The Last Romantics

by Tara Conklin

It’s possible to exist under any number of illusions, to believe so thoroughly in the presence of things you cannot see—safety, God, love—that you impose upon them physical shapes. A bed, a cross, a husband. But ideas willed into being are still ideas and just as fragile.

“Too much laying around isn’t good for anyone. Remember that. Keeping busy is the best defense against feeling sad. It’s simple, but it’s true.”

you must not rely on a man. You must have your own money. Your own direction in life.”

Our mother taught us how to protect ourselves from hurt but not how to determine what might be worth the risk.

wearing unwieldy yellow gloves and those small paper masks I associated with Asian flus and hypochondriacs.

It didn’t matter how great a mother you tried to be; eventually every child walked off into the world alone.

Why didn’t people understand the responsibility that came with being the subject of someone’s love?

Some people will choose, again and again, to destroy what it is they value most.

Inspiration, calls to action, can take many forms. It is not so much the persuasive force of an argument that prompts engagement, but a feeling that inspires it. A sense of injustice, a longing for redemption, empathy, rage.

It’s like having your heart walking around outside your body, no protection, just at the mercy of the world.

“Becoming a mother is the most expansive thing you can do. But it’s an experience you can’t really explain.

I was wrong to tell you that this is a story about the failures of love. No, it is about real love, true love. Imperfect, wretched, weak love. No fairy tales, no poetry. It is about the negotiations we undertake with ourselves in the name of love. Every day we struggle to decide what to give away and what to keep, but every day we make that calculation and we live with the results. This then is the true lesson: there is nothing romantic about love. Only the most naïve believe it will save them. Only the hardiest of us will survive it.