What love isn't
Published Feb 14, 2023 12:05 am
MEDIUM RARE
Jullie Y. Daza
One letter spells the difference between “zealous” and “jealous.” Would it be safe to assume that more people have died because of jealousy?
Happy Valentine’s Day!, a national lovefest that has not yet been proclaimed a public holiday throughout a country whose male population are said to be great hot lovers. I don’t know which Filipino male spread the rumor, but if foreigners have heard it, they must have warned their women against such romantic native types. Or is it the other way around, that their women have threatened extreme violence against their men should they fall for the charms of the sweet and sweet-smelling Filipina?
As an importer of the Valentine culture from America, via Hallmark greeting cards during the good old days of the last century, the Philippines is just about the only country, as far as I know, that makes a big deal about Valentine’s Day, to the extent that hotels excitedly announce their love-nest promos, restaurants are booked days in advance, flower shops push their panic buttons, singles without a significant other feel left out, lost, unloved, unlovable, invisible. It may look as if being loveless is a crime, the way media portray the V Day frenzy as necessary and inescapable.
That’s why Martha Grimes’ novel, The Grave Maurice, is such a pleasure to read and re-read every February. There’s a page in the book where a Scotland Yard detective is having a conversation with a personable young man who makes millions investing OPM (other people’s money) in stocks. The detective asks the trader, “How did you know in the end that you did not love her?”
The trader’s reply: Because he resisted the urge to buy her flowers, didn’t look for her at every corner, didn’t think of her at work, because she didn’t fire up his imagination or invade his dreams, “she didn’t make me forget the gloom of the past... she didn’t make me almost wish she’d disappear so I could find her.”
He confesses, “It was like that. Really adolescent, not what you’d call real love.” The detective replies, “If it isn’t, maybe it ought to be.”
Thus love’s flighty, fragrant allure works like perfume when it’s delivered as poetry. A Hallmark moment without the card.
Jullie Y. Daza
One letter spells the difference between “zealous” and “jealous.” Would it be safe to assume that more people have died because of jealousy?
Happy Valentine’s Day!, a national lovefest that has not yet been proclaimed a public holiday throughout a country whose male population are said to be great hot lovers. I don’t know which Filipino male spread the rumor, but if foreigners have heard it, they must have warned their women against such romantic native types. Or is it the other way around, that their women have threatened extreme violence against their men should they fall for the charms of the sweet and sweet-smelling Filipina?
As an importer of the Valentine culture from America, via Hallmark greeting cards during the good old days of the last century, the Philippines is just about the only country, as far as I know, that makes a big deal about Valentine’s Day, to the extent that hotels excitedly announce their love-nest promos, restaurants are booked days in advance, flower shops push their panic buttons, singles without a significant other feel left out, lost, unloved, unlovable, invisible. It may look as if being loveless is a crime, the way media portray the V Day frenzy as necessary and inescapable.
That’s why Martha Grimes’ novel, The Grave Maurice, is such a pleasure to read and re-read every February. There’s a page in the book where a Scotland Yard detective is having a conversation with a personable young man who makes millions investing OPM (other people’s money) in stocks. The detective asks the trader, “How did you know in the end that you did not love her?”
The trader’s reply: Because he resisted the urge to buy her flowers, didn’t look for her at every corner, didn’t think of her at work, because she didn’t fire up his imagination or invade his dreams, “she didn’t make me forget the gloom of the past... she didn’t make me almost wish she’d disappear so I could find her.”
He confesses, “It was like that. Really adolescent, not what you’d call real love.” The detective replies, “If it isn’t, maybe it ought to be.”
Thus love’s flighty, fragrant allure works like perfume when it’s delivered as poetry. A Hallmark moment without the card.