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I used to think Romeo and
Juliet was the greatest love story ever written. But now that I’m middle-aged,
I know better. Oh, Romeo certainly thinks he loves his Juliet. Driven by
hormones, he unquestionably lusts for her. But if he loves her, it’s a shallow
love. You want proof?” Cagney didn’t wait for Dr. Victor to say yay or nay.
“Soon after meeting her for the first time, he
realizes he forgot to ask her for her name. Can true love be founded upon such
shallow acquaintance? I don’t think so. And at the end, when he thinks she’s
dead, he finds no comfort in living out the remainder of his life within the
paradigm of his love, at least keeping alive the memory of what they had
briefly shared, even if it was no more than illusion, or more accurately,
hormonal.
“Those of us watching events
unfold from the darkness know she merely lies in slumber. But does he seek the
reason for her life-like appearance? No. Instead he accuses Death of
amorousness, convinced that the ‘lean abhorred monster’ endeavors to keep
Juliet in her present state, her cheeks flushed, so that she might cater to his
own dissolute desires. But does Romeo hold her in his arms one last time and
feel the warmth of her blood still coursing through her veins? Does he pinch
her to see if she might awaken? Hold a mirror to her nose to see if her breath
fogs it? Once, twice, three times a ‘no.’”
Cagney sighed, listened to the leather creak as he shifted
his weight in his chair.
“No,” he repeated. “His alleged love is so superficial and
selfish that he seeks to escape the pain of loss by taking his own life. That’s
not love, but obsessive infatuation. Had they wed—Juliet bearing many children,
bonding, growing together, the masks of the star-struck teens they once were
long ago cast away, basking in the comforting campfire of a love born of a
lifetime together, not devoured by the raging forest fire of youth that
consumes everything and leaves behind nothing—and she died of natural causes,
would Romeo have been so She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the
man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an
union that must have been to the advantage of both: by her ease and liveliness,
his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his
judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received
benefit of greater importance.” moved to
take his own life, or would he have grieved properly, for her loss and not just
his own.
I
wonder why we always deny love. I remember in middle school, if you were
accused of the crime of loving, you screamed denials constantly and stopped
ever even looking at the boy you were accused of liking. The boys could destroy
each other by yodeling, "An-drew lo-oves Jen-nie," and both Andrew
and Jennie would flinch and blush. Love is this great thing that most songs and
books and poems and lives are all about. So the minute we actually think there
might be love around, we start laughing and pretending and hiding from it.” He touched my cheek softly, his eyes intense as they gazed into
mine."You might have to teach me a little about the human world, but I'm
willing to learn if it means being close to you." He smiled again, a wry
quirk of his lips. "I'm sure I can adapt to 'being human' if I must. If
you want me to attend classes as a student, I can do that. If you want to move
to a large city to pursue your dreams, I will follow. And if, someday, you wish
to be married in a white gown and make this official in human eyes I'm willing
to do that, too." He leaned in, close enough for me to see my reflection
in his silver gaze." For better or worse, I'm afraid you're stuck with me
now.” I could still feel the
ghost of him hovering in the quiet, dark recess of my heart. It was as if he
was just waiting for me to be lonely, or to let my guard down, so that he could
surface and fill my mind again with thoughts of him.” We ought not to be weary
of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of
the work, but the love with which it is performed.”
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