Mobs, Messiahs, and Markets

Love in the Time of Viagra

Indeed, love, as a subject of analysis, is so profound that a man risks sinking in it. Before he knows it, his head has disappeared below the surface. Love is so profound, we suspect, it deserves to be treated only in the most superficial and flippant way.

We recall a recent case in England that makes our point. A couple had come to despise each other so greatly that they partitioned off the house—right up to the front door. One half was his, the other hers. Thus did they live for many years, until, grown old, the poor woman had had enough. She committed suicide. Only two weeks later, the man—freed of the terrible demonic witch to whom he had hitched himself—also killed himself.

There was a time when respectable marriages were based on more serious concerns—money, property, position, and so forth. Samuel Johnson even suggested that all marriages should be arranged by the Lord Chancellor. And the history books are chockablock with young maidens—often only 12 or 14 years old—who were put on a ship to wed some faraway rascal with a kingdom or a fortune. Some of these marriages ended badly, of course. But many, probably, were as happy as the typical marriage today. In some benighted parts of the world, notably the Islamic, arranged marriages are still common. A man may never have seen more of his bride than her eyes—and scarcely have spoken to her—before he is expected to agree to keep her as long as both shall live. A friend of ours, from Pakistan, was given ...