Lately I had occasion to reread C. S. Lewis's "The Four Loves," a marvelously wise little book by an always rewarding writer. Scintillating in its every sentence, it defies summation. But in brief, the Greeks, as usual, had a word for each of the Four:

1. Storge (STOR-gay), affection, as parent for child.

2.Philia, Latin amicitia friendship.

3. Eros, passion (but not mere animal sex).

4. Agape (AH-ga-pay), Latin caritas charity.

We've debased the word "charity" but Lewis calls it "the crowning glory of Christianity," "the love of others as oneself," in turn symbolizing the love of God.

Oddly enough, says Lewis, the love that gives moderns the most trouble isn't Eros at all, as might be imagined. It's Philia, friendship.

For fashionable modern reductionisms, such as Freudian psychology, have persuaded the pop culture that friendship is always really erotic, covert even if not overt.

The difference is: "Lovers" (always now assumed to be erotic) have eyes and minds only for each other. With Philia, friendship, they may be, at least in the beginning, actually indifferent to each other. They exist for each other only on a basic, practical level. They're two people who love, not each other at all, but the same thing(s), or who seek the same truth.

I was provoked to think of all this when certain events brought it home to me that the one great adventure of my life has been a friendship, Philia.

I enjoyed my due share of Storge, family affection; and seem to have little hope of Agape, charity', in any sense; and Eros, alas, has passed me by. Ah, but Philia I've imbibed to the fullest. And frankly, from what I've seen, I wouldn't trade it for all the others.

Philia, friendship, can occur between a man and a woman; but the problem is, in that case, it may well lead on to Eros. Which may be a good thing; but Eros can be a jealous master; it may crowd Philia, friendship, with all its own unique blessings, clear out of the picture.

Philia also may occur between two women, Lewis says, but being a man he doesn't know for sure. No more do I. The sexes are different, and to a large extent mutually incomprehensible. And the famous friendships of history have been between men.

In my case, the fashionable "reductionism" Lewis spoke of raised its head almost at once. When my friend came to live with me, some 13 years ago, we could just imagine the jumpings to conclusions likely to afflict even our unsophisticated community. Gasp! two bachelors sharing a house! What a sad commentary on the age that the issue even arises. When in fact no two males could be more appalled by the very idea, or ignorant of just what it entails.

Everybody talks of "having friends." Acquaintances, they mean. True friendship, Philia, is rare; priceless. I've had (have) one or two near-friends, but only the one "real thing." It began 40 years ago in Mensa, and it's the one blessing I ever got out of that overblown doings.

Outwardly we're the "Odd Couple" indeed. He's German, i.e. "thorough"; I'm Celtic, i.e. "mercurial," assuming "mercurial" translates "impatient." If I ever murder him it'll be after waiting what seems hours for him to get ready to get ready. I could get ready to go around the world in minutes. He organizes an offhand amble to town like an invasion of Iraq.

As a Kansas Citian born and raised, I just knew his transplant to the backwoods would be a bust. But no; from the first he was as home here as I, who've always been a kind of stranger in my hometown. Likely the trick is, we both really live in our minds; otherwise one place is much the same as another. And we're both hermits, though he's the most "thorough," again. Few save acquaintances of mine even know he exists. And a philosopher by calling, he's "writing a book." That seems to excuse, or at least explain, a multitude of quirks.

"Odd Couple" indeed. "Who does the cooking?" people ask. Hah! We use the same kitchen, but at different times, and never the twain (filet mignon vs. sprouted lentils) meet. Murder is unlikely, though, we keep such different hours. Some days we hardly see each other.

'Liking the same thing(s)" means something more profound. In April I chanced to quote the first lines of Chaucer in the Middle English. He instantly quoted the next lines. We caught a snatch of song on TV. "Beethoven," I said. "Yes," he said. "Fur Elise'."

What once was called simply "culture" now must be called "high culture" to distinguish it from the likes of "pop culture" or (similarly) something sinister growing in a petrie dish.

A high culture devotee can be pretty lonely these days. To be able to share it with another is a joy to leave even sex rather a bore. On most lesser topics too my friend and I agree; but what unites us is that "seeking the same truth" in that only possible place: the high culture.

I'm a dub philosopher, a Schopenhauerian. He's a pro, a Platonist. He claims to have no time for literature. Yet when I said I'd been told I couldn't kill off both the hero and the heroine in a romance, he said, "Shakespeare did it ("Romeo and Juliet") and Conrad ("Victory")." And I can hold my own on most philosophical question, or even the meaning of a Latin or Greek word. He occasionally watches the last few minutes of a movie on TV. I watch the whole, provided it pre-dates, say, 1960. Together we've watched only the likes of Branagh's renditions of Shakespeare. Neither of us has ever tuned in Oprah Winfrey, or any such pop-culture icon. He might have a clue who, say, Jerry Springer is. Me, I haven't the foggiest. But I can recognize a snatch of, say, "Die Meistersinger," and he'll nod matter-of-factly, and translate the words. I caught him enjoying his favorite, Bach's "Komm Susser Tod," which I won't translate.

It's hard to say all this without sounding snobbish, showing-off. But the high culture's perfectly democratic. It's there for all. The mystery to me is how one can go through life without discovering it, and turning with relief from the inanities of pop culture.

Usually, says C. S. Lewis, what time adds to Philia isn't Eros but rather Storge, affection. One comes to love, not just those same things the friend loves, but the friend himself, with all his hidden human virtues and, yes, his particular human faults as well.

One's almost afraid when it happens.

The gods often are jealous of too much human happiness and fulfillment.