Lovely War

by Julie Berry

“You male gods are all rapacious pigs,” she says dismissively. “I grant you, Husband, you’re less horrible than some. You all brag of your exploits. You’re no more loving than an anvil is. Fickle and capricious and completely self-centered. You’re incapable of love. Just as you’re incapable of dying.”

“I might find a mortal to love me,” she continues, “but that’s worship, not love. I’m perfect. Mortals aren’t meant to love perfection. It disillusions and destroys them in the end.”

“I envy the mortals. It’s because they’re weak and damaged that they can love.” She shakes her head. “We need nothing. They’re lucky to need each other.”

“I need to go,” she said, pulling away. “People will say . . .” She flooded with shame. How could she betray this moment to fear of others?

If music stops, and art ceases, and beauty fades, what have we then?”

“IRS auditor,” says Hephaestus. “‘The only things certain are death and taxes.’”

I am so often moved by souls whose first concern is not for their own lost years, but for the grief their passing will cause to those they love. It’s more common than you might think. The most ordinary mortal bodies are housed by spectacular souls.

There is something wonderful about being in love in a city where you know no one. Public opinion of your behavior isn’t worth a trifle. So, if you want to kiss your girl at the esplanade of the Eiffel Tower, you do.

The first casualty of war is the truth.

Lies are worse than no comfort at all. Especially to a mind already scorched by the truth.

Pick any name, and watch for it long enough, and send up a silent prayer of thanks when you don’t find it on a death list, and pretty soon, if what you feel isn’t love, what is it?

“I waited once to kiss you,” he said, “and almost lost my chance. I waited for the war to end before asking you to marry me, and you nearly died.” He kissed her forehead. “If the war’s taught me anything at all, it’s that life is short. I won’t waste any more of it waiting for you.”

Love and Art go together like baritone and alto, paint and canvas, like sunrise and a burning atmosphere. Anytime you want to tell a story, I’ll bring the soundtrack.”