Love hangs onto everything, accreting like rust on your first car. Seeing someone's sick, blotchy, exhausted face where yesterday there was perfection, or seeing the buoyant façade of the person you love collapse when she thinks no one's looking, or hearing the story that any fool would know had already been told three times before: Love, having no reason, absorbs all these things as nutrients. Indeed, the DNA test for romantic ardor is the presence of such flaws. When the flaws are no longer beloved, they are merely errors--and this is where love comes to its end point. But while love flourishes, the flaws are consumed ecstatically. Freud called love "the overestimation of the object"; I'd prefer to call it the acceptance of... More >>>