I honestly don’t know what Love is about. Both the word and the thing itself seem so worn out to me. It’s either as noble and profound as the culture tries to convince us, or it’s just another thing people do to pass the time like when you’re drumming your fingers on your knee while waiting for something interesting to happen.

I see couples in parks and wonder what sort of magical glue binds them together. I guess it is sex plus the terror of solitude, but I can’t be sure. Even when you try to ask those who are in relationships they never give you a satisfying answer. All they can vomit are the clichés you can find in films and Romance novels. Their love is either banal or uncommunicable.

It’s impossible to be original in the realm of Love. Even the poets have a hard time being inventive with the heart. You keep hearing the same words over and over again: soul-mate, the other half, the One …

Anthony Burgess has a nice line somewhere in one of his novels: “Love is a man and a woman on a bed.” That’s too carnal, but funny – and worthy of a serious reflection. Here is my own made up definition: Love is the kind of mystery that keeps the condom industry alive.

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