The Death of Romance

Over the last 100 years, the word has come to mean something it used not to.

In the vernacular, it refers to some fucking flowers and candlelight on Valentine’s Day.

To me, “romance” is a terrifying word – fraught with danger, consequence, and the inevitability of death.

It applies equally to the rebellion of Satan, the suicide of Wërther, and the murderous rampage of Frankenstein’s Monster, as well as the juvenile idiocy of Romeo and Juliet.

It refers to any noble loser who fights for their heart’s desire, in the full knowledge that the fight is pitched against them – not in any conspiratorial way, but just because that’s the way the universe is.

Or, in the words of William Blake:

It is not the power of true love, but the whole-hearted embracing of self-destruction for the sake of passion.

So if somebody tells you romance is dead, tell them it’s because calm and reason have prevailed. And more’s the pity for it; anyone who survives their passion, dies alone.


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