To be in love is merely to be in a state of perceptual anesthesia

“To be in love is merely to be in a state of perceptual anesthesia — to mistake an ordinary young woman for a goddess,” wrote H. L. Mencken, that sharp-tongued philosopher of human folly whose words often carried the sting of truth wrapped in the humor of cynicism. Yet beneath his jest lies a reflection as old as desire itself — that love, in its first awakening, blinds the mind even as it ignites the heart. Mencken does not mock love to destroy it, but to unmask its illusions; he reminds us that the first flames of passion often dazzle the eyes so brightly that we cease to see the person before us and behold instead a vision woven of our own longing.

The origin of this quote lies in Mencken’s lifelong fascination with human behavior — his unflinching study of what he called “the eternal comedy of man.” Writing in the early 20th century, an age both disillusioned by war and enthralled by modern freedom, Mencken observed that love, though exalted as divine, was often a kind of madness, a beautiful delirium that swept reason aside. His “perceptual anesthesia” is the temporary numbing of judgment — the soft haze that falls over the eyes when one is newly in love. The beloved becomes idealized, their flaws invisible, their humanity transfigured into perfection. It is not they we adore, but the reflection of our own hope and hunger for the divine.

This state, Mencken suggests, is both enchanting and dangerous. To “mistake an ordinary young woman for a goddess” — or an ordinary man for a god — is to project heaven onto earth. We take what is mortal and imagine it eternal. It is the mind’s attempt to worship what it cannot hold. But as every ancient philosopher knew, illusions cannot endure the weight of time. The goddess becomes a woman again, the god becomes a man, and the haze clears, leaving the lovers face to face with the truth: that love is not sustained by enchantment, but by understanding. What begins as worship must mature into wisdom, or it perishes in disappointment.

History offers many examples of this truth, but none more vivid than the story of Napoleon Bonaparte and Josephine. When Napoleon first met Josephine, he saw in her not merely a woman but a goddess of grace and desire. He wrote her letters filled with adoration, calling her “my star, my destiny.” Yet as the years passed, reality intruded — jealousy, distance, ambition. The goddess became human again, and the love that had once conquered empires began to fade. When at last he divorced her, Napoleon said, “I loved her truly — but I loved her as a dream.” In those words, we hear the echo of Mencken’s warning: that passion born of illusion, though bright as lightning, burns out swiftly unless transformed into something steadier.

But Mencken’s insight is not meant to mock the lover; it is to awaken him. He tells us that the blindness of love is not a sin, but a stage — one that all must pass through to reach the deeper knowing of another soul. For true love, unlike infatuation, does not worship perfection; it cherishes imperfection. It is not anesthesia but awareness — the seeing of another as they are, and the choosing to love them still. To remain forever enchanted is to remain forever childish; but to love with open eyes is to become wise. The ancients knew this truth well. The Greeks spoke of Eros, the fiery madness of love, and Agape, the calm devotion that follows once the fire has burned through illusion.

Mencken, in his earthy wit, reminds us that it is human nature to begin in Eros — to be blinded by beauty, to see the divine in the mortal. Yet the wise do not curse this blindness; they learn from it. Just as the young sailor must first be tossed by storms before he learns to navigate by the stars, so too must the heart be carried away before it can find its stillness. In this way, even the illusions of love serve their purpose — they awaken us to the longing for transcendence, and then, through disillusionment, return us to the ground where real love can take root.

So, dear listener, what lesson shall we take from Mencken’s ironic wisdom? It is this: love begins as enchantment but must become endurance. Do not despise the dream, but do not remain asleep within it. See the person you love not as a god or goddess, but as a fellow traveler — flawed, fragile, luminous in their imperfection. When the glamour fades, let gratitude remain. When the spell breaks, let compassion arise. For love, when freed from illusion, becomes not smaller but greater — not an anesthesia, but a revelation.

And thus, in Mencken’s jest we find ancient truth: that to love truly is to awaken from the dream of perfection into the peace of reality. The goddess was never divine; she was human — and that, after all, is far more miraculous. For to love what is imperfect is the highest act of the heart, and in that acceptance, humanity finds its truest divinity.