The Book of Love: Improvisations on a Crazy Little Thing
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The beloved New York Times bestselling author Making Toast and Kayak Morning returns with a powerful meditation on a universal subject: love.
In The Book of Love, Roger Rosenblatt explores love in all its moods and variations—romantic love, courtship, battle, mystery, marriage, heartbreak, fury, confusion, melancholy, delirium, ecstasy; love of family, of friends; love of home, of country, of work, of writing, of solitude, of art; love of nature; love of life itself.
Rosenblatt is on a quest to illuminate this elusive and essential emotion, to define this thing called love. Cleverly using lines from love songs to create a flowing ballad—as infectious and engaging as a jazz riff—he intersperses fictional vignettes that capture lovers in different situations, ages, and temperaments along with notes addressed to “you,” his wife of fifty years. “The story I have to tell is of you. Of others, too. Other people, other things. But mainly of you. It begins and ends with you. It always comes back to you.”
Lively yet profound, poignant yet joyous, The Book of Love is a triumph of intellect and imagination: a personal discourse on love that is both novel and timeless.
warn him to evacuate. At 4:14, Superstorm Sandy hits Staten Island, where Professor Kronenberger has lived for fifty-three years. His parents, Mildred and Otto, who died last March within two weeks of each other, both from pneumonia, bequeathed him the place, and though he misses his parents from time to time, he has to confess that with the two of them gone, he has that much more space for his Skelton material. So in love is Professor Kronenberger with his project that at 5:07 he fails to notice
Tiffany’s one afternoon to pick up a wife. He bought a good one, very pretty, very nice. While he was in the store, he bought three kids as well, two girls and a boy. All three were clean, bright and well behaved. He bought them “to go,” and returned with his goods to a penthouse apartment he had just purchased in Trump Tower, which he had recently furnished with antiques, eighteenth-century English for the most part, and with three Picassos, two Magrittes, and five Old Masters, one Velázquez and
the places where creeks go slack, and the animals sleep their deep deep sleep. Let us overrun these places. Every lover knows them. I’m talking Don Juan. I’m talking Don Draper. I’m talking Lancelot and Casanova and Casanosa and Cyranose. After all, in the long run, when it comes down to it, in the final analysis, no one is gulled by death-talk. Lovers rule. And he who knows the geography of hearts, if given the opportunity, will praise the overrun. Let’s live unhinged. LET’S FALL IN LOVE. For
died blind, out of the light. As did John Milton. “When I consider how my light is spent,” Milton wrote, substituting light for life. “More light,” said Goethe, as his was about to go out. “This little light of mine. I’m gonna let it shine.” I could sing that to you, if you like. Or I could recite “The Charge of the Light Brigade” (light reading). Bear with me. There’s a bear with me. Yes, yes. I’ve told you that, too. Hang on. I’m coming to the point. Not far from here a lighthouse tower rises
Mrs. Parents of the Bride, of Whocares, Rhode Island, and Breathless, South Carolina, was married yesterday to Handsome Groom III, son of Mr. Father of the Groom, of Boston and Maine, and Mrs. Mother of the Groom, of Baltimore and Ohio. The ceremony was performed in No Standards Church by the rector, Canon Dearly Beloved. Miss Sister was the maid of honor; Mr. Brother, the best man. The bride, who made her debut at the Desperado Cotillion, is an alumna of Small College. The bridegroom, a graduate