Marie Taylor, Ink

When I pick books to read, I am much attracted to the slim volumes for I know these writers will usually get to point, tell their story and finish. I no longer have the time or patience to slog through 400, 500 or 600 pages of introspective musings or stream of consciousness, descriptions, etc.

When I went online the other day, I surprised myself at my book selections. Among the 8+ volumes I checked out was a book of romantic short stories by Maeve Binchy. As far as I can remember the last time I read a romance novel was in the 1960’s before I burned my bra and became liberated.

It is time to admit to a personal prejudice that may border on a character flaw. Over the years I have turned up my literary nose at romantic novels, particularly the boy meets girl/fall in love/fight/live happily ever after story lines. My experience was more boy-meets-girl/love/fight/goodbye. I believed in real life not romantic fantasies.

This judgment comes from a person who has no problem reading cozy mysteries a la Agatha Christie, locked room puzzles by John Dickenson Carr or mysteries featuring commentaries by cats. In my defense I add that I do draw the line at mysteries containing recipes for muffins, directions for knitting or police procedurals describe the work of serial killers. Even I have limits.

My disdain for romance stories has been longstanding. Someone once said, “People who read romance stories believe in love and people who read mysteries believe in justice.” I have pondered that observation over the years and must admit that it may be true, at least in my own case.

Justice seems to me to be a possibility in life whereas love has proven more elusive, even problematic. The early boyfriends, the husband, the later lovers have all been found wanting. Sometimes I have attributed that to making poor choices on my part which made me question my own judgment; sometimes I had to admit my own ambivalence towards commitment.

Eventually I recognized that it was my definition of love that needed scrutiny. It is easy to mistake the euphoria of infatuation and passion as indicative of real love, especially when young. The jealousy, drama and possessiveness that can be found in relationships might lead one to believe that the emotion being experienced is love.

One day I realized that love wasn’t an emotion at all; it was a quality. The intellect can trigger the emotions, whether for good or ill, but love isn’t a result of thought nor of the emotions per se. Love is a spiritual attribute that is far deeper than thinking can ever be. It is even stronger than justice.

After all these years I think I am finally old enough to read romances without cynicism and to believe in the possibility of love as well as justice. (A pair of handcuffs can add some interest in both cases.)