Eros and nature

Marlowe's Faust, to Helen.

FAUSTUS.

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium—
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.—

[Kisses her.]

Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!—
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sack'd;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appear'd to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms;
And none but thou shalt be my paramour!

Eros, apart from which there is no bond, though there may well be pleasure.

All part of Nature's plan, you know.

Well, all right; that's a comforting but fraudulent metaphor attributing consciousness, intention, and even wisdom to a person altogether fictitious.

There is no plan.

There is no planner.

A famous biologist, an atheist, wrote a book called "The Blind Watchmaker," the point of which was to refute the argument from design by showing it plays no role in crafting complex living organisms.

The evolution of life is fully explained by random variation and "natural selection," itself a metaphor for the differential effects on reproduction of the challenges of life on organisms differently endowed.

The title did not measure up to the lesson.

There is no watchmaker.