When a man’s heart is broken it is not beautifully tragic, it doesn’t have the sweet smell of autumn leaves in decay. When a woman breaks a man’s heart somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks he will go off and build a giant house or find some extravagant way to win her back, because Nicholas Sparks and many others have told her that is what would happen. But Nicholas Sparks was a man, his admiration is first in his loins, so when his heart finally succumbs it’s based on more lofty ideals, his mind has processed why he is in love, his heart is drawn to those little giggles, little looks, the way the corner of her mouth turns when she is about to smile. When men fall they fall completely. Their marriage, their family becomes their identity; imagine a love so strong that it becomes you. The old you has withered away, and there is nothing else.
If you don’t
believe me compare the suicide rates of men vs. women, there are a lot of
Romeos going to the Streets of Glory without their Juliets.
But Nicholas sparks is an idealist, is a man. A much
more keen observer of heartbreak, and its after affect on men was a woman. Emily
Brontë. The poor tortured soul of her
Heathcliff, who has fallen with his loins, his mind, and his heart, is so
completely consumed by his heartache that it twists within him. It spreads like
invasive roots through him, and widens the cracks of his fractured ego. He is
so inwardly consumed by his pain that it manifests outwardly in his thoughts,
words, and deeds. He is not a demon or incubus as some scholars have theorized,
demons know their purpose. He is a man spurned by his true love, lost and
lashing out.
When women meet a man like Heathcliff, a man like me, they know from the outset that he is poison, that he, I, will break a string of hearts with our brooding eyes and the blackness behind them, but they will not care, not in the short run, they will succumb, because men who have not yet suffered told them that the wounded beast can be tamed, and we will one day build them a house.
