Took a pleasant stroll along the coast walk in Pacific Grove today (day after Thanksgiving and in need of burning off turkey, stuffing, gravy, assorted other aggregations of celebratory food). The sun was shining, calm sea, small birds making merry melodies, plump children gamboling happily about, etc.
I was pleased to see a young couple, love shining in their eyes, getting married on a grassy promontory overlooking the ocean. Very picturesque. I’m afraid the first thought that entered my mind when I noticed them in the process of entering marital bliss was: what if a Great White Shark suddenly jumped up behind them from the ocean and nabbed one half of the happy couple? That would be quite a startling surprise for everyone involved. I imagine everyone would experience a thrilling rush of adrenaline. Particularly the clerical person officiating, as such an event might cause her to question her presuppositions about the divine hand of providence (assuming such providence has some influence with Great White Sharks).
Then, of course, my second thought (a much more practical thought) was: silly me; Great White Sharks can jump, but not twenty feet straight up into the air.
My third thought (also somewhat practical) was: but what if Great White Sharks figured out how to make lassos out of sea weed?
When I expressed this train of thought on Facebook, a learned friend of mine (Angelika, you know who you are) pointed out (incorrectly, as I’ll explain later) the complete lack of romanticism in my musings. Actually, I think my thinking on grassy promontories, Great White Sharks and the shockingly bereaved young newlywed is quite romantic. Can you imagine the story she would able to tell for decades to come? There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house. I doubt the maestro of sad romances himself, Nicholas Sparks, would not be able to beat such a tale.
And a tale it is. What’s more, it would certainly put Pacific Grove on the map.
Ah, but you see, as far as I’m concerned, romance means “happily ever after”, not “tearfully ever after”. I’m fully aware that in this I differ from a significant percentage of the population, current or historical (for example, don’t get me started on “Wuthering Heights”. I utterly fail to see what’s supposed to be so romantic about a psychopath and a spoiled brat who choose to marry other people, but keep pining for each other until they die, early and tragically. Oh, Cathy! Oh, Heathcliff! Puleeeze.).
You know, with your attitudes, you’ll never get a wife and children. Uh, wait…
I’m with you on Wuthering Heights. I’ve never understood the appeal of that book. Heathcliff is a twirp in my opinion. Heh, yeah…I totally lucked out in the wife department. Must’ve been an act of God. On my own, I would’ve been a hopeless bachelor to the grave.
Actually, I’m reading a very excellent book right now that has shed some light on the Heathcliff/Cathy thing for me. It’s called “The Jane Austen Guide to Happily Ever After”, by Elizabeth Kantor. She points out that, unlike everyone after her time, Austen was not into capital-R Romantic notions – romance, yes, but not RRRROmance, that storm of overwhelming feelings that sweeps all before it and is the only arbiter of true love (yadda yadda – see 99.9% of “romantic” books and movies, starting with most Disney cartoons). The Brontës were chief proponents of that idea. Before reading this book, I had not known to put such a clear name to the phenomenon.
Incidentally, the book made me think of you – she has one section where she talks about how one should carefully choose one’s entertainment, because filling one’s head with the wrong ideas can royally screw things up (the whole plot of “Northanger Abbey” hinges on that thought). If you have any nieces or other young ladies of marriageable age in your life, give them that book for Christmas!
That actually does make Wuthering Heights more understandable. But it doesn’t change the unlikeability quotient for me. I’ll go out of my way to not read that book (or watch any of the many versions that the BBC keeps on insisting on making–they obviously never ask my advice on such things).
I confess I’ve not read Northanger Abbey. I’ve been remiss.