Friday, August 05, 2005
Had a lit lecture on the novel "Written On The Body" this week, and the very first line of the book was "Why is the measure of love loss?".
Neil (our lecturer) pointed out that all the so-called "great love stories" of the human civilisation are more often than not, tragedies (See for example "Romeo & Juliet", Cleopatra & Anthony, "Liang Shan Bo Yu Zhu Ying Tai", etc.) Why should the "greatness" of a love be measured by the degree of loss experienced when the love has gone?
Somewhere out there, there's probably a very aged couple who have been together for a long time, shouldering the decades sweetly and peacefully through thick, thin, death-do-us-apart and all that. There might not be any drama in that story, nor any villainous plots to thwart them - but why isn't their story truly the "great" love story?
For those who have not heard me say this, I will say it again: I believe there can be no true happiness without true sadness - the contrast is what gives each emotion its definition. But sometimes things like this book just leap out and accost me and hit me over the head repeatedly, screaming "WHY?!" at the smug mien of my logic.
Isn't it somehow disturbing that we attempt to put Love on an exalted pedestal of idealistic impervious ecstasy, when in reality it is such a convoluted mixture of sorrow and joy? Why must one drink of the bitter waters before realising the intoxication of the sweet? Why is it that human beings never seem to appreciate what they have until it is lost to them forever?
This might seem like a completely random post, but it's not; It's arguably pointless, but not random =P
|
:: Photo by National Geographic Society Copyright © 2002 ::