There is something innocent, sweet, and perhaps inaccessible about Geoffrey Chaucer. He regarded sex as one of God's blessings. His devout and lusty pilgrims wending their garrulous way to Canterbury have an easy intimacy with natural odors, natural functions and the natural affections of men and women. The seamless unity of faith and flesh creates an abyss between the 14th century and the 20th. Chau cer's people are not paralyzed by self-consciousness in the act of love. They possess none of modern man's neurasthenic haste to import trouble in paradise. They export...
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