call to give. James reminds us, “be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves” (James 1:22).

In the end, true, Christ-like generosity is an act of faith. As we give generously of our time, our talents, and our resources, we’re trusting that it’s having a real impact. It can be hard to believe our little gifts can stem the tide in the world’s tsunami of need.

Generosity requires the faith that God can multiply what we give him and is truly blessing the world with our sacrifices—and I believe that he is.

“And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that having all sufficiency in all things at all times, you may abound in every good work” (2 Cor. 9:8).

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This essay focuses on personal love, or the love of particular persons as such. Part of the philosophical task in understanding personal love is to distinguish the various kinds of personal love. For example, the way in which I love my wife is seemingly very different from the way I love my mother, my child, and my friend. This task has typically proceeded hand-in-hand with philosophical analyses of these kinds of personal love, analyses that in part respond to various puzzles about love. Can love be justified? If so, how? What is the value of personal love? What impact does love have on the autonomy of both the lover and the beloved?

1. Preliminary Distinctions

2. love as union, 3. love as robust concern, 4.1 love as appraisal of value, 4.2 love as bestowal of value, 4.3 an intermediate position, 5.1 love as emotion proper, 5.2 love as emotion complex, 6. the value and justification of love, other internet resources, related entries.

In ordinary conversations, we often say things like the following:

I love chocolate (or skiing).
I love doing philosophy (or being a father).
I love my dog (or cat).
I love my wife (or mother or child or friend).

However, what is meant by ‘love’ differs from case to case. (1) may be understood as meaning merely that I like this thing or activity very much. In (2) the implication is typically that I find engaging in a certain activity or being a certain kind of person to be a part of my identity and so what makes my life worth living; I might just as well say that I value these. By contrast, (3) and (4) seem to indicate a mode of concern that cannot be neatly assimilated to anything else. Thus, we might understand the sort of love at issue in (4) to be, roughly, a matter of caring about another person as the person she is, for her own sake. (Accordingly, (3) may be understood as a kind of deficient mode of the sort of love we typically reserve for persons.) Philosophical accounts of love have focused primarily on the sort of personal love at issue in (4); such personal love will be the focus here (though see Frankfurt (1999) and Jaworska & Wonderly (2017) for attempts to provide a more general account that applies to non-persons as well).

Even within personal love, philosophers from the ancient Greeks on have traditionally distinguished three notions that can properly be called “love”: eros , agape , and philia . It will be useful to distinguish these three and say something about how contemporary discussions typically blur these distinctions (sometimes intentionally so) or use them for other purposes.

‘ Eros ’ originally meant love in the sense of a kind of passionate desire for an object, typically sexual passion (Liddell et al., 1940). Nygren (1953a,b) describes eros as the “‘love of desire,’ or acquisitive love” and therefore as egocentric (1953b, p. 89). Soble (1989b, 1990) similarly describes eros as “selfish” and as a response to the merits of the beloved—especially the beloved’s goodness or beauty. What is evident in Soble’s description of eros is a shift away from the sexual: to love something in the “erosic” sense (to use the term Soble coins) is to love it in a way that, by being responsive to its merits, is dependent on reasons. Such an understanding of eros is encouraged by Plato’s discussion in the Symposium , in which Socrates understands sexual desire to be a deficient response to physical beauty in particular, a response which ought to be developed into a response to the beauty of a person’s soul and, ultimately, into a response to the form, Beauty.

Soble’s intent in understanding eros to be a reason-dependent sort of love is to articulate a sharp contrast with agape , a sort of love that does not respond to the value of its object. ‘ Agape ’ has come, primarily through the Christian tradition, to mean the sort of love God has for us persons, as well as our love for God and, by extension, of our love for each other—a kind of brotherly love. In the paradigm case of God’s love for us, agape is “spontaneous and unmotivated,” revealing not that we merit that love but that God’s nature is love (Nygren 1953b, p. 85). Rather than responding to antecedent value in its object, agape instead is supposed to create value in its object and therefore to initiate our fellowship with God (pp. 87–88). Consequently, Badhwar (2003, p. 58) characterizes agape as “independent of the loved individual’s fundamental characteristics as the particular person she is”; and Soble (1990, p. 5) infers that agape , in contrast to eros , is therefore not reason dependent but is rationally “incomprehensible,” admitting at best of causal or historical explanations. [ 1 ]

Finally, ‘ philia ’ originally meant a kind of affectionate regard or friendly feeling towards not just one’s friends but also possibly towards family members, business partners, and one’s country at large (Liddell et al., 1940; Cooper, 1977). Like eros , philia is generally (but not universally) understood to be responsive to (good) qualities in one’s beloved. This similarity between eros and philia has led Thomas (1987) to wonder whether the only difference between romantic love and friendship is the sexual involvement of the former—and whether that is adequate to account for the real differences we experience. The distinction between eros and philia becomes harder to draw with Soble’s attempt to diminish the importance of the sexual in eros (1990).

Maintaining the distinctions among eros , agape , and philia becomes even more difficult when faced with contemporary theories of love (including romantic love) and friendship. For, as discussed below, some theories of romantic love understand it along the lines of the agape tradition as creating value in the beloved (cf. Section 4.2 ), and other accounts of romantic love treat sexual activity as merely the expression of what otherwise looks very much like friendship.

Given the focus here on personal love, Christian conceptions of God’s love for persons (and vice versa ) will be omitted, and the distinction between eros and philia will be blurred—as it typically is in contemporary accounts. Instead, the focus here will be on these contemporary understandings of love, including romantic love, understood as an attitude we take towards other persons. [ 2 ]

In providing an account of love, philosophical analyses must be careful to distinguish love from other positive attitudes we take towards persons, such as liking. Intuitively, love differs from such attitudes as liking in terms of its “depth,” and the problem is to elucidate the kind of “depth” we intuitively find love to have. Some analyses do this in part by providing thin conceptions of what liking amounts to. Thus, Singer (1991) and Brown (1987) understand liking to be a matter of desiring, an attitude that at best involves its object having only instrumental (and not intrinsic) value. Yet this seems inadequate: surely there are attitudes towards persons intermediate between having a desire with a person as its object and loving the person. I can care about a person for her own sake and not merely instrumentally, and yet such caring does not on its own amount to (non-deficiently) loving her, for it seems I can care about my dog in exactly the same way, a kind of caring which is insufficiently personal for love.

It is more common to distinguish loving from liking via the intuition that the “depth” of love is to be explained in terms of a notion of identification: to love someone is somehow to identify yourself with him, whereas no such notion of identification is involved in liking. As Nussbaum puts it, “The choice between one potential love and another can feel, and be, like a choice of a way of life, a decision to dedicate oneself to these values rather than these” (1990, p. 328); liking clearly does not have this sort of “depth” (see also Helm 2010; Bagley 2015). Whether love involves some kind of identification, and if so exactly how to understand such identification, is a central bone of contention among the various analyses of love. In particular, Whiting (2013) argues that the appeal to a notion of identification distorts our understanding of the sort of motivation love can provide, for taken literally it implies that love motivates through self -interest rather than through the beloved’s interests. Thus, Whiting argues, central to love is the possibility that love takes the lover “outside herself”, potentially forgetting herself in being moved directly by the interests of the beloved. (Of course, we need not take the notion of identification literally in this way: in identifying with one’s beloved, one might have a concern for one’s beloved that is analogous to one’s concern for oneself; see Helm 2010.)

Another common way to distinguish love from other personal attitudes is in terms of a distinctive kind of evaluation, which itself can account for love’s “depth.” Again, whether love essentially involves a distinctive kind of evaluation, and if so how to make sense of that evaluation, is hotly disputed. Closely related to questions of evaluation are questions of justification: can we justify loving or continuing to love a particular person, and if so, how? For those who think the justification of love is possible, it is common to understand such justification in terms of evaluation, and the answers here affect various accounts’ attempts to make sense of the kind of constancy or commitment love seems to involve, as well as the sense in which love is directed at particular individuals.

In what follows, theories of love are tentatively and hesitantly classified into four types: love as union, love as robust concern, love as valuing, and love as an emotion. It should be clear, however, that particular theories classified under one type sometimes also include, without contradiction, ideas central to other types. The types identified here overlap to some extent, and in some cases classifying particular theories may involve excessive pigeonholing. (Such cases are noted below.) Part of the classificatory problem is that many accounts of love are quasi-reductionistic, understanding love in terms of notions like affection, evaluation, attachment, etc., which themselves never get analyzed. Even when these accounts eschew explicitly reductionistic language, very often little attempt is made to show how one such “aspect” of love is conceptually connected to others. As a result, there is no clear and obvious way to classify particular theories, let alone identify what the relevant classes should be.

The union view claims that love consists in the formation of (or the desire to form) some significant kind of union, a “we.” A central task for union theorists, therefore, is to spell out just what such a “we” comes to—whether it is literally a new entity in the world somehow composed of the lover and the beloved, or whether it is merely metaphorical. Variants of this view perhaps go back to Aristotle (cf. Sherman 1993) and can also be found in Montaigne ([E]) and Hegel (1997); contemporary proponents include Solomon (1981, 1988), Scruton (1986), Nozick (1989), Fisher (1990), and Delaney (1996).

Scruton, writing in particular about romantic love, claims that love exists “just so soon as reciprocity becomes community: that is, just so soon as all distinction between my interests and your interests is overcome” (1986, p. 230). The idea is that the union is a union of concern, so that when I act out of that concern it is not for my sake alone or for your sake alone but for our sake. Fisher (1990) holds a similar, but somewhat more moderate view, claiming that love is a partial fusion of the lovers’ cares, concerns, emotional responses, and actions. What is striking about both Scruton and Fisher is the claim that love requires the actual union of the lovers’ concerns, for it thus becomes clear that they conceive of love not so much as an attitude we take towards another but as a relationship: the distinction between your interests and mine genuinely disappears only when we together come to have shared cares, concerns, etc., and my merely having a certain attitude towards you is not enough for love. This provides content to the notion of a “we” as the (metaphorical?) subject of these shared cares and concerns, and as that for whose sake we act.

Solomon (1988) offers a union view as well, though one that tries “to make new sense out of ‘love’ through a literal rather than metaphoric sense of the ‘fusion’ of two souls” (p. 24, cf. Solomon 1981; however, it is unclear exactly what he means by a “soul” here and so how love can be a “literal” fusion of two souls). What Solomon has in mind is the way in which, through love, the lovers redefine their identities as persons in terms of the relationship: “Love is the concentration and the intensive focus of mutual definition on a single individual, subjecting virtually every personal aspect of one’s self to this process” (1988, p. 197). The result is that lovers come to share the interests, roles, virtues, and so on that constitute what formerly was two individual identities but now has become a shared identity, and they do so in part by each allowing the other to play an important role in defining his own identity.

Nozick (1989) offers a union view that differs from those of Scruton, Fisher, and Solomon in that Nozick thinks that what is necessary for love is merely the desire to form a “we,” together with the desire that your beloved reciprocates. Nonetheless, he claims that this “we” is “a new entity in the world…created by a new web of relationships between [the lovers] which makes them no longer separate” (p. 70). In spelling out this web of relationships, Nozick appeals to the lovers “pooling” not only their well-beings, in the sense that the well-being of each is tied up with that of the other, but also their autonomy, in that “each transfers some previous rights to make certain decisions unilaterally into a joint pool” (p. 71). In addition, Nozick claims, the lovers each acquire a new identity as a part of the “we,” a new identity constituted by their (a) wanting to be perceived publicly as a couple, (b) their attending to their pooled well-being, and (c) their accepting a “certain kind of division of labor” (p. 72):

A person in a we might find himself coming across something interesting to read yet leaving it for the other person, not because he himself would not be interested in it but because the other would be more interested, and one of them reading it is sufficient for it to be registered by the wider identity now shared, the we . [ 3 ]

Opponents of the union view have seized on claims like this as excessive: union theorists, they claim, take too literally the ontological commitments of this notion of a “we.” This leads to two specific criticisms of the union view. The first is that union views do away with individual autonomy. Autonomy, it seems, involves a kind of independence on the part of the autonomous agent, such that she is in control over not only what she does but also who she is, as this is constituted by her interests, values, concerns, etc. However, union views, by doing away with a clear distinction between your interests and mine, thereby undermine this sort of independence and so undermine the autonomy of the lovers. If autonomy is a part of the individual’s good, then, on the union view, love is to this extent bad; so much the worse for the union view (Singer 1994; Soble 1997). Moreover, Singer (1994) argues that a necessary part of having your beloved be the object of your love is respect for your beloved as the particular person she is, and this requires respecting her autonomy.

Union theorists have responded to this objection in several ways. Nozick (1989) seems to think of a loss of autonomy in love as a desirable feature of the sort of union lovers can achieve. Fisher (1990), somewhat more reluctantly, claims that the loss of autonomy in love is an acceptable consequence of love. Yet without further argument these claims seem like mere bullet biting. Solomon (1988, pp. 64ff) describes this “tension” between union and autonomy as “the paradox of love.” However, this a view that Soble (1997) derides: merely to call it a paradox, as Solomon does, is not to face up to the problem.

The second criticism involves a substantive view concerning love. Part of what it is to love someone, these opponents say, is to have concern for him for his sake. However, union views make such concern unintelligible and eliminate the possibility of both selfishness and self-sacrifice, for by doing away with the distinction between my interests and your interests they have in effect turned your interests into mine and vice versa (Soble 1997; see also Blum 1980, 1993). Some advocates of union views see this as a point in their favor: we need to explain how it is I can have concern for people other than myself, and the union view apparently does this by understanding your interests to be part of my own. And Delaney, responding to an apparent tension between our desire to be loved unselfishly (for fear of otherwise being exploited) and our desire to be loved for reasons (which presumably are attractive to our lover and hence have a kind of selfish basis), says (1996, p. 346):

Given my view that the romantic ideal is primarily characterized by a desire to achieve a profound consolidation of needs and interests through the formation of a we , I do not think a little selfishness of the sort described should pose a worry to either party.

The objection, however, lies precisely in this attempt to explain my concern for my beloved egoistically. As Whiting (1991, p. 10) puts it, such an attempt “strikes me as unnecessary and potentially objectionable colonization”: in love, I ought to be concerned with my beloved for her sake, and not because I somehow get something out of it. (This can be true whether my concern with my beloved is merely instrumental to my good or whether it is partly constitutive of my good.)

Although Whiting’s and Soble’s criticisms here succeed against the more radical advocates of the union view, they in part fail to acknowledge the kernel of truth to be gleaned from the idea of union. Whiting’s way of formulating the second objection in terms of an unnecessary egoism in part points to a way out: we persons are in part social creatures, and love is one profound mode of that sociality. Indeed, part of the point of union accounts is to make sense of this social dimension: to make sense of a way in which we can sometimes identify ourselves with others not merely in becoming interdependent with them (as Singer 1994, p. 165, suggests, understanding ‘interdependence’ to be a kind of reciprocal benevolence and respect) but rather in making who we are as persons be constituted in part by those we love (cf., e.g., Rorty 1986/1993; Nussbaum 1990).

Along these lines, Friedman (1998), taking her inspiration in part from Delaney (1996), argues that we should understand the sort of union at issue in love to be a kind of federation of selves:

On the federation model, a third unified entity is constituted by the interaction of the lovers, one which involves the lovers acting in concert across a range of conditions and for a range of purposes. This concerted action, however, does not erase the existence of the two lovers as separable and separate agents with continuing possibilities for the exercise of their own respective agencies. [p. 165]

Given that on this view the lovers do not give up their individual identities, there is no principled reason why the union view cannot make sense of the lover’s concern for her beloved for his sake. [ 4 ] Moreover, Friedman argues, once we construe union as federation, we can see that autonomy is not a zero-sum game; rather, love can both directly enhance the autonomy of each and promote the growth of various skills, like realistic and critical self-evaluation, that foster autonomy.

Nonetheless, this federation model is not without its problems—problems that affect other versions of the union view as well. For if the federation (or the “we”, as on Nozick’s view) is understood as a third entity, we need a clearer account than has been given of its ontological status and how it comes to be. Relevant here is the literature on shared intention and plural subjects. Gilbert (1989, 1996, 2000) has argued that we should take quite seriously the existence of a plural subject as an entity over and above its constituent members. Others, such as Tuomela (1984, 1995), Searle (1990), and Bratman (1999) are more cautious, treating such talk of “us” having an intention as metaphorical.

As this criticism of the union view indicates, many find caring about your beloved for her sake to be a part of what it is to love her. The robust concern view of love takes this to be the central and defining feature of love (cf. Taylor 1976; Newton-Smith 1989; Soble 1990, 1997; LaFollette 1996; Frankfurt 1999; White 2001). As Taylor puts it:

To summarize: if x loves y then x wants to benefit and be with y etc., and he has these wants (or at least some of them) because he believes y has some determinate characteristics ψ in virtue of which he thinks it worth while to benefit and be with y . He regards satisfaction of these wants as an end and not as a means towards some other end. [p. 157]

In conceiving of my love for you as constituted by my concern for you for your sake, the robust concern view rejects the idea, central to the union view, that love is to be understood in terms of the (literal or metaphorical) creation of a “we”: I am the one who has this concern for you, though it is nonetheless disinterested and so not egoistic insofar as it is for your sake rather than for my own. [ 5 ]

At the heart of the robust concern view is the idea that love “is neither affective nor cognitive. It is volitional” (Frankfurt 1999, p. 129; see also Martin 2015). Frankfurt continues:

That a person cares about or that he loves something has less to do with how things make him feel, or with his opinions about them, than with the more or less stable motivational structures that shape his preferences and that guide and limit his conduct.

This account analyzes caring about someone for her sake as a matter of being motivated in certain ways, in part as a response to what happens to one’s beloved. Of course, to understand love in terms of desires is not to leave other emotional responses out in the cold, for these emotions should be understood as consequences of desires. Thus, just as I can be emotionally crushed when one of my strong desires is disappointed, so too I can be emotionally crushed when things similarly go badly for my beloved. In this way Frankfurt (1999) tacitly, and White (2001) more explicitly, acknowledge the way in which my caring for my beloved for her sake results in my identity being transformed through her influence insofar as I become vulnerable to things that happen to her.

Not all robust concern theorists seem to accept this line, however; in particular, Taylor (1976) and Soble (1990) seem to have a strongly individualistic conception of persons that prevents my identity being bound up with my beloved in this sort of way, a kind of view that may seem to undermine the intuitive “depth” that love seems to have. (For more on this point, see Rorty 1986/1993.) In the middle is Stump (2006), who follows Aquinas in understanding love to involve not only the desire for your beloved’s well-being but also a desire for a certain kind of relationship with your beloved—as a parent or spouse or sibling or priest or friend, for example—a relationship within which you share yourself with and connect yourself to your beloved. [ 6 ]

One source of worry about the robust concern view is that it involves too passive an understanding of one’s beloved (Ebels-Duggan 2008). The thought is that on the robust concern view the lover merely tries to discover what the beloved’s well-being consists in and then acts to promote that, potentially by thwarting the beloved’s own efforts when the lover thinks those efforts would harm her well-being. This, however, would be disrespectful and demeaning, not the sort of attitude that love is. What robust concern views seem to miss, Ebels-Duggan suggests, is the way love involves interacting agents, each with a capacity for autonomy the recognition and engagement with which is an essential part of love. In response, advocates of the robust concern view might point out that promoting someone’s well-being normally requires promoting her autonomy (though they may maintain that this need not always be true: that paternalism towards a beloved can sometimes be justified and appropriate as an expression of one’s love). Moreover, we might plausibly think, it is only through the exercise of one’s autonomy that one can define one’s own well-being as a person, so that a lover’s failure to respect the beloved’s autonomy would be a failure to promote her well-being and therefore not an expression of love, contrary to what Ebels-Duggan suggests. Consequently, it might seem, robust concern views can counter this objection by offering an enriched conception of what it is to be a person and so of the well-being of persons.

Another source of worry is that the robust concern view offers too thin a conception of love. By emphasizing robust concern, this view understands other features we think characteristic of love, such as one’s emotional responsiveness to one’s beloved, to be the effects of that concern rather than constituents of it. Thus Velleman (1999) argues that robust concern views, by understanding love merely as a matter of aiming at a particular end (viz., the welfare of one’s beloved), understand love to be merely conative. However, he claims, love can have nothing to do with desires, offering as a counterexample the possibility of loving a troublemaking relation whom you do not want to be with, whose well being you do not want to promote, etc. Similarly, Badhwar (2003) argues that such a “teleological” view of love makes it mysterious how “we can continue to love someone long after death has taken him beyond harm or benefit” (p. 46). Moreover Badhwar argues, if love is essentially a desire, then it implies that we lack something; yet love does not imply this and, indeed, can be felt most strongly at times when we feel our lives most complete and lacking in nothing. Consequently, Velleman and Badhwar conclude, love need not involve any desire or concern for the well-being of one’s beloved.

This conclusion, however, seems too hasty, for such examples can be accommodated within the robust concern view. Thus, the concern for your relative in Velleman’s example can be understood to be present but swamped by other, more powerful desires to avoid him. Indeed, keeping the idea that you want to some degree to benefit him, an idea Velleman rejects, seems to be essential to understanding the conceptual tension between loving someone and not wanting to help him, a tension Velleman does not fully acknowledge. Similarly, continued love for someone who has died can be understood on the robust concern view as parasitic on the former love you had for him when he was still alive: your desires to benefit him get transformed, through your subsequent understanding of the impossibility of doing so, into wishes. [ 7 ] Finally, the idea of concern for your beloved’s well-being need not imply the idea that you lack something, for such concern can be understood in terms of the disposition to be vigilant for occasions when you can come to his aid and consequently to have the relevant occurrent desires. All of this seems fully compatible with the robust concern view.

One might also question whether Velleman and Badhwar make proper use of their examples of loving your meddlesome relation or someone who has died. For although we can understand these as genuine cases of love, they are nonetheless deficient cases and ought therefore be understood as parasitic on the standard cases. Readily to accommodate such deficient cases of love into a philosophical analysis as being on a par with paradigm cases, and to do so without some special justification, is dubious.

Nonetheless, the robust concern view as it stands does not seem properly able to account for the intuitive “depth” of love and so does not seem properly to distinguish loving from liking. Although, as noted above, the robust concern view can begin to make some sense of the way in which the lover’s identity is altered by the beloved, it understands this only an effect of love, and not as a central part of what love consists in.

This vague thought is nicely developed by Wonderly (2017), who emphasizes that in addition to the sort of disinterested concern for another that is central to robust-concern accounts of love, an essential part of at least romantic love is the idea that in loving someone I must find them to be not merely important for their own sake but also important to me . Wonderly (2017) fleshes out what this “importance to me” involves in terms of the idea of attachment (developed in Wonderly 2016) that she argues can make sense of the intimacy and depth of love from within what remains fundamentally a robust-concern account. [ 8 ]

4. Love as Valuing

A third kind of view of love understands love to be a distinctive mode of valuing a person. As the distinction between eros and agape in Section 1 indicates, there are at least two ways to construe this in terms of whether the lover values the beloved because she is valuable, or whether the beloved comes to be valuable to the lover as a result of her loving him. The former view, which understands the lover as appraising the value of the beloved in loving him, is the topic of Section 4.1 , whereas the latter view, which understands her as bestowing value on him, will be discussed in Section 4.2 .

Velleman (1999, 2008) offers an appraisal view of love, understanding love to be fundamentally a matter of acknowledging and responding in a distinctive way to the value of the beloved. (For a very different appraisal view of love, see Kolodny 2003.) Understanding this more fully requires understanding both the kind of value of the beloved to which one responds and the distinctive kind of response to such value that love is. Nonetheless, it should be clear that what makes an account be an appraisal view of love is not the mere fact that love is understood to involve appraisal; many other accounts do so, and it is typical of robust concern accounts, for example (cf. the quote from Taylor above , Section 3 ). Rather, appraisal views are distinctive in understanding love to consist in that appraisal.

In articulating the kind of value love involves, Velleman, following Kant, distinguishes dignity from price. To have a price , as the economic metaphor suggests, is to have a value that can be compared to the value of other things with prices, such that it is intelligible to exchange without loss items of the same value. By contrast, to have dignity is to have a value such that comparisons of relative value become meaningless. Material goods are normally understood to have prices, but we persons have dignity: no substitution of one person for another can preserve exactly the same value, for something of incomparable worth would be lost (and gained) in such a substitution.

On this Kantian view, our dignity as persons consists in our rational nature: our capacity both to be actuated by reasons that we autonomously provide ourselves in setting our own ends and to respond appropriately to the intrinsic values we discover in the world. Consequently, one important way in which we exercise our rational natures is to respond with respect to the dignity of other persons (a dignity that consists in part in their capacity for respect): respect just is the required minimal response to the dignity of persons. What makes a response to a person be that of respect, Velleman claims, still following Kant, is that it “arrests our self-love” and thereby prevents us from treating him as a means to our ends (p. 360).

Given this, Velleman claims that love is similarly a response to the dignity of persons, and as such it is the dignity of the object of our love that justifies that love. However, love and respect are different kinds of responses to the same value. For love arrests not our self-love but rather

our tendencies toward emotional self-protection from another person, tendencies to draw ourselves in and close ourselves off from being affected by him. Love disarms our emotional defenses; it makes us vulnerable to the other. [1999, p. 361]

This means that the concern, attraction, sympathy, etc. that we normally associate with love are not constituents of love but are rather its normal effects, and love can remain without them (as in the case of the love for a meddlesome relative one cannot stand being around). Moreover, this provides Velleman with a clear account of the intuitive “depth” of love: it is essentially a response to persons as such, and to say that you love your dog is therefore to be confused.

Of course, we do not respond with love to the dignity of every person we meet, nor are we somehow required to: love, as the disarming of our emotional defenses in a way that makes us especially vulnerable to another, is the optional maximal response to others’ dignity. What, then, explains the selectivity of love—why I love some people and not others? The answer lies in the contingent fit between the way some people behaviorally express their dignity as persons and the way I happen to respond to those expressions by becoming emotionally vulnerable to them. The right sort of fit makes someone “lovable” by me (1999, p. 372), and my responding with love in these cases is a matter of my “really seeing” this person in a way that I fail to do with others who do not fit with me in this way. By ‘lovable’ here Velleman seems to mean able to be loved, not worthy of being loved, for nothing Velleman says here speaks to a question about the justification of my loving this person rather than that. Rather, what he offers is an explanation of the selectivity of my love, an explanation that as a matter of fact makes my response be that of love rather than mere respect.

This understanding of the selectivity of love as something that can be explained but not justified is potentially troubling. For we ordinarily think we can justify not only my loving you rather than someone else but also and more importantly the constancy of my love: my continuing to love you even as you change in certain fundamental ways (but not others). As Delaney (1996, p. 347) puts the worry about constancy:

while you seem to want it to be true that, were you to become a schmuck, your lover would continue to love you,…you also want it to be the case that your lover would never love a schmuck.

The issue here is not merely that we can offer explanations of the selectivity of my love, of why I do not love schmucks; rather, at issue is the discernment of love, of loving and continuing to love for good reasons as well as of ceasing to love for good reasons. To have these good reasons seems to involve attributing different values to you now rather than formerly or rather than to someone else, yet this is precisely what Velleman denies is the case in making the distinction between love and respect the way he does.

It is also questionable whether Velleman can even explain the selectivity of love in terms of the “fit” between your expressions and my sensitivities. For the relevant sensitivities on my part are emotional sensitivities: the lowering of my emotional defenses and so becoming emotionally vulnerable to you. Thus, I become vulnerable to the harms (or goods) that befall you and so sympathetically feel your pain (or joy). Such emotions are themselves assessable for warrant, and now we can ask why my disappointment that you lost the race is warranted, but my being disappointed that a mere stranger lost would not be warranted. The intuitive answer is that I love you but not him. However, this answer is unavailable to Velleman, because he thinks that what makes my response to your dignity that of love rather than respect is precisely that I feel such emotions, and to appeal to my love in explaining the emotions therefore seems viciously circular.

Although these problems are specific to Velleman’s account, the difficulty can be generalized to any appraisal account of love (such as that offered in Kolodny 2003). For if love is an appraisal, it needs to be distinguished from other forms of appraisal, including our evaluative judgments. On the one hand, to try to distinguish love as an appraisal from other appraisals in terms of love’s having certain effects on our emotional and motivational life (as on Velleman’s account) is unsatisfying because it ignores part of what needs to be explained: why the appraisal of love has these effects and yet judgments with the same evaluative content do not. Indeed, this question is crucial if we are to understand the intuitive “depth” of love, for without an answer to this question we do not understand why love should have the kind of centrality in our lives it manifestly does. [ 9 ] On the other hand, to bundle this emotional component into the appraisal itself would be to turn the view into either the robust concern view ( Section 3 ) or a variant of the emotion view ( Section 5.1 ).

In contrast to Velleman, Singer (1991, 1994, 2009) understands love to be fundamentally a matter of bestowing value on the beloved. To bestow value on another is to project a kind of intrinsic value onto him. Indeed, this fact about love is supposed to distinguish love from liking: “Love is an attitude with no clear objective,” whereas liking is inherently teleological (1991, p. 272). As such, there are no standards of correctness for bestowing such value, and this is how love differs from other personal attitudes like gratitude, generosity, and condescension: “love…confers importance no matter what the object is worth” (p. 273). Consequently, Singer thinks, love is not an attitude that can be justified in any way.

What is it, exactly, to bestow this kind of value on someone? It is, Singer says, a kind of attachment and commitment to the beloved, in which one comes to treat him as an end in himself and so to respond to his ends, interests, concerns, etc. as having value for their own sake. This means in part that the bestowal of value reveals itself “by caring about the needs and interests of the beloved, by wishing to benefit or protect her, by delighting in her achievements,” etc. (p. 270). This sounds very much like the robust concern view, yet the bestowal view differs in understanding such robust concern to be the effect of the bestowal of value that is love rather than itself what constitutes love: in bestowing value on my beloved, I make him be valuable in such a way that I ought to respond with robust concern.

For it to be intelligible that I have bestowed value on someone, I must therefore respond appropriately to him as valuable, and this requires having some sense of what his well-being is and of what affects that well-being positively or negatively. Yet having this sense requires in turn knowing what his strengths and deficiencies are, and this is a matter of appraising him in various ways. Bestowal thus presupposes a kind of appraisal, as a way of “really seeing” the beloved and attending to him. Nonetheless, Singer claims, it is the bestowal that is primary for understanding what love consists in: the appraisal is required only so that the commitment to one’s beloved and his value as thus bestowed has practical import and is not “a blind submission to some unknown being” (1991, p. 272; see also Singer 1994, pp. 139ff).

Singer is walking a tightrope in trying to make room for appraisal in his account of love. Insofar as the account is fundamentally a bestowal account, Singer claims that love cannot be justified, that we bestow the relevant kind of value “gratuitously.” This suggests that love is blind, that it does not matter what our beloved is like, which seems patently false. Singer tries to avoid this conclusion by appealing to the role of appraisal: it is only because we appraise another as having certain virtues and vices that we come to bestow value on him. Yet the “because” here, since it cannot justify the bestowal, is at best a kind of contingent causal explanation. [ 10 ] In this respect, Singer’s account of the selectivity of love is much the same as Velleman’s, and it is liable to the same criticism: it makes unintelligible the way in which our love can be discerning for better or worse reasons. Indeed, this failure to make sense of the idea that love can be justified is a problem for any bestowal view. For either (a) a bestowal itself cannot be justified (as on Singer’s account), in which case the justification of love is impossible, or (b) a bestowal can be justified, in which case it is hard to make sense of value as being bestowed rather than there antecedently in the object as the grounds of that “bestowal.”

More generally, a proponent of the bestowal view needs to be much clearer than Singer is in articulating precisely what a bestowal is. What is the value that I create in a bestowal, and how can my bestowal create it? On a crude Humean view, the answer might be that the value is something projected onto the world through my pro-attitudes, like desire. Yet such a view would be inadequate, since the projected value, being relative to a particular individual, would do no theoretical work, and the account would essentially be a variant of the robust concern view. Moreover, in providing a bestowal account of love, care is needed to distinguish love from other personal attitudes such as admiration and respect: do these other attitudes involve bestowal? If so, how does the bestowal in these cases differ from the bestowal of love? If not, why not, and what is so special about love that requires a fundamentally different evaluative attitude than admiration and respect?

Nonetheless, there is a kernel of truth in the bestowal view: there is surely something right about the idea that love is creative and not merely a response to antecedent value, and accounts of love that understand the kind of evaluation implicit in love merely in terms of appraisal seem to be missing something. Precisely what may be missed will be discussed below in Section 6 .

Perhaps there is room for an understanding of love and its relation to value that is intermediate between appraisal and bestowal accounts. After all, if we think of appraisal as something like perception, a matter of responding to what is out there in the world, and of bestowal as something like action, a matter of doing something and creating something, we should recognize that the responsiveness central to appraisal may itself depend on our active, creative choices. Thus, just as we must recognize that ordinary perception depends on our actively directing our attention and deploying concepts, interpretations, and even arguments in order to perceive things accurately, so too we might think our vision of our beloved’s valuable properties that is love also depends on our actively attending to and interpreting him. Something like this is Jollimore’s view (2011). According to Jollimore, in loving someone we actively attend to his valuable properties in a way that we take to provide us with reasons to treat him preferentially. Although we may acknowledge that others might have such properties even to a greater degree than our beloved does, we do not attend to and appreciate such properties in others in the same way we do those in our beloveds; indeed, we find our appreciation of our beloved’s valuable properties to “silence” our similar appreciation of those in others. (In this way, Jollimore thinks, we can solve the problem of fungibility, discussed below in Section 6 .) Likewise, in perceiving our beloved’s actions and character, we do so through the lens of such an appreciation, which will tend as to “silence” interpretations inconsistent with that appreciation. In this way, love involves finding one’s beloved to be valuable in a way that involves elements of both appraisal (insofar as one must thereby be responsive to valuable properties one’s beloved really has) and bestowal (insofar as through one’s attention and committed appreciation of these properties they come to have special significance for one).

One might object that this conception of love as silencing the special value of others or to negative interpretations of our beloveds is irrational in a way that love is not. For, it might seem, such “silencing” is merely a matter of our blinding ourselves to how things really are. Yet Jollimore claims that this sense in which love is blind is not objectionable, for (a) we can still intellectually recognize the things that love’s vision silences, and (b) there really is no impartial perspective we can take on the values things have, and love is one appropriate sort of partial perspective from which the value of persons can be manifest. Nonetheless, one might wonder about whether that perspective of love itself can be distorted and what the norms are in terms of which such distortions are intelligible. Furthermore, it may seem that Jollimore’s attempt to reconcile appraisal and bestowal fails to appreciate the underlying metaphysical difficulty: appraisal is a response to value that is antecedently there, whereas bestowal is the creation of value that was not antecedently there. Consequently, it might seem, appraisal and bestowal are mutually exclusive and cannot be reconciled in the way Jollimore hopes.

Whereas Jollimore tries to combine separate elements of appraisal and of bestowal in a single account, Helm (2010) and Bagley (2015) offer accounts that reject the metaphysical presupposition that values must be either prior to love (as with appraisal) or posterior to love (as with bestowal), instead understanding the love and the values to emerge simultaneously. Thus, Helm presents a detailed account of valuing in terms of the emotions, arguing that while we can understand individual emotions as appraisals , responding to values already their in their objects, these values are bestowed on those objects via broad, holistic patterns of emotions. How this amounts to an account of love will be discussed in Section 5.2 , below. Bagley (2015) instead appeals to a metaphor of improvisation, arguing that just as jazz musicians jointly make determinate the content of their musical ideas through on-going processes of their expression, so too lovers jointly engage in “deep improvisation”, thereby working out of their values and identities through the on-going process of living their lives together. These values are thus something the lovers jointly construct through the process of recognizing and responding to those very values. To love someone is thus to engage with them as partners in such “deep improvisation”. (This account is similar to Helm (2008, 2010)’s account of plural agency, which he uses to provide an account of friendship and other loving relationships; see the discussion of shared activity in the entry on friendship .)

5. Emotion Views

Given these problems with the accounts of love as valuing, perhaps we should turn to the emotions. For emotions just are responses to objects that combine evaluation, motivation, and a kind of phenomenology, all central features of the attitude of love.

Many accounts of love claim that it is an emotion; these include: Wollheim 1984, Rorty 1986/1993, Brown 1987, Hamlyn 1989, Baier 1991, and Badhwar 2003. [ 11 ] Thus, Hamlyn (1989, p. 219) says:

It would not be a plausible move to defend any theory of the emotions to which love and hate seemed exceptions by saying that love and hate are after all not emotions. I have heard this said, but it does seem to me a desperate move to make. If love and hate are not emotions what is?

The difficulty with this claim, as Rorty (1980) argues, is that the word, ‘emotion,’ does not seem to pick out a homogeneous collection of mental states, and so various theories claiming that love is an emotion mean very different things. Consequently, what are here labeled “emotion views” are divided into those that understand love to be a particular kind of evaluative-cum-motivational response to an object, whether that response is merely occurrent or dispositional (‘emotions proper,’ see Section 5.1 , below), and those that understand love to involve a collection of related and interconnected emotions proper (‘emotion complexes,’ see Section 5.2 , below).

An emotion proper is a kind of “evaluative-cum-motivational response to an object”; what does this mean? Emotions are generally understood to have several objects. The target of an emotion is that at which the emotion is directed: if I am afraid or angry at you, then you are the target. In responding to you with fear or anger, I am implicitly evaluating you in a particular way, and this evaluation—called the formal object —is the kind of evaluation of the target that is distinctive of a particular emotion type. Thus, in fearing you, I implicitly evaluate you as somehow dangerous, whereas in being angry at you I implicitly evaluate you as somehow offensive. Yet emotions are not merely evaluations of their targets; they in part motivate us to behave in certain ways, both rationally (by motivating action to avoid the danger) and arationally (via certain characteristic expressions, such as slamming a door out of anger). Moreover, emotions are generally understood to involve a phenomenological component, though just how to understand the characteristic “feel” of an emotion and its relation to the evaluation and motivation is hotly disputed. Finally, emotions are typically understood to be passions: responses that we feel imposed on us as if from the outside, rather than anything we actively do. (For more on the philosophy of emotions, see entry on emotion .)

What then are we saying when we say that love is an emotion proper? According to Brown (1987, p. 14), emotions as occurrent mental states are “abnormal bodily changes caused by the agent’s evaluation or appraisal of some object or situation that the agent believes to be of concern to him or her.” He spells this out by saying that in love, we “cherish” the person for having “a particular complex of instantiated qualities” that is “open-ended” so that we can continue to love the person even as she changes over time (pp. 106–7). These qualities, which include historical and relational qualities, are evaluated in love as worthwhile. [ 12 ] All of this seems aimed at spelling out what love’s formal object is, a task that is fundamental to understanding love as an emotion proper. Thus, Brown seems to say that love’s formal object is just being worthwhile (or, given his examples, perhaps: worthwhile as a person), and he resists being any more specific than this in order to preserve the open-endedness of love. Hamlyn (1989) offers a similar account, saying (p. 228):

With love the difficulty is to find anything of this kind [i.e., a formal object] which is uniquely appropriate to love. My thesis is that there is nothing of this kind that must be so, and that this differentiates it and hate from the other emotions.

Hamlyn goes on to suggest that love and hate might be primordial emotions, a kind of positive or negative “feeling towards,” presupposed by all other emotions. [ 13 ]

The trouble with these accounts of love as an emotion proper is that they provide too thin a conception of love. In Hamlyn’s case, love is conceived as a fairly generic pro-attitude, rather than as the specific kind of distinctively personal attitude discussed here. In Brown’s case, spelling out the formal object of love as simply being worthwhile (as a person) fails to distinguish love from other evaluative responses like admiration and respect. Part of the problem seems to be the rather simple account of what an emotion is that Brown and Hamlyn use as their starting point: if love is an emotion, then the understanding of what an emotion is must be enriched considerably to accommodate love. Yet it is not at all clear whether the idea of an “emotion proper” can be adequately enriched so as to do so. As Pismenny & Prinz (2017) point out, love seems to be too varied both in its ground and in the sort of experience it involves to be capturable by a single emotion.

The emotion complex view, which understands love to be a complex emotional attitude towards another person, may initially seem to hold out great promise to overcome the problems of alternative types of views. By articulating the emotional interconnections between persons, it could offer a satisfying account of the “depth” of love without the excesses of the union view and without the overly narrow teleological focus of the robust concern view; and because these emotional interconnections are themselves evaluations, it could offer an understanding of love as simultaneously evaluative, without needing to specify a single formal object of love. However, the devil is in the details.

Rorty (1986/1993) does not try to present a complete account of love; rather, she focuses on the idea that “relational psychological attitudes” which, like love, essentially involve emotional and desiderative responses, exhibit historicity : “they arise from, and are shaped by, dynamic interactions between a subject and an object” (p. 73). In part this means that what makes an attitude be one of love is not the presence of a state that we can point to at a particular time within the lover; rather, love is to be “identified by a characteristic narrative history” (p. 75). Moreover, Rorty argues, the historicity of love involves the lover’s being permanently transformed by loving who he does.

Baier (1991), seeming to pick up on this understanding of love as exhibiting historicity, says (p. 444):

Love is not just an emotion people feel toward other people, but also a complex tying together of the emotions that two or a few more people have; it is a special form of emotional interdependence.

To a certain extent, such emotional interdependence involves feeling sympathetic emotions, so that, for example, I feel disappointed and frustrated on behalf of my beloved when she fails, and joyful when she succeeds. However, Baier insists, love is “more than just the duplication of the emotion of each in a sympathetic echo in the other” (p. 442); the emotional interdependence of the lovers involves also appropriate follow-up responses to the emotional predicaments of your beloved. Two examples Baier gives (pp. 443–44) are a feeling of “mischievous delight” at your beloved’s temporary bafflement, and amusement at her embarrassment. The idea is that in a loving relationship your beloved gives you permission to feel such emotions when no one else is permitted to do so, and a condition of her granting you that permission is that you feel these emotions “tenderly.” Moreover, you ought to respond emotionally to your beloved’s emotional responses to you: by feeling hurt when she is indifferent to you, for example. All of these foster the sort of emotional interdependence Baier is after—a kind of intimacy you have with your beloved.

Badhwar (2003, p. 46) similarly understands love to be a matter of “one’s overall emotional orientation towards a person—the complex of perceptions, thoughts, and feelings”; as such, love is a matter of having a certain “character structure.” Central to this complex emotional orientation, Badhwar thinks, is what she calls the “look of love”: “an ongoing [emotional] affirmation of the loved object as worthy of existence…for her own sake” (p. 44), an affirmation that involves taking pleasure in your beloved’s well-being. Moreover, Badhwar claims, the look of love also provides to the beloved reliable testimony concerning the quality of the beloved’s character and actions (p. 57).

There is surely something very right about the idea that love, as an attitude central to deeply personal relationships, should not be understood as a state that can simply come and go. Rather, as the emotion complex view insists, the complexity of love is to be found in the historical patterns of one’s emotional responsiveness to one’s beloved—a pattern that also projects into the future. Indeed, as suggested above, the kind of emotional interdependence that results from this complex pattern can seem to account for the intuitive “depth” of love as fully interwoven into one’s emotional sense of oneself. And it seems to make some headway in understanding the complex phenomenology of love: love can at times be a matter of intense pleasure in the presence of one’s beloved, yet it can at other times involve frustration, exasperation, anger, and hurt as a manifestation of the complexities and depth of the relationships it fosters.

This understanding of love as constituted by a history of emotional interdependence enables emotion complex views to say something interesting about the impact love has on the lover’s identity. This is partly Rorty’s point (1986/1993) in her discussion of the historicity of love ( above ). Thus, she argues, one important feature of such historicity is that love is “ dynamically permeable ” in that the lover is continually “changed by loving” such that these changes “tend to ramify through a person’s character” (p. 77). Through such dynamic permeability, love transforms the identity of the lover in a way that can sometimes foster the continuity of the love, as each lover continually changes in response to the changes in the other. [ 14 ] Indeed, Rorty concludes, love should be understood in terms of “a characteristic narrative history” (p. 75) that results from such dynamic permeability. It should be clear, however, that the mere fact of dynamic permeability need not result in the love’s continuing: nothing about the dynamics of a relationship requires that the characteristic narrative history project into the future, and such permeability can therefore lead to the dissolution of the love. Love is therefore risky—indeed, all the more risky because of the way the identity of the lover is defined in part through the love. The loss of a love can therefore make one feel no longer oneself in ways poignantly described by Nussbaum (1990).

By focusing on such emotionally complex histories, emotion complex views differ from most alternative accounts of love. For alternative accounts tend to view love as a kind of attitude we take toward our beloveds, something we can analyze simply in terms of our mental state at the moment. [ 15 ] By ignoring this historical dimension of love in providing an account of what love is, alternative accounts have a hard time providing either satisfying accounts of the sense in which our identities as person are at stake in loving another or satisfactory solutions to problems concerning how love is to be justified (cf. Section 6 , especially the discussion of fungibility ).

Nonetheless, some questions remain. If love is to be understood as an emotion complex, we need a much more explicit account of the pattern at issue here: what ties all of these emotional responses together into a single thing, namely love? Baier and Badhwar seem content to provide interesting and insightful examples of this pattern, but that does not seem to be enough. For example, what connects my amusement at my beloved’s embarrassment to other emotions like my joy on his behalf when he succeeds? Why shouldn’t my amusement at his embarrassment be understood instead as a somewhat cruel case of schadenfreude and so as antithetical to, and disconnected from, love? Moreover, as Naar (2013) notes, we need a principled account of when such historical patterns are disrupted in such a way as to end the love and when they are not. Do I stop loving when, in the midst of clinical depression, I lose my normal pattern of emotional concern?

Presumably the answer requires returning to the historicity of love: it all depends on the historical details of the relationship my beloved and I have forged. Some loves develop so that the intimacy within the relationship is such as to allow for tender, teasing responses to each other, whereas other loves may not. The historical details, together with the lovers’ understanding of their relationship, presumably determine which emotional responses belong to the pattern constitutive of love and which do not. However, this answer so far is inadequate: not just any historical relationship involving emotional interdependence is a loving relationship, and we need a principled way of distinguishing loving relationships from other relational evaluative attitudes: precisely what is the characteristic narrative history that is characteristic of love?

Helm (2009, 2010) tries to answer some of these questions in presenting an account of love as intimate identification. To love another, Helm claims, is to care about him as the particular person he is and so, other things being equal, to value the things he values. Insofar as a person’s (structured) set of values—his sense of the kind of life worth his living—constitutes his identity as a person, such sharing of values amounts to sharing his identity, which sounds very much like union accounts of love. However, Helm is careful to understand such sharing of values as for the sake of the beloved (as robust concern accounts insist), and he spells this all out in terms of patterns of emotions. Thus, Helm claims, all emotions have not only a target and a formal object (as indicated above), but also a focus : a background object the subject cares about in terms of which the implicit evaluation of the target is made intelligible. (For example, if I am afraid of the approaching hailstorm, I thereby evaluate it as dangerous, and what explains this evaluation is the way that hailstorm bears on my vegetable garden, which I care about; my garden, therefore, is the focus of my fear.) Moreover, emotions normally come in patterns with a common focus: fearing the hailstorm is normally connected to other emotions as being relieved when it passes by harmlessly (or disappointed or sad when it does not), being angry at the rabbits for killing the spinach, delighted at the productivity of the tomato plants, etc. Helm argues that a projectible pattern of such emotions with a common focus constitute caring about that focus. Consequently, we might say along the lines of Section 4.3 , while particular emotions appraise events in the world as having certain evaluative properties, their having these properties is partly bestowed on them by the overall patterns of emotions.

Helm identifies some emotions as person-focused emotions : emotions like pride and shame that essentially take persons as their focuses, for these emotions implicitly evaluate in terms of the target’s bearing on the quality of life of the person that is their focus. To exhibit a pattern of such emotions focused on oneself and subfocused on being a mother, for example, is to care about the place being a mother has in the kind of life you find worth living—in your identity as a person; to care in this way is to value being a mother as a part of your concern for your own identity. Likewise, to exhibit a projectible pattern of such emotions focused on someone else and subfocused on his being a father is to value this as a part of your concern for his identity—to value it for his sake. Such sharing of another’s values for his sake, which, Helm argues, essentially involves trust, respect, and affection, amounts to intimate identification with him, and such intimate identification just is love. Thus, Helm tries to provide an account of love that is grounded in an explicit account of caring (and caring about something for the sake of someone else) that makes room for the intuitive “depth” of love through intimate identification.

Jaworska & Wonderly (2017) argue that Helm’s construal of intimacy as intimate identification is too demanding. Rather, they argue, the sort of intimacy that distinguishes love from mere caring is one that involves a kind of emotional vulnerability in which things going well or poorly for one’s beloved are directly connected not merely to one’s well-being, but to one’s ability to flourish. This connection, they argue, runs through the lover’s self-understanding and the place the beloved has in the lover’s sense of a meaningful life.

Why do we love? It has been suggested above that any account of love needs to be able to answer some such justificatory question. Although the issue of the justification of love is important on its own, it is also important for the implications it has for understanding more clearly the precise object of love: how can we make sense of the intuitions not only that we love the individuals themselves rather than their properties, but also that my beloved is not fungible—that no one could simply take her place without loss. Different theories approach these questions in different ways, but, as will become clear below, the question of justification is primary.

One way to understand the question of why we love is as asking for what the value of love is: what do we get out of it? One kind of answer, which has its roots in Aristotle, is that having loving relationships promotes self-knowledge insofar as your beloved acts as a kind of mirror, reflecting your character back to you (Badhwar, 2003, p. 58). Of course, this answer presupposes that we cannot accurately know ourselves in other ways: that left alone, our sense of ourselves will be too imperfect, too biased, to help us grow and mature as persons. The metaphor of a mirror also suggests that our beloveds will be in the relevant respects similar to us, so that merely by observing them, we can come to know ourselves better in a way that is, if not free from bias, at least more objective than otherwise.

Brink (1999, pp. 264–65) argues that there are serious limits to the value of such mirroring of one’s self in a beloved. For if the aim is not just to know yourself better but to improve yourself, you ought also to interact with others who are not just like yourself: interacting with such diverse others can help you recognize alternative possibilities for how to live and so better assess the relative merits of these possibilities. Whiting (2013) also emphasizes the importance of our beloveds’ having an independent voice capable of reflecting not who one now is but an ideal for who one is to be. Nonetheless, we need not take the metaphor of the mirror quite so literally; rather, our beloveds can reflect our selves not through their inherent similarity to us but rather through the interpretations they offer of us, both explicitly and implicitly in their responses to us. This is what Badhwar calls the “epistemic significance” of love. [ 16 ]

In addition to this epistemic significance of love, LaFollette (1996, Chapter 5) offers several other reasons why it is good to love, reasons derived in part from the psychological literature on love: love increases our sense of well-being, it elevates our sense of self-worth, and it serves to develop our character. It also, we might add, tends to lower stress and blood pressure and to increase health and longevity. Friedman (1993) argues that the kind of partiality towards our beloveds that love involves is itself morally valuable because it supports relationships—loving relationships—that contribute “to human well-being, integrity, and fulfillment in life” (p. 61). And Solomon (1988, p. 155) claims:

Ultimately, there is only one reason for love. That one grand reason…is “because we bring out the best in each other.” What counts as “the best,” of course, is subject to much individual variation.

This is because, Solomon suggests, in loving someone, I want myself to be better so as to be worthy of his love for me.

Each of these answers to the question of why we love understands it to be asking about love quite generally, abstracted away from details of particular relationships. It is also possible to understand the question as asking about particular loves. Here, there are several questions that are relevant:

What, if anything, justifies my loving rather than not loving this particular person?
What, if anything, justifies my coming to love this particular person rather than someone else?
What, if anything, justifies my continuing to love this particular person given the changes—both in him and me and in the overall circumstances—that have occurred since I began loving him?

These are importantly different questions. Velleman (1999), for example, thinks we can answer (1) by appealing to the fact that my beloved is a person and so has a rational nature, yet he thinks (2) and (3) have no answers: the best we can do is offer causal explanations for our loving particular people, a position echoed by Han (2021). Setiya (2014) similarly thinks (1) has an answer, but points not to the rational nature of persons but rather to the other’s humanity , where such humanity differs from personhood in that not all humans need have the requisite rational nature for personhood, and not all persons need be humans. And, as will become clear below , the distinction between (2) and (3) will become important in resolving puzzles concerning whether our beloveds are fungible, though it should be clear that (3) potentially raises questions concerning personal identity (which will not be addressed here).

It is important not to misconstrue these justificatory questions. Thomas (1991) , for example, rejects the idea that love can be justified: “there are no rational considerations whereby anyone can lay claim to another’s love or insist that an individual’s love for another is irrational” (p. 474). This is because, Thomas claims (p. 471):

no matter how wonderful and lovely an individual might be, on any and all accounts, it is simply false that a romantically unencumbered person must love that individual on pain of being irrational. Or, there is no irrationality involved in ceasing to love a person whom one once loved immensely, although the person has not changed.

However, as LaFollette (1996, p. 63) correctly points out,

reason is not some external power which dictates how we should behave, but an internal power, integral to who we are.… Reason does not command that we love anyone. Nonetheless, reason is vital in determining whom we love and why we love them.

That is, reasons for love are pro tanto : they are a part of the overall reasons we have for acting, and it is up to us in exercising our capacity for agency to decide what on balance we have reason to do or even whether we shall act contrary to our reasons. To construe the notion of a reason for love as compelling us to love, as Thomas does, is to misconstrue the place such reasons have within our agency. [ 17 ]

Most philosophical discussions of the justification of love focus on question (1) , thinking that answering this question will also, to the extent that we can, answer question (2) , which is typically not distinguished from (3) . The answers given to these questions vary in a way that turns on how the kind of evaluation implicit in love is construed. On the one hand, those who understand the evaluation implicit in love to be a matter of the bestowal of value (such as Telfer 1970–71; Friedman 1993; Singer 1994) typically claim that no justification can be given (cf. Section 4.2 ). As indicated above, this seems problematic, especially given the importance love can have both in our lives and, especially, in shaping our identities as persons. To reject the idea that we can love for reasons may reduce the impact our agency can have in defining who we are.

On the other hand, those who understand the evaluation implicit in love to be a matter of appraisal tend to answer the justificatory question by appeal to these valuable properties of the beloved. This acceptance of the idea that love can be justified leads to two further, related worries about the object of love.

The first worry is raised by Vlastos (1981) in a discussion Plato’s and Aristotle’s accounts of love. Vlastos notes that these accounts focus on the properties of our beloveds: we are to love people, they say, only because and insofar as they are objectifications of the excellences. Consequently, he argues, in doing so they fail to distinguish “ disinterested affection for the person we love” from “ appreciation of the excellences instantiated by that person ” (p. 33). That is, Vlastos thinks that Plato and Aristotle provide an account of love that is really a love of properties rather than a love of persons—love of a type of person, rather than love of a particular person—thereby losing what is distinctive about love as an essentially personal attitude. This worry about Plato and Aristotle might seem to apply just as well to other accounts that justify love in terms of the properties of the person: insofar as we love the person for the sake of her properties, it might seem that what we love is those properties and not the person. Here it is surely insufficient to say, as Solomon (1988, p. 154) does, “if love has its reasons, then it is not the whole person that one loves but certain aspects of that person—though the rest of the person comes along too, of course”: that final tagline fails to address the central difficulty about what the object of love is and so about love as a distinctly personal attitude. (Clausen 2019 might seem to address this worry by arguing that we love people not as having certain properties but rather as having “ organic unities ”: a holistic set of properties the value of each of which must be understood in essential part in terms of its place within that whole. Nonetheless, while this is an interesting and plausible way to think about the value of the properties of persons, that organic unity itself will be a (holistic) property held by the person, and it seems that the fundamental problem reemerges at the level of this holistic property: do we love the holistic unity rather than the person?)

The second worry concerns the fungibility of the object of love. To be fungible is to be replaceable by another relevantly similar object without any loss of value. Thus, money is fungible: I can give you two $5 bills in exchange for a $10 bill, and neither of us has lost anything. Is the object of love fungible? That is, can I simply switch from loving one person to loving another relevantly similar person without any loss? The worry about fungibility is commonly put this way: if we accept that love can be justified by appealing to properties of the beloved, then it may seem that in loving someone for certain reasons, I love him not simply as the individual he is, but as instantiating those properties. And this may imply that any other person instantiating those same properties would do just as well: my beloved would be fungible. Indeed, it may be that another person exhibits the properties that ground my love to a greater degree than my current beloved does, and so it may seem that in such a case I have reason to “trade up”—to switch my love to the new, better person. However, it seems clear that the objects of our loves are not fungible: love seems to involve a deeply personal commitment to a particular person, a commitment that is antithetical to the idea that our beloveds are fungible or to the idea that we ought to be willing to trade up when possible. [ 18 ]

In responding to these worries, Nozick (1989) appeals to the union view of love he endorses (see the section on Love as Union ):

The intention in love is to form a we and to identify with it as an extended self, to identify one’s fortunes in large part with its fortunes. A willingness to trade up, to destroy the very we you largely identify with, would then be a willingness to destroy your self in the form of your own extended self. [p. 78]

So it is because love involves forming a “we” that we must understand other persons and not properties to be the objects of love, and it is because my very identity as a person depends essentially on that “we” that it is not possible to substitute without loss one object of my love for another. However, Badhwar (2003) criticizes Nozick, saying that his response implies that once I love someone, I cannot abandon that love no matter who that person becomes; this, she says, “cannot be understood as love at all rather than addiction” (p. 61). [ 19 ]

Instead, Badhwar (1987) turns to her robust-concern account of love as a concern for the beloved for his sake rather than one’s own. Insofar as my love is disinterested — not a means to antecedent ends of my own—it would be senseless to think that my beloved could be replaced by someone who is able to satisfy my ends equally well or better. Consequently, my beloved is in this way irreplaceable. However, this is only a partial response to the worry about fungibility, as Badhwar herself seems to acknowledge. For the concern over fungibility arises not merely for those cases in which we think of love as justified instrumentally, but also for those cases in which the love is justified by the intrinsic value of the properties of my beloved. Confronted with cases like this, Badhwar (2003) concludes that the object of love is fungible after all (though she insists that it is very unlikely in practice). (Soble (1990, Chapter 13) draws similar conclusions.)

Nonetheless, Badhwar thinks that the object of love is “phenomenologically non-fungible” (2003, p. 63; see also 1987, p. 14). By this she means that we experience our beloveds to be irreplaceable: “loving and delighting in [one person] are not completely commensurate with loving and delighting in another” (1987, p. 14). Love can be such that we sometimes desire to be with this particular person whom we love, not another whom we also love, for our loves are qualitatively different. But why is this? It seems as though the typical reason I now want to spend time with Amy rather than Bob is, for example, that Amy is funny but Bob is not. I love Amy in part for her humor, and I love Bob for other reasons, and these qualitative differences between them is what makes them not fungible. However, this reply does not address the worry about the possibility of trading up: if Bob were to be at least as funny (charming, kind, etc.) as Amy, why shouldn’t I dump her and spend all my time with him?

A somewhat different approach is taken by Whiting (1991). In response to the first worry concerning the object of love, Whiting argues that Vlastos offers a false dichotomy: having affection for someone that is disinterested —for her sake rather than my own—essentially involves an appreciation of her excellences as such. Indeed, Whiting says, my appreciation of these as excellences, and so the underlying commitment I have to their value, just is a disinterested commitment to her because these excellences constitute her identity as the person she is. The person, therefore, really is the object of love. Delaney (1996) takes the complementary tack of distinguishing between the object of one’s love, which of course is the person, and the grounds of the love, which are her properties: to say, as Solomon does, that we love someone for reasons is not at all to say that we only love certain aspects of the person. In these terms, we might say that Whiting’s rejection of Vlastos’ dichotomy can be read as saying that what makes my attitude be one of disinterested affection—one of love—for the person is precisely that I am thereby responding to her excellences as the reasons for that affection. [ 20 ]

Of course, more needs to be said about what it is that makes a particular person be the object of love. Implicit in Whiting’s account is an understanding of the way in which the object of my love is determined in part by the history of interactions I have with her: it is she, and not merely her properties (which might be instantiated in many different people), that I want to be with; it is she, and not merely her properties, on whose behalf I am concerned when she suffers and whom I seek to comfort; etc. This addresses the first worry, but not the second worry about fungibility, for the question still remains whether she is the object of my love only as instantiating certain properties, and so whether or not I have reason to “trade up.”

To respond to the fungibility worry, Whiting and Delaney appeal explicitly to the historical relationship. [ 21 ] Thus, Whiting claims, although there may be a relatively large pool of people who have the kind of excellences of character that would justify my loving them, and so although there can be no answer to question (2) about why I come to love this rather than that person within this pool, once I have come to love this person and so have developed a historical relation with her, this history of concern justifies my continuing to love this person rather than someone else (1991, p. 7). Similarly, Delaney claims that love is grounded in “historical-relational properties” (1996, p. 346), so that I have reasons for continuing to love this person rather than switching allegiances and loving someone else. In each case, the appeal to both such historical relations and the excellences of character of my beloved is intended to provide an answer to question (3) , and this explains why the objects of love are not fungible.

There seems to be something very much right with this response. Relationships grounded in love are essentially personal, and it would be odd to think of what justifies that love to be merely non-relational properties of the beloved. Nonetheless, it is still unclear how the historical-relational propreties can provide any additional justification for subsequent concern beyond that which is already provided (as an answer to question (1) ) by appeal to the excellences of the beloved’s character (cf. Brink 1999). The mere fact that I have loved someone in the past does not seem to justify my continuing to love him in the future. When we imagine that he is going through a rough time and begins to lose the virtues justifying my initial love for him, why shouldn’t I dump him and instead come to love someone new having all of those virtues more fully? Intuitively (unless the change she undergoes makes her in some important sense no longer the same person he was), we think I should not dump him, but the appeal to the mere fact that I loved him in the past is surely not enough. Yet what historical-relational properties could do the trick? (For an interesting attempt at an answer, see Kolodny 2003 and also Howard 2019.)

If we think that love can be justified, then it may seem that the appeal to particular historical facts about a loving relationship to justify that love is inadequate, for such idiosyncratic and subjective properties might explain but cannot justify love. Rather, it may seem, justification in general requires appealing to universal, objective properties. But such properties are ones that others might share, which leads to the problem of fungibility. Consequently it may seem that love cannot be justified. In the face of this predicament, accounts of love that understand love to be an attitude towards value that is intermediate between appraisal and bestowal, between recognizing already existing value and creating that value (see Section 4.3 ) might seem to offer a way out. For once we reject the thought that the value of our beloveds must be either the precondition or the consequence of our love, we have room to acknowledge that the deeply personal, historically grounded, creative nature of love (central to bestowal accounts) and the understanding of love as responsive to valuable properties of the beloved that can justify that love (central to appraisal accounts) are not mutually exclusive (Helm 2010; Bagley 2015).

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How to cite this entry . Preview the PDF version of this entry at the Friends of the SEP Society . Look up topics and thinkers related to this entry at the Internet Philosophy Ontology Project (InPhO). Enhanced bibliography for this entry at PhilPapers , with links to its database.

Aristotle , Nicomachean Ethics , translated by W.D. Ross.
Moseley, A., “ Philosophy of Love ,” in J. Fieser (ed.), Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy

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What is Generosity?

Here are two different approaches to the idea of generosity. The first is an etymological essay that offers a brief introduction to historical uses of the word “generosity”, as well as the Science of Generosity usage; the second is an historical essay briefly describing the importance of generosity to various cultures past and present.

An Etymology of the Word

The modern English word “generosity” derives from the Latin word generōsus , which means “of noble birth,” which itself was passed down to English through the Old French word genereux .

The Latin stem gener– is the declensional stem of genus , meaning “kin,” “clan,” “race,” or “stock,” with the root Indo–European meaning of gen being "to beget. "
The same root gives us the words genesis, gentry, gender, genital, gentile, genealogy, and genius, among others.
Most recorded English uses of the word “generous” up to and during the Sixteenth Century reflect an aristocratic sense of being of noble lineage or high birth. To be generous was literally a way of saying “to belong to nobility.”

During the 17th Century, however, the meaning and use of the word began to change. Generosity came increasingly to identify not literal family heritage but a nobility of spirit thought to be associated with high birth— that is, with various admirable qualities that could now vary from person to person, depending not on family history but on whether a person actually possessed the qualities.

In this way generosity increasingly came in the 17th Century to signify a variety of traits of character and action historically associated (whether accurately or not) with the ideals of actual nobility: gallantry, courage, strength, richness, gentleness, and fairness.
In addition to describing these diverse human qualities, "generous "became a word during this period used to describe fertile land, the strength of animal breeds, abundant provisions of food, vibrancy of colors, the strength of liquor, and the potency of medicine.

Then, during the 18th Century, the meaning of “generosity” continued to evolve in directions denoting the more specific, contemporary meaning of munificence, open–handedness, and liberality in the giving of money and possessions to others.

This more specific meaning came to dominate English usage by the 19th Century.
Over the last five centuries in the English speaking world, “generosity” developed from being primarily the description of an ascribed status pertaining to the elite nobility to being an achieved mark of admirable personal quality and action capable of being exercised in theory by any person who had learned virtue and noble character.

Modern Usage of the Word

This etymological genealogy tells us that the word “generosity” that we inherit and use today entails certain historical associations which may still inform, however faintly, our contemporary cultural sensibilities on the matter.

Generosity has not long been viewed as a normal trait of ordinary, or of all people, but rather one expected to be practiced by those of higher quality or greater goodness.
Generosity— unlike, say, truth telling or not stealing— is more an ideal toward which the best may aspire and achieve than a “democratic” obligation that is the duty of all to practice.
Generosity may thus, on the positive side, properly call any given person to a higher standard.

Yet simultaneously (and more problematically), this two–tier understanding may have the effect “excusing” the majority from practicing generosity because of their more ordinary perceived status.

We learn from this historical review that the meanings of words can and do evolve, and often do so in response to changing macro social conditions—such as long–term transitions from aristocratic to more democratic societies and cultures.

The Science of Generosity Usage

For our purposes, we use the word generosity to refer to the virtue of giving good things to others freely and abundantly .

Generosity thus conceived is a learned character trait that involves both attitude and action—entailing as a virtue both an inclination or predilection to give liberally and an actual practice of giving liberally.
Generosity is therefore not a random idea or haphazard behavior but rather, in its mature form, a basic, personal, moral orientation to life. Furthermore, in a world of moral contrasts, generosity entails not only the moral good expressed but also many vices rejected (selfishness, greed, fear, meanness).
Generosity also involves giving to others not simply anything in abundance but rather giving those things that are good for others. Generosity always intends to enhance the true wellbeing of those to whom it gives.
What exactly generosity gives can be various things: money, possessions, time, attention, aid, encouragement, emotional availability, and more.
Generosity, to be clear, is not identical to pure altruism, since people can be authentically generous in part for reasons that serve their own interests as well as those of others. Indeed, insofar as generosity is a virtue, to practice it for the good of others also necessarily means that doing so achieves one’s own true, long–term good as well.
And so generosity, like all of the virtues, is in people’s genuine enlightened self-interest to learn and practice.

The Roots of Generosity: A Brief Cultural History

The virtue of generosity has been central throughout the Western tradition, though not always under that name. In order to grasp its ongoing significance, it is vital to place generosity within a broader context of reflection on hospitality, liberality, love, and charity. We discover in short order that pondering the nature of generosity has most often involved fundamental religious questions concerning the nature of humanity, God, and the human-divine relationship. Sustaining the intelligibility and possibility of the virtue of generosity into the future will require something at least as powerful as these inherited contexts of meaning and justification.

The special place of the virtue of hospitality throughout the Middle East has often been noted. The Arab/Islamic tradition in particular emphasizes that the faithful have a duty to God to show generous hospitality towards the stranger, offering them shelter and the best food and drink available. This virtue has deep historical roots, as is witnessed by the Hebrew Bible. It is exemplified in Abraham’s eagerness to host the three strangers who approach his tent in the wilderness, strangers whom the text identifies as Yahweh appearing to Abraham. In showing hospitality to strangers, Abraham has thus honored God and has been enabled to hear God’s covenantal promise of a son in his old age. Aliens, together with widows, orphans, and the poor, are lifted up for special moral attention, and the Israelites are repeatedly reminded that “you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” Thus, care for those marginal to the community and thus in danger of being excluded from basic resources, is mandated both as a response to the needs of those persons and as a response to God’s salvific care for the people of Israel.

For Christians, to be generous is to be conformed not just to Christ but also to the loving divine Parent, whose sacrificial self-gift into the world makes possible human fellowship in the divine life; “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). The apostle Paul regarded generosity (as expressed in the gifts of other Christian churches to the Jerusalem church) as a proof of the genuine character of Christian love. For Paul, this love is exemplified by Christ who, “though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor” (2 Corinth. 8.9). Generosity involves giving beyond one’s means, though Paul also notes that those now giving out of their abundance may at some point be in need and be the recipients of the generosity of others.

Generosity was also a virtue in the classical pagan context. It is the third of the virtues of character discussed by Aristotle, following on the heels of courage and temperance. The generous person, for Aristotle, is one who gives of his or her wealth in a way that achieves a mean between wastefulness and covetousness. The generous person does not give indiscriminately, but seeks to give in a way that is good and fine.This, in turn, requires giving to the right people, in the right amounts, at the right time, with pleasure, and without looking out for oneself. Aristotle suggests that giving to those who lack good character, or to those who respond with flattery, is not true generosity. Generosity is proportionate to one’s resources, so it is not contingent on possession of great wealth. However, it is closely allied to the virtue of magnificence, which for Aristotle does involve large-scale giving for worthy ends, in particular those that benefit the community as a whole.

Thomas Aquinas, whose thought represents the peak of medieval scholasticism, absorbed much of Aristotle’s account of generosity into his own account of liberality, but his treatment focuses on the way that freedom from attachment to money and possessions makes possible the good use of these external goods. Liberality is not a species of justice, even though it is discussed under the heading of justice; it does not give another what is properly speaking his, that is, due to him, but gives another what is one’s own. Like Aristotle, Aquinas suggests that there are more and less fitting ways in which to give of one’s wealth.

The heart of Aquinas’ account of giving, though, is found not in his discussion of liberality, which focuses on the giver’s disposition toward wealth, but in his discussion of the outward acts of charity, notably beneficence and the giving of alms to the poor. Most fundamentally, these acts are significant because they are a way of being conformed to God, whose nature is self-communicative goodness. The mutual love of the divine Persons is expressed outward in the creation and redemption of the world. Human beings are called to respond in gratitude to God’s love by loving God and one another. In acts of beneficence we seek to do good toward others in ways that emulate the good that God has done and is doing for us. To give simply in order to receive a return is not charity but cupidity, a form of selfishness. Aquinas insists that these acts of charity should in principle extend to all, in the sense that we should be ready to do good to anyone at all, including strangers and enemies. Noting the limitations of human agency, however, he argues that our beneficence should ordinarily focus on those who are nearest and dearest to us on the one hand, and on those whose needs are most urgent, on the other. Aquinas recognizes that these claims may conflict, and that prudential judgment will be required in order to determine how one’s acts of beneficence should be directed in any concrete situation.

Today, we associate the word “charity” primarily with charitable giving to the poor. Care for the poor, together with widow and orphan and prisoner, have always been central activities of Christian churches. Generosity was not simply a virtue of individuals but a corporate responsibility, institutionalized in myriad ways. In the sixteenth century, a fundamental shift toward centralized organization of poor relief took place across Europe. This shift has at times been seen as a corruption of true generosity, as in the widespread chorus of praise for voluntary private giving in the eighteenth-century. The challenge has been to preserve, within corporate forms of charity, both governmental and non-governmental, church-related and non-church-related, some element of personal care and spontaneous gift.

An influential strand of contemporary continental philosophy has argued that the dominant received conceptions of generosity in the West are insufficiently unconditional and betray expectations of reciprocity. Emmanuel Levinas insists that true generosity does not differentiate between more or less deserving recipients, nor does it give in the expectation of return. Rather, it is an unconditional openness to the Other, an opening of oneself to otherness in a way that is willing to have one’s own identity called into question. Jacques Derrida has developed this line of reflection into an assertion of the impossibility of gift. As soon as something is recognized as a gift, the receiver becomes indebted and obliged to offer a return; free gift thus collapses into economic exchange. A gift can only exist so long as it remains unrecognized by both giver and receiver. Derrida’s argument has been subjected to vigorous critique. Most fundamentally, it is not clear why a desire for reciprocity (as opposed to a “gift” made contingent on return) taints generosity, particularly when generosity is understood fundamentally in terms of a gift of self offered in the hope of establishing relationship with some other.

These contemporary reflections on generosity and gift are finally best understood as a retrieval of core themes in the Western tradition rather than a fundamentally new departure. But the intense interest they have aroused is an indication of the fact that generosity is endangered in today’s world, a world dominated by contract or economic exchange, which is indeed strictly conditional.

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Love comes in many shapes and sizes—from romantic love to the love between friends and family, to a loving culture in schools and beyond. Sustaining our loving relationships involves many skills that are also good for our own well-being, like gratitude, compassion, and forgiveness.

Luckily, human beings are wired for love—from the neurons in our brains to the hormones in our bodies to the touch receptors in our skin. With that in mind, we hope these resources inspire you to reach out to someone important to you. You know that little moment of warmth you feel when you connect with someone? According to researcher Barbara Fredrickson, that’s love.

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Romantic love

How Relationship Satisfaction Changes Across Your Lifetime : Our romantic happiness goes through normal ups and downs as we get older—and we’re least happy around age 40, a new study finds.
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How Science Can Help Your Love to Last : Two relationship experts explain how to foster positive feelings and overcome challenges for a long-lasting relationship.
How to Fall in Love With Anyone : Can 36 questions help you fall in love—and stay in love? Bestselling author Kelly Corrigan tries a research-proven technique to feel closer to her husband. Plus, we learn how the same technique can actually reduce racism and prejudice.
Four Keys to Building a Love That Lasts : Taking cues from positive psychology research can help us avoid the pitfalls of long-term relationships and maintain happier, healthier partnerships.
Four Ways to Make the Most of Gratitude on Valentine’s Day : Whether February 14th is your first Valentine’s Day together or your 35th, it’s a great excuse to show gratitude for the one you love.
Five Ways to Renew an Old Love : Love is fleeting, says one of the world’s leading experts on positive emotion. But with practice, you can foster love anytime you wish—and, in doing so, renew old bonds.

Pain and pitfalls in love

How to Communicate With Love (Even When You’re Mad) : A marriage therapist offers a step-by-step guide for a conversation with your partner when emotions are running high.
What to Do When Love Breaks Your Heart : Heartbreak can be devastating for our minds and bodies. Here are six ways to help yourself through it, based on research.
How to Stop Romantic Comedies From Ruining Your Love Life : Romantic comedies create unrealistic expectations, but we don’t have to buy into them.
What to Do When You Hate the One You Love : It’s a thin line, says an old song and some new research. Here are seven ways to keep bad feelings from getting out of hand.
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This Is Your Brain on Heartbreak : Why does getting dumped hurt physically? Meghan Laslocky explains where that feeling comes from, and what it’s good for.
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Loving families

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100 Words Essay On Generosity In English

The quality of being kind and generous is called generosity. It is the act of giving and showing love. It is one of the most important traits in a human being. One should remember that doing good deeds will not cause us any harm and will eventually lead to beneficial results.

One of the most well-known examples and people to take on would be Mother Teresa. She was one of the most generous people; generous with both her time and knowledge. She made the world a better place to live in. The world has known and studied about her till today. She has inspired a large number of people.

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Essay on Generosity 100 to 150 words

Hello Readers here you will read Essay on Generosity 100 to 150 words . What is needed is generosity. What effect can this have on one’s life ?

Essay on Generosity 100 to 150 words :-

Generosity means being happy to help someone in need. In the meanwhile, when giving something to someone, do not expect anything from the next.

Generosity is a kind of kindness. There is no point in greed. Generosity has so much power that it can make someone happy.

It can be of many kinds to help someone with money, to help someone in need with something or to give someone time.

Generosity is that which is of no use to you but you are still of use to someone.

Generosity is very much needed. Sometimes there are people who are very much in need but there is no one to help them but if we help them then this thing will make them very happy. When a person’s grief is lessened, he prays a lot for help.

Money alone does not necessarily mean generosity. For this you can take some time for a sad person and encourage him. That person will be very happy.

But nowadays there are very few people who will be kind. In today’s time people have become so busy that they have no time for anyone, they only think of themselves. People have become very selfish. No one does any work for anyone except his own benefit.

But the truth is that this wealth is of no use to you if you cannot make a place in anyone’s heart. After you leave, you will be remembered not for your wealth but for your generosity.

The effort should be that if God has made you capable of helping someone then you must help. Your small act can bring happiness in someone’s life.

The importance of generosity and some of the elements associated with it -

Wealth will remain here People will always remember you for good deeds People will be blessed for good deeds There will be mental satisfaction Make room in someone’s heart Will find happiness

Hopefully you will also bring these qualities in yourself.

Keep Smiling_ _

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5 Poems About Generosity That Will Warm Your Heart

Looking for inspiration on how to cultivate generosity in your life? Look no further than these 5 original and unique poems about generosity. From selfless acts of kindness to the joy of giving, these poems capture the essence of what it means to be truly generous. So sit back, relax, and let these beautiful verses inspire you to spread love and generosity in your own way.

The Bountiful Benediction

In the land of sanguine sundowns and dappled dawns, Where whispers of compassion sway through tender lawns, There blooms a tale of boundless hearts and giving hands, A hymn of love and charity, that resonates through lands.

Upon the canvas of the world, a rich and vibrant hue, The colors of benevolence, in strokes so bold and true, The artist’s brush creates a realm, where hearts unite, In the symphony of generosity, where souls take flight.

‘Tis a dance upon the earth, a pirouette of care, A waltz of hands outstretched, in the swirling, moonlit air, A melody of empathy, a crescendo of grace, A harmony of open hearts, that time cannot erase.

A river runs, with currents strong, of love and pure delight, Its waters filled with hope and trust, a sight so rare and bright, A cascade of selflessness, that drowns the meek and mild, It quenches the parched hearts of men and nurtures every child.

In the gardens of this world, a flower blooms so fair, Its petals wide and fragrant, its scent perfumes the air, The blossom of munificence, a beacon in the night, It guides the weary traveler, with its tender, golden light.

The winds of change blow softly, through this bountiful terrain, Caressing the verdant hillsides, and the golden fields of grain, A zephyr filled with kindness, that carries forth the seeds, Of a love that’s born of giving, and the meeting of great needs.

A mountain looms, a summit high, of generosity, It towers above the valleys, and the vast and endless sea, A peak that stands as testament, to a love that knows no bounds, A monument of altruism, where compassion’s flame abounds.

The creatures of this blessed land, they frolic and they play, In the warmth of loving kindness, that brightens every day, Their laughter fills the air, with a joy that knows no end, As they give and share their hearts, with every foe and friend.

A tapestry of unity, it weaves through every thread, Of the lives that intertwine, and the paths that lie ahead, A fabric made of love, and the giving of one’s all, It envelops every heart, in a warm and tender shawl.

The sun sets on this world, and the stars begin to gleam, In the twilight of this story, a beautiful, enchanting dream, A dream of love and giving, of a generosity so grand, It binds the hearts of all who dwell, in this wondrous, sacred land.

So sing the song of charity, and let the verses soar, Through the skies of this existence, to a place we can’t ignore, A place of boundless giving, where the heart is always true, The land of bountiful benediction, a world for me and you.

The Wellspring of Benevolence

In the heart of man there lies a well, From which springs forth a tale to tell, A story of a gift so pure, The essence of a soul’s allure.

It starts with just a single drop, A gesture small, yet it does not stop, For generosity doth grow and spread, Blossoming like the petals of the rose’s bed.

From whence does this kindness stem? A force unseen, a secret gem, The answer lies within the heart, Where true benevolence does start.

For when a man does choose to give, He grants a chance for hope to live, To pass along the torch of light, And pierce the veil of darkest night.

The wellspring flows with steady grace, A torrent in a boundless space, Where giving hands do intertwine, And hearts become a grand design.

A widow’s mite or wealthy hand, Together, in this dance they stand, Each act of generosity, A part of life’s grand tapestry.

The rain of kindness does descend, A flood of love that knows no end, And in its wake, it leaves a trail, Of lives transformed, of hearts unveiled.

The beggar clothed, the hungry fed, The broken soothed, the lost misled, The orphaned child finds a home, No more to roam the world alone.

The seeds of kindness sown with care, Sprout mighty oaks of love to share, Their branches reaching for the skies, A testament to the selfless prize.

But what of those who do not see, The beauty of this generosity? Their hearts, like wells run dry and cold, Can they, too, be saved and whole?

For each of us has known the pain, Of emptiness, of love in vain, Yet even in the darkest hour, The wellspring’s depths retain their power.

A single drop, a quiet plea, The spark ignites, and we are free, To share the gift, to heed the call, And join the dance, one and all.

In acts of grace, we find our peace, The wellspring’s flow will never cease, And so, dear friends, let us begin, To let generosity live within.

For in this world of strife and sin, Where darkness seeks to draw us in, The wellspring of benevolence, Is our brightest hope, our strongest defense.

Let the story of the well be told, A legend of a love untold, And may our hearts forever sing, The praises of generosity’s spring.

The River of Giving

Upon the banks of life we stand, With hands that yearn, and hearts that demand, A river that weaves a tale untold, Of generosity – a story of gifts and gold.

The River of Giving, it flows and sways, A source of kindness that never decays, The waters of love, so pure and pristine, A cascade of grace, a sight unseen.

The first droplets, a timid caress, Budding seeds of love and tenderness, They quench the thirst of a world so dry, A parched land where compassion would die.

As ripples become torrents of care, A flood of charity, a storm so rare, The surge of empathy, a mighty wave, A deluge of hope for the hearts that crave.

The river ebbs through the valleys of life, Dissolving the borders of struggle and strife, The murmurs of unity, whispers of grace, In the River of Giving, we find our place.

From springs of joy, tributaries are born, Into the fabric of humanity, they’re worn, The threads of altruism, woven tight, A tapestry of love that shines so bright.

The oxbow lakes of benevolence form, In the hearts of those who weather the storm, A refuge for weary souls, a sanctuary, For the lost and the broken, a place to be free.

In the River of Giving, we find our truth, Our purpose, our essence, our fountain of youth, The elixir of life that can heal and restore, The essence of love that we can’t ignore.

The estuaries of generosity, the mouths of the river, As it meets the ocean, the waters quiver, The confluence of kindness, a sight to behold, A union of love, a story foretold.

As the river dissolves into the sea, The eternal ocean of humanity, The currents of compassion, they blend and merge, In an endless cycle, a cosmic urge.

The River of Giving, it’s always there, An undercurrent of love, a breath of fresh air, A force that can change the world, and more, A power that can touch the very core.

The river, it beckons, it calls our name, To dive in its depths, to kindle the flame, Of generosity – a fire that burns, A beacon of hope that forever yearns.

And so, we gather upon its shores, With open hearts and open doors, To share the gifts that life bestows, In the River of Giving, our love forever flows.

The Generous Heart’s Symphony

In the vast expanse of humanity’s grand endeavor, An elusive trait emerges, a force to last forever, With open arms and tender touch, it weaves a tale so pure, The generous heart’s symphony, a chorus to endure.

Upon the stage of life we stride, in masks we don and doff, Yet, in the wings, the generous soul prepares to take aloft, No script to guide their actions, no lines rehearsed by heart, A spontaneous performance, a play of matchless art.

A mother’s gentle lullaby, a father’s stern embrace, The precious gems of childhood, in memory encased, A sibling’s hand extended, a friend’s forgiving smile, The strings of generosity, played with grace and guile.

In quiet moments of reflection, the orchestra assembles, A chorus line of memories, whose notes our hearts resemble, The maestro takes the baton, and with an elegant flourish, He conjures up a symphony, a melody to nourish.

The violins begin to sing, a song of love and loss, Their tender notes, a tribute to the pain life’s journey costs, The cellos join the harmony, their deep, sonorous tone, A reminder of the strength we find when we are not alone.

The flutes, a playful melody, so light and full of glee, A testament to laughter shared, and friendships wild and free, The timpani, a steady pulse, a heartbeat strong and true, A symbol of our fortitude, and all that we’ve been through.

And as the music swells and soars, the chorus takes the stage, Their voices raised in gratitude, a hymn for every age, They sing of those who’ve touched our lives, their kindness never spent, The selfless acts, the giving hearts, a legacy of intent.

For in the darkness of the night, when shadows seem to loom, The generous heart’s symphony dispels the somber gloom, It whispers softly in our ear, a message pure and clear, “Have faith in love, have faith in life, for I am always near.”

So let us honor those who give, their spirits shining bright, The beacons of humanity, who guide us through the night, And as we navigate life’s seas, may we, in turn, bestow, The gift of generosity, a love that ever grows.

The Bountiful Garden of Giving

In the fertile lands of gracious hearts, Where kindness blooms and love imparts, A bountiful garden of giving thrives, A testament to generous lives.

The seeds of goodwill, tenderly sown, In nurturing soil of compassion grown, By gentle hands that tend and share, With tender mercies, love and care.

The sun’s warm rays kiss verdant leaves, As charity’s embrace, the world receives, Nourished by the waters of selfless deeds, Quenching the thirst of humanity’s needs.

In this garden, diverse flowers bloom, Banishing darkness, dispelling gloom, The rose of empathy, sweet-scented, strong, Beckons with its melodious song.

The lilies of benevolence, pure and fair, Glisten with dewdrops of love and care, Their petals unfurling in ivory grace, Bestowing serenity upon each face.

The daisies of kindness, simple and bright, Dot the garden with radiant light, A constellation of stars, grounded by love, Eternal constellations, heavens above.

The marigolds of compassion, fiery glow, Offer solace to the grieving, warmth they bestow, Their vibrant hues, a promise of hope, A beacon of light on a slippery slope.

Amidst the blossoms, a tree stands tall, Its roots run deep, connecting us all, The Tree of Generosity, limbs outspread, Sheltering hearts, where love is bred.

Upon its branches, fruits of grace, Offer sustenance to the human race, The nectar of kindness, a taste divine, Soothing souls with love’s sweet wine.

From the tree, a river flows, The Waters of Generosity, it bestows, Quenching the thirst of the parched and weak, A haven for all who solace seek.

In this bountiful garden, a truth revealed, The power of giving, no more concealed, For in our hearts, a truth we find, The beauty of a generous mind.

A garden tended by selfless souls, The spirit of giving, their only goal, A world united by acts of love, A paradise below, as is above.

In the fertile lands of gracious hearts, The story of humanity starts, A tale of love, of kindness sown, A legacy to call our own.

For in this garden, a truth we see, The essence of life, the power to be, To walk the path of love and care, In the bountiful garden of giving, we share.

And as the sun sets on this verdant land, A truth we hold in our gentle hands, In the act of giving, a treasure we find, A bountiful garden, forever entwined.

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A woman’s life is all work and little rest. An age gap relationship can help.

In the summer, in the south of France, my husband and I like to play, rather badly, the lottery. We take long, scorching walks to the village — gratuitous beauty, gratuitous heat — kicking up dust and languid debates over how we’d spend such an influx. I purchase scratch-offs, jackpot tickets, scraping the former with euro coins in restaurants too fine for that. I never cash them in, nor do I check the winning numbers. For I already won something like the lotto, with its gifts and its curses, when he married me.

He is ten years older than I am. I chose him on purpose, not by chance. As far as life decisions go, on balance, I recommend it.

When I was 20 and a junior at Harvard College, a series of great ironies began to mock me. I could study all I wanted, prove myself as exceptional as I liked, and still my fiercest advantage remained so universal it deflated my other plans. My youth. The newness of my face and body. Compellingly effortless; cruelly fleeting. I shared it with the average, idle young woman shrugging down the street. The thought, when it descended on me, jolted my perspective, the way a falling leaf can make you look up: I could diligently craft an ideal existence, over years and years of sleepless nights and industry. Or I could just marry it early.

So naturally I began to lug a heavy suitcase of books each Saturday to the Harvard Business School to work on my Nabokov paper. In one cavernous, well-appointed room sat approximately 50 of the planet’s most suitable bachelors. I had high breasts, most of my eggs, plausible deniability when it came to purity, a flush ponytail, a pep in my step that had yet to run out. Apologies to Progress, but older men still desired those things.

I could not understand why my female classmates did not join me, given their intelligence. Each time I reconsidered the project, it struck me as more reasonable. Why ignore our youth when it amounted to a superpower? Why assume the burdens of womanhood, its too-quick-to-vanish upper hand, but not its brief benefits at least? Perhaps it came easier to avoid the topic wholesale than to accept that women really do have a tragically short window of power, and reason enough to take advantage of that fact while they can. As for me, I liked history, Victorian novels, knew of imminent female pitfalls from all the books I’d read: vampiric boyfriends; labor, at the office and in the hospital, expected simultaneously; a decline in status as we aged, like a looming eclipse. I’d have disliked being called calculating, but I had, like all women, a calculator in my head. I thought it silly to ignore its answers when they pointed to an unfairness for which we really ought to have been preparing.

I was competitive by nature, an English-literature student with all the corresponding major ambitions and minor prospects (Great American novel; email job). A little Bovarist , frantic for new places and ideas; to travel here, to travel there, to be in the room where things happened. I resented the callow boys in my class, who lusted after a particular, socially sanctioned type on campus: thin and sexless, emotionally detached and socially connected, the opposite of me. Restless one Saturday night, I slipped on a red dress and snuck into a graduate-school event, coiling an HDMI cord around my wrist as proof of some technical duty. I danced. I drank for free, until one of the organizers asked me to leave. I called and climbed into an Uber. Then I promptly climbed out of it. For there he was, emerging from the revolving doors. Brown eyes, curved lips, immaculate jacket. I went to him, asked him for a cigarette. A date, days later. A second one, where I discovered he was a person, potentially my favorite kind: funny, clear-eyed, brilliant, on intimate terms with the universe.

I used to love men like men love women — that is, not very well, and with a hunger driven only by my own inadequacies. Not him. In those early days, I spoke fondly of my family, stocked the fridge with his favorite pasta, folded his clothes more neatly than I ever have since. I wrote his mother a thank-you note for hosting me in his native France, something befitting a daughter-in-law. It worked; I meant it. After graduation and my fellowship at Oxford, I stayed in Europe for his career and married him at 23.

Of course I just fell in love. Romances have a setting; I had only intervened to place myself well. Mainly, I spotted the precise trouble of being a woman ahead of time, tried to surf it instead of letting it drown me on principle. I had grown bored of discussions of fair and unfair, equal or unequal , and preferred instead to consider a thing called ease.

The reception of a particular age-gap relationship depends on its obviousness. The greater and more visible the difference in years and status between a man and a woman, the more it strikes others as transactional. Transactional thinking in relationships is both as American as it gets and the least kosher subject in the American romantic lexicon. When a 50-year-old man and a 25-year-old woman walk down the street, the questions form themselves inside of you; they make you feel cynical and obscene: How good of a deal is that? Which party is getting the better one? Would I take it? He is older. Income rises with age, so we assume he has money, at least relative to her; at minimum, more connections and experience. She has supple skin. Energy. Sex. Maybe she gets a Birkin. Maybe he gets a baby long after his prime. The sight of their entwined hands throws a lucid light on the calculations each of us makes, in love, to varying degrees of denial. You could get married in the most romantic place in the world, like I did, and you would still have to sign a contract.

Twenty and 30 is not like 30 and 40; some freshness to my features back then, some clumsiness in my bearing, warped our decade, in the eyes of others, to an uncrossable gulf. Perhaps this explains the anger we felt directed at us at the start of our relationship. People seemed to take us very, very personally. I recall a hellish car ride with a friend of his who began to castigate me in the backseat, in tones so low that only I could hear him. He told me, You wanted a rich boyfriend. You chased and snuck into parties . He spared me the insult of gold digger, but he drew, with other words, the outline for it. Most offended were the single older women, my husband’s classmates. They discussed me in the bathroom at parties when I was in the stall. What does he see in her? What do they talk about? They were concerned about me. They wielded their concern like a bludgeon. They paraphrased without meaning to my favorite line from Nabokov’s Lolita : “You took advantage of my disadvantage,” suspecting me of some weakness he in turn mined. It did not disturb them, so much, to consider that all relationships were trades. The trouble was the trade I’d made struck them as a bad one.

The truth is you can fall in love with someone for all sorts of reasons, tiny transactions, pluses and minuses, whose sum is your affection for each other, your loyalty, your commitment. The way someone picks up your favorite croissant. Their habit of listening hard. What they do for you on your anniversary and your reciprocal gesture, wrapped thoughtfully. The serenity they inspire; your happiness, enlivening it. When someone says they feel unappreciated, what they really mean is you’re in debt to them.

When I think of same-age, same-stage relationships, what I tend to picture is a woman who is doing too much for too little.

I’m 27 now, and most women my age have “partners.” These days, girls become partners quite young. A partner is supposed to be a modern answer to the oppression of marriage, the terrible feeling of someone looming over you, head of a household to which you can only ever be the neck. Necks are vulnerable. The problem with a partner, however, is if you’re equal in all things, you compromise in all things. And men are too skilled at taking .

There is a boy out there who knows how to floss because my friend taught him. Now he kisses college girls with fresh breath. A boy married to my friend who doesn’t know how to pack his own suitcase. She “likes to do it for him.” A million boys who know how to touch a woman, who go to therapy because they were pushed, who learned fidelity, boundaries, decency, manners, to use a top sheet and act humanely beneath it, to call their mothers, match colors, bring flowers to a funeral and inhale, exhale in the face of rage, because some girl, some girl we know, some girl they probably don’t speak to and will never, ever credit, took the time to teach him. All while she was working, raising herself, clawing up the cliff-face of adulthood. Hauling him at her own expense.

I find a post on Reddit where five thousand men try to define “ a woman’s touch .” They describe raised flower beds, blankets, photographs of their loved ones, not hers, sprouting on the mantel overnight. Candles, coasters, side tables. Someone remembering to take lint out of the dryer. To give compliments. I wonder what these women are getting back. I imagine them like Cinderella’s mice, scurrying around, their sole proof of life their contributions to a more central character. On occasion I meet a nice couple, who grew up together. They know each other with a fraternalism tender and alien to me. But I think of all my friends who failed at this, were failed at this, and I think, No, absolutely not, too risky . Riskier, sometimes, than an age gap.

My younger brother is in his early 20s, handsome, successful, but in many ways: an endearing disaster. By his age, I had long since wisened up. He leaves his clothes in the dryer, takes out a single shirt, steams it for three minutes. His towel on the floor, for someone else to retrieve. His lovely, same-age girlfriend is aching to fix these tendencies, among others. She is capable beyond words. Statistically, they will not end up together. He moved into his first place recently, and she, the girlfriend, supplied him with a long, detailed list of things he needed for his apartment: sheets, towels, hangers, a colander, which made me laugh. She picked out his couch. I will bet you anything she will fix his laundry habits, and if so, they will impress the next girl. If they break up, she will never see that couch again, and he will forget its story. I tell her when I visit because I like her, though I get in trouble for it: You shouldn’t do so much for him, not for someone who is not stuck with you, not for any boy, not even for my wonderful brother.

Too much work had left my husband, by 30, jaded and uninspired. He’d burned out — but I could reenchant things. I danced at restaurants when they played a song I liked. I turned grocery shopping into an adventure, pleased by what I provided. Ambitious, hungry, he needed someone smart enough to sustain his interest, but flexible enough in her habits to build them around his hours. I could. I do: read myself occupied, make myself free, materialize beside him when he calls for me. In exchange, I left a lucrative but deadening spreadsheet job to write full-time, without having to live like a writer. I learned to cook, a little, and decorate, somewhat poorly. Mostly I get to read, to walk central London and Miami and think in delicious circles, to work hard, when necessary, for free, and write stories for far less than minimum wage when I tally all the hours I take to write them.

At 20, I had felt daunted by the project of becoming my ideal self, couldn’t imagine doing it in tandem with someone, two raw lumps of clay trying to mold one another and only sullying things worse. I’d go on dates with boys my age and leave with the impression they were telling me not about themselves but some person who didn’t exist yet and on whom I was meant to bet regardless. My husband struck me instead as so finished, formed. Analyzable for compatibility. He bore the traces of other women who’d improved him, small but crucial basics like use a coaster ; listen, don’t give advice. Young egos mellow into patience and generosity.

My husband isn’t my partner. He’s my mentor, my lover, and, only in certain contexts, my friend. I’ll never forget it, how he showed me around our first place like he was introducing me to myself: This is the wine you’ll drink, where you’ll keep your clothes, we vacation here, this is the other language we’ll speak, you’ll learn it, and I did. Adulthood seemed a series of exhausting obligations. But his logistics ran so smoothly that he simply tacked mine on. I moved into his flat, onto his level, drag and drop, cleaner thrice a week, bills automatic. By opting out of partnership in my 20s, I granted myself a kind of compartmentalized, liberating selfishness none of my friends have managed. I am the work in progress, the party we worry about, a surprising dominance. When I searched for my first job, at 21, we combined our efforts, for my sake. He had wisdom to impart, contacts with whom he arranged coffees; we spent an afternoon, laughing, drawing up earnest lists of my pros and cons (highly sociable; sloppy math). Meanwhile, I took calls from a dear friend who had a boyfriend her age. Both savagely ambitious, hyperclose and entwined in each other’s projects. If each was a start-up , the other was the first hire, an intense dedication I found riveting. Yet every time she called me, I hung up with the distinct feeling that too much was happening at the same time: both learning to please a boss; to forge more adult relationships with their families; to pay bills and taxes and hang prints on the wall. Neither had any advice to give and certainly no stability. I pictured a three-legged race, two people tied together and hobbling toward every milestone.

I don’t fool myself. My marriage has its cons. There are only so many times one can say “thank you” — for splendid scenes, fine dinners — before the phrase starts to grate. I live in an apartment whose rent he pays and that shapes the freedom with which I can ever be angry with him. He doesn’t have to hold it over my head. It just floats there, complicating usual shorthands to explain dissatisfaction like, You aren’t being supportive lately . It’s a Frenchism to say, “Take a decision,” and from time to time I joke: from whom? Occasionally I find myself in some fabulous country at some fabulous party and I think what a long way I have traveled, like a lucky cloud, and it is frightening to think of oneself as vapor.

Mostly I worry that if he ever betrayed me and I had to move on, I would survive, but would find in my humor, preferences, the way I make coffee or the bed nothing that he did not teach, change, mold, recompose, stamp with his initials, the way Renaissance painters hid in their paintings their faces among a crowd. I wonder if when they looked at their paintings, they saw their own faces first. But this is the wrong question, if our aim is happiness. Like the other question on which I’m expected to dwell: Who is in charge, the man who drives or the woman who put him there so she could enjoy herself? I sit in the car, in the painting it would have taken me a corporate job and 20 years to paint alone, and my concern over who has the upper hand becomes as distant as the horizon, the one he and I made so wide for me.

To be a woman is to race against the clock, in several ways, until there is nothing left to be but run ragged.

We try to put it off, but it will hit us at some point: that we live in a world in which our power has a different shape from that of men, a different distribution of advantage, ours a funnel and theirs an expanding cone. A woman at 20 rarely has to earn her welcome; a boy at 20 will be turned away at the door. A woman at 30 may find a younger woman has taken her seat; a man at 30 will have invited her. I think back to the women in the bathroom, my husband’s classmates. What was my relationship if not an inconvertible sign of this unfairness? What was I doing, in marrying older, if not endorsing it? I had taken advantage of their disadvantage. I had preempted my own. After all, principled women are meant to defy unfairness, to show some integrity or denial, not plan around it, like I had. These were driven women, successful, beautiful, capable. I merely possessed the one thing they had already lost. In getting ahead of the problem, had I pushed them down? If I hadn’t, would it really have made any difference?

When we decided we wanted to be equal to men, we got on men’s time. We worked when they worked, retired when they retired, had to squeeze pregnancy, children, menopause somewhere impossibly in the margins. I have a friend, in her late 20s, who wears a mood ring; these days it is often red, flickering in the air like a siren when she explains her predicament to me. She has raised her fair share of same-age boyfriends. She has put her head down, worked laboriously alongside them, too. At last she is beginning to reap the dividends, earning the income to finally enjoy herself. But it is now, exactly at this precipice of freedom and pleasure, that a time problem comes closing in. If she would like to have children before 35, she must begin her next profession, motherhood, rather soon, compromising inevitably her original one. The same-age partner, equally unsettled in his career, will take only the minimum time off, she guesses, or else pay some cost which will come back to bite her. Everything unfailingly does. If she freezes her eggs to buy time, the decision and its logistics will burden her singly — and perhaps it will not work. Overlay the years a woman is supposed to establish herself in her career and her fertility window and it’s a perfect, miserable circle. By midlife women report feeling invisible, undervalued; it is a telling cliché, that after all this, some husbands leave for a younger girl. So when is her time, exactly? For leisure, ease, liberty? There is no brand of feminism which achieved female rest. If women’s problem in the ’50s was a paralyzing malaise, now it is that they are too active, too capable, never permitted a vacation they didn’t plan. It’s not that our efforts to have it all were fated for failure. They simply weren’t imaginative enough.

For me, my relationship, with its age gap, has alleviated this rush , permitted me to massage the clock, shift its hands to my benefit. Very soon, we will decide to have children, and I don’t panic over last gasps of fun, because I took so many big breaths of it early: on the holidays of someone who had worked a decade longer than I had, in beautiful places when I was young and beautiful, a symmetry I recommend. If such a thing as maternal energy exists, mine was never depleted. I spent the last nearly seven years supported more than I support and I am still not as old as my husband was when he met me. When I have a child, I will expect more help from him than I would if he were younger, for what does professional tenure earn you if not the right to set more limits on work demands — or, if not, to secure some child care, at the very least? When I return to work after maternal upheaval, he will aid me, as he’s always had, with his ability to put himself aside, as younger men are rarely able.

Above all, the great gift of my marriage is flexibility. A chance to live my life before I become responsible for someone else’s — a lover’s, or a child’s. A chance to write. A chance at a destiny that doesn’t adhere rigidly to the routines and timelines of men, but lends itself instead to roomy accommodation, to the very fluidity Betty Friedan dreamed of in 1963 in The Feminine Mystique , but we’ve largely forgotten: some career or style of life that “permits year-to-year variation — a full-time paid job in one community, part-time in another, exercise of the professional skill in serious volunteer work or a period of study during pregnancy or early motherhood when a full-time job is not feasible.” Some things are just not feasible in our current structures. Somewhere along the way we stopped admitting that, and all we did was make women feel like personal failures. I dream of new structures, a world in which women have entry-level jobs in their 30s; alternate avenues for promotion; corporate ladders with balconies on which they can stand still, have a smoke, take a break, make a baby, enjoy themselves, before they keep climbing. Perhaps men long for this in their own way. Actually I am sure of that.

Once, when we first fell in love, I put my head in his lap on a long car ride; I remember his hands on my face, the sun, the twisting turns of a mountain road, surprising and not surprising us like our romance, and his voice, telling me that it was his biggest regret that I was so young, he feared he would lose me. Last week, we looked back at old photos and agreed we’d given each other our respective best years. Sometimes real equality is not so obvious, sometimes it takes turns, sometimes it takes almost a decade to reveal itself.

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Guest Essay

Biden Loves Ireland. It Doesn’t Love Him Back.

A close-up of a shamrock-themed tie worn by President Biden.

By Una Mullally

Ms. Mullally, a columnist for The Irish Times, wrote from Dublin.

If there’s one thing Irish people know about President Biden, it’s that he’s one of us. He says so all the time. “Remember,” he recalls his grandfather saying, “the best drop of blood in you is Irish.” He has a habit of quoting the poet Seamus Heaney and never lets an opportunity to recall his origins go to waste. His Secret Service code name, tellingly, is Celtic.

So when he visited Ireland last year, it felt like a homecoming. “Today you are amongst friends because you are one of us,” the speaker of Parliament announced before Mr. Biden addressed Irish lawmakers. If the trip took on the sheen of a wealthy Irish American searching for his roots, a constant of Irish tourism, it also cemented the bond between him and the country. When Mr. Biden referred to the Irish rugby team beating “the Black and Tans” — the notoriously brutal 1920s police force — as opposed to the All Blacks, as New Zealand’s rugby team is known, the gaffe became an instant, affectionate meme .

By the end of the trip, it was official: Mr. Biden loves Ireland, and Ireland loves Mr. Biden. But last October changed everything. After Hamas’s attacks, the Israeli bombardment of Gaza appalled the Irish. Mr. Biden, as the leader of Israel’s closest ally and chief military supplier, was seen to be enabling the devastation. That complicity has damaged both his reputation and his relationship with the Irish people, perhaps irreparably. His ancestral homeland no longer loves him back.

Ireland has long and emotional links to Palestinians, something the world has become steadily more aware of in recent months. The Irish government, for its part, unequivocally condemns the Oct. 7 Hamas attacks and repeatedly calls for the release of Israeli hostages. But it also urges restraint in Israel’s response, making multiple interventions at the European Union level and consistently calling for a cease-fire and a political solution to the carnage. Ireland knows all about cease-fires and peace building, after all.

On this matter, Ireland is something of an outlier in Europe. In a January poll , 71 percent of respondents in Ireland said they believed Palestinians lived under an Israeli apartheid system; in another poll in February, 79 percent said they believed Israel was committing genocide. By contrast, no more than 27 percent of people in seven Western European countries said they sympathized more with Palestinians than with Israelis. Here in Britain’s first colony — a status cast off through a war of independence — empathy for Palestinians is deeply rooted, born of shared historical experience.

This feeling has given rise to an extraordinary wave of pro-Palestinian actions in Ireland since the war began. The array of protests — countless concerts, fund-raisers and demonstrations calling for a cease-fire and an end to the bombardment of Gaza — goes far beyond any fringe concern. Protests in Ireland are large and spread across the country, with attendees diverse in age, class, ethnicity and political affiliation. They bring together trade unionists, Gaelic football players, journalists, ordinary citizens young and old, politicians, health care workers, L.G.B.T.Q. people and many more. It is a truly national phenomenon.

Around the world, chants at pro-Palestinian demonstrations are pretty similar. But over the winter, a specific chant took hold on Irish streets. Though St. Patrick’s Day was months away, protesters looked to the annual meeting in Washington between the Irish prime minister, or taoiseach, and the American president. At the Oval Office every March 17, the Irish leader presents to the American president a bowl of shamrock. The chant, taking notice of this tradition, was bracingly simple: “No shamrocks for Genocide Joe.”

It caught on, becoming the aural centerpiece of protests across the country, especially at the largest demonstrations on Saturdays in Dublin’s city center. It was transformed with a slight modification into a mural in Belfast, a city where Palestinian flags have long flown in nationalist communities; was spray-painted along tram tracks in Dublin; and took hold on social media, where people drew black shamrocks on the palms of their hands. Such agitation coalesced around the demand that the prime minister, Leo Varadkar, boycott this year’s White House visit.

Along with that demand, Mr. Biden became the focus of Irish ire. At protests he was rebuked by public figures, not least Bernadette Devlin McAliskey , a hero of the 1960s civil rights movement in the north of Ireland. In the press, commentators lined up to pass judgment on the American president, including the acclaimed novelist Sally Rooney , who characterized the assault on Gaza as “Biden’s war.” The criticism, at times, has been intimate. In County Louth, where Mr. Biden’s great-grandfather James Finnegan was born, a group of people gathered at a graveyard to castigate the president for betraying his roots.

The disapproval has cut through. While half of Irish voters would still rather Mr. Biden win re-election over Donald Trump, nearly a third would like to see neither man win the presidency. An open letter revoking “symbolic support” for his 2024 election campaign has been signed by 20,000 people. Given 80 percent of Irish people backed Mr. Biden in 2020 and his victory was widely welcomed, it is a startling decline in esteem for our emigrant son.

As calls to boycott the White House meeting and shamrock presentation grew, Mr. Varadkar’s own criticism of the war in Gaza became more robust. He spoke about the “hope” a cease-fire could bring and “believing in our shared humanity.” But he was never going to skip the trip. Strong relations with the United States are central to Ireland’s economic and foreign policy, after all. Even so, Irish people’s expectations for the visit, which offered an opportunity to impress on Mr. Biden their views, were high.

Mr. Varadkar did his best to relay the message. “Mr. President, as you know, the Irish people are deeply troubled about the catastrophe that’s unfolding before our eyes in Gaza,” he said at the shamrock presentation. “Leaders often ask me why the Irish have so much empathy for the Palestinian people. The answer is simple: We see our history in their eyes.”

This stirring speech turned out to be one of his final acts in office. Mr. Varadkar, worn out by the job, announced his resignation last week. Coming within a year of the next elections, the decision was certainly a surprise. But it did little to dampen the defiant mood in Ireland.

Mr. Biden often cites Mr. Heaney’s “The Cure at Troy.” “History says don’t hope/On this side of the grave,” the poem runs. “But then, once in a lifetime/The longed-for tidal wave/Of justice can rise up,/And hope and history rhyme.” As Irish people look across the Atlantic to Ireland’s great-grandson, many are waiting for that rhyme to land.

Una Mullally ( @UnaMullally ) is a columnist for The Irish Times.

The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. We’d like to hear what you think about this or any of our articles. Here are some tips . And here’s our email: [email protected] .

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