A post on Megha's blog set me thinking about that trite Erich Segal quote: "Love means never having to say you're sorry". Personally, I think that line is the perfect example of what I call Hallmark poetry - the kind of trite phrase-making that sounds really profound and wonderful until you start thinking about it and realise that it means absolutely nothing whatsoever. This is standard greeting-card fare, but it's also the kind of thing that the writing of Kahlil Gibran is full of, for instance*. Personally, I find it hard to believe that people actually treasure homilies like this, let alone actually spend time thinking about them.
That said, the question I've always wanted to ask ever since I first read that line was - does it work in reverse? If I never have to say I'm sorry, does that mean I'm in love? Is that what the Republican party means when it says it loves this country? Does this mean I'm having a torrid affair with the irritating cafetaria server who I'm always rude to and never apologise? Think about all the people I never feel the need to apologise to - NASCAR fans, people who get to the parking spot after me, all the fellow diners at a restaurant who ordered before me and are still waiting for their food. Could it be that I secretly love all these people? That my seeming indifference to them is simply a front for a deep-rooted yearning? And if being unapologetic is the true mark of affection than I'm surely a lover to equal Casanova.
Okay, okay, so I'm rambling. It's been that kind of day. I'd apologise, but I love you all too much!
P.S. In other news, its seems my neighbourhood aunty-jis had the right idea all along. Isn't science wunnerful?**
* Gibran's position has always struck me as a strange one - it's hard to take him seriously as either a poet or a philosopher. The best that one can say for him is that he sounds nice and is really useful for sending 'special' greetings to cousins who wouldn't know poetry if it came and nibbled on their toes while they were sleeping but expect to be congratulated on their marriages / babies / house-warmings and other such unfortunate accidents with the choicest purple prose from yours truly.
** There's a vicious canard going around that I'm a fairly nifty gossip monger myself. This is entirely untrue, of course. It's a horrible lie spread by J (whose wife keeps Fed-ex-ing herself little packages in a desperate attempt to seduce the delivery guy - so far with little success) and P (who spends every morning at the hairdressers getting a thirty minute comb-over).