Love. What a small word we use for an idea so immense and
powerful it has altered the flow of history, calmed monsters, kindled works of
art, cheered the forlorn, turned tough guys to mush, consoled the enslaved,
driven strong women mad, glorified the humble, fuelled national scandals,
bankrupted robber barons, and made mincemeat of kings. How can love's
spaciousness be conveyed in the narrow confines of one syllable?
If we search for the source of the word, we find a
history vague and confusing, stretching back to the Sanskrit lubhyati, or
"desire." I'm sure the etymology rambles back much farther than that,
to a one-syllable word as heavy as a heartbeat.
Love is an ancient
delirium, a desire older than civilization, with taproots stretching deep into
dark and mysterious days. The heart is a living museum. In each of its
galleries, no matter how narrow or dimly lit, preserved forever like wondrous
diatoms, are our moments of loving and being loved.
by Diane Ackerman
by Diane Ackerman
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