Happiness, I heard someone say, lies in clear ideas of what you want, and what you can achieve? That’s one interesting point of view. It doesn’t work for me, probably because I learned that, if one person wakes up to brilliant sunshine, someone else has woken up to fog. So nothing in life is ever wholly harmonious. That’s why I think about ‘love’ and choose only to be confused by it.
The first man whoever loved surely had the thing made out of marble, tough, but prone to cracks. Being in love is something people have done for thousands of years, with varying degrees of success. It is a beautiful thing, I’d never think of it any other way.
However, there’s no doubt in my mind that falling ‘in love’ is a precarious business. It’s kind of like being in prison, except you hope and pray there’s no way out! It only ceases to be a beautiful thing if one or the other decides to chip away at what makes it beautiful in the first place.
So love can, and must be a brilliant thing, otherwise it would have been given up a very long time ago. Yet it can also be barbaric and destructive, and the surest way for one person to lose his or her identity.
Love, then, in the end, is work. It is mutual respect for the individuality of the other.