In the opening line of Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body, the anonymous, genderless narrator poses the question: “Why is the measure of love loss?” The novel, which engages in a profound reflection on the physical, psychological, and spiritual dimensions of love, offers a retrospective look at the narrator’s passionate affair with a married woman named Louise Rosenthal. Loss and love are deeply intertwined in the novel, in part because the narrator experiences the end of the relationship with Louise as a kind of death. After learning Louise has been diagnosed with leukemia, the narrator decides to leave her in the hope that she will return to her husband, Elgin, a prominent physician who specializes in cancer research, and receive top-of-the-line cancer treatment. At first believing the sacrifice will save Louise’s life, the narrator eventually realizes it was a terrible mistake and understands that, as a result of the pain these actions have caused, the loss of this relationship will be irreversible. At the same time, the cancer diagnosis itself increases the likelihood of Louise’s actual death, which the narrator dreads but knows they ultimately must prepare for. As the narrator discovers in grieving Louise, one mourns love in similar ways to how one mourns the death of a loved one. Moreover, both types of loss result in an absence that leaves in its wake an unbearable and unsurmountable pain. By examining the narrator’s grief over their relationship with Louise alongside their grief over Louise’s likely impending death, Winterson’s novel suggests that loss is a fundamental part of love.
Love and Loss ThemeTracker

Love and Loss Quotes in Written on the Body
Why is the measure of love loss?
Unlock explanations and citation info for this and every other Written on the Body quote.
Plus so much more...
Get LitCharts A+Those days have a crystalline clearness to me now. Whichever way I hold them up to the light they refract a different colour. Louise in her blue dress gathering fir cones in the skirt. Louise against the purple sky looking like a Pre-Raphaelite heroine. The young green of our life and the last yellow roses in November. The colours blur and I can only see her face. Then I hear her voice crisp and white. “I will never let you go.”
As I embalm you in my memory, the first thing I shall do is to hook out your brain through your accommodating orifices. Now that I have lost you I cannot allow you to develop, you must be a photograph and not a poem. You must be rid of life as I am rid of life. We shall sink together you and I, down, down into the dark voids where once the vital organs were.
All other colors are absorbed. The dull tinges of the day never penetrate my blackened skull. I live in four blank walls like an anchorite. You were a brightly lit room and I shut the door. You were a coat of many colours wrestled into the dirt.
“You’ll get over it…” It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because “it” is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death.
This is where the story starts, in this threadbare room.