Few philosophers of our time save us from the hazards of romanticism as Alain de Botton does. His mind (or heart?) is a magnifying glass that looks at love — not necessarily sexual/platonic/spousal but all kinds — and expands it to such magnanimous proportions that readers’ own hearts cannot help but make space for it despite many bitter counters that might have made some of us rather skeptical. He looks into human vices with a tear-inducing tenderness and nudges us to open up the battered, cynical human hearts of our time to the many possibilities of love. He begins at a place that many of us might glance away from: the flawed self. In recognising that before hypocritically and self-righteously pointing fingers at others, he makes you want to reach out to another heart and mind outside of your own self with infinite forgiveness and the greatest gift of all — understanding. Such searing sincerity. Listening to him is a joy, no doubt, but for me, personally, reading him is cathartic.
Silkworm Slumbers 