Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how

Hear the voice of Iris Murdoch, philosopher and novelist, who looked deeply into the chambers of the human heart and declared: “Falling out of love is chiefly a matter of forgetting how charming someone is.” In this insight lies the recognition that much of love is tied not only to grand passion but to the enchantment of perception, the way one soul views another through the soft light of affection. To fall out of love, then, is not always a violent rupture, but often the quiet fading of that enchantment, the dimming of what once seemed radiant.

Charm is the spell that first captures the heart. It is the smile that dazzles, the words that soothe, the gestures that ignite desire. In the beginning, the beloved seems touched by divinity, as if every trait, even flaws, are woven into perfection. Yet as time passes, the spell may falter. The familiar replaces the mysterious, the ordinary veils the extraordinary, and what was once enchanting now appears plain. To forget charm is to lose sight of the magic that sustained love.

The ancients knew this truth. The poets of Greece sang of Eros, who stirs passion in mortals not through reason but through beauty’s spell. Yet they also knew that such spells are fleeting. Plato himself taught that love rooted only in appearance or charm may wither when novelty fades, unless it grows deeper, toward the love of soul and truth. Thus Murdoch’s observation reflects an old wisdom: that much of falling out of love is not betrayal or sudden hatred, but the loss of the golden lens through which we once saw the beloved.

History, too, gives witness. Think of Napoleon and Josephine. At first, his letters burned with adoration, seeing her as the source of all joy. Yet over time, distance, familiarity, and disillusion dimmed his view. Her charm, once irresistible, faded in his eyes, and their love, once fierce, gave way to estrangement. It was not necessarily the absence of affection, but the erosion of enchantment, that unraveled their bond.

Yet there are unions where the charm transforms rather than fades. Consider Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning, poets whose passion endured. They began in fascination with each other’s words and voices, but over years of trial and exile, their love deepened beyond the fragile surface of charm, rooting itself in shared vision and devotion. Theirs was a love that remembered, again and again, the light of the other, refusing to let it be forgotten.

The lesson, O seeker, is clear: to sustain love, one must not let the memory of charm wither. To love truly is to keep seeing, even through the haze of routine, the beauty that first stirred the heart. It is a discipline of perception, a choice to remember, to notice, to rekindle the enchantment. Falling out of love is forgetting, but staying in love is remembering.

Practical steps are these: do not let familiarity breed blindness. Speak aloud the qualities you admire in the one you love. Seek new ways to rediscover their charm—through gratitude, through shared adventures, through deliberate remembrance of what first drew you close. When the spell seems to fade, do not assume love is gone; instead, polish the mirror through which you see them, and the radiance may return.

Thus remember Murdoch’s wisdom: love fades when charm is forgotten, but endures when it is remembered. Guard the memory of what once enchanted you. Choose daily to see with fresh eyes, to honor the beauty in the other, and in doing so, you will keep alive the spell that makes love not only possible, but eternal.