I can’t bear to read through sensous words of love in which the boy and girl look into each other for exactly eight seconds before falling for each other. Remember this the 21st century and our protoganists are computer programmers and classical thinkers; statistics matter.
Why don’t heroes gatecrash parties anymore? And fall for the daughter of their sworn enemy? What’s wrong with falling in love with your first love’s cousin — when your first love didn’t reciprocate in the first place?
This is why I don’t read romance. Because it’s too primitive disguised as modern.
But since everyone from my mother to my brother and my cousins (which was all, actually) couldn’t shut up about Love Story, I decided to read it.
Don’t get me wrong; when I say Love Story, I mean the love story, by Erich Segal.
Unsurprisingly, I loved it. And something in it will stay with me forever.
What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?
That she was beautiful and brilliant
That she loved Mozart and Bach.
The Beatles. And me.
That made me read through the book, and that made me open my mind to romance. In novels, I mean.