By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he swears his passion is
Infinite, undying
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
Dorothy Parker
Et Tu, Cupid?
If the Director might be permitted to paraphrase dear John Milton, the subject of today’s column has not been all that long in the choosing. The date of its e-release is of course St Valentine’s Day so it seemed it might behove me well to offer some paltry words on the subject. But what angle to take..? I had some ideas; some working drafts if you will, below.
Love in the Time of Marking (A wry look at how teachers spend Valentine’s Day drowning in assessments rather than romance). Maybe I could juxtapose romantic clichés with the reality of marking essays. Something along the lines of: They say love is about longing gazes across candlelit tables, but for teachers in February, it’s more about bleary-eyed stares at an endless stack of essays. Instead of whispering sweet nothings, we mutter, “Why won’t they answer the question?” Valentine’s Day promises passionate declarations of love, yet all I find myself declaring is war on poor expression. My marking pen has inked more tragic endings than Shakespeare ever dreamed on. And while lovers exchange heart-shaped chocolates, I’m left with a half-eaten cereal bar and the fading hope that someone, anyone, will remember to analyse rather than summarise. And so, as couples clink glasses in celebration of love, I’ll raise my lukewarm cup of coffee to misplaced apostrophes, to paragraphs that wander aimlessly, and to the greatest romance of all: a well-structured argument. You get the picture.
Too morose perhaps? Maybe. How about…
My Love Affair with Books (A reflection on how literature has shaped our understanding of love, perhaps contrasting literary romances with real-life relationships). Something perhaps along the lines of…
Love, as literature tells us, is a grand, sweeping, not-very-many-gendered thing, filled with impassioned speeches, desperate longings, and the occasional tragic demise. It is Romeo swearing by the moon, Mr. Darcy smouldering with suppressed emotion, and Heathcliff howling across the moors. It is, in other words, wildly unrealistic.
Books, as you dear reader will imagine, were my first love, before I had ever encountered the awkward realities of romance. They taught me that love is a thing of poetry, of fated meetings and tempestuous passion. But then, of course, real life had to intervene. It turns out that love is less about stolen moments in candlelit ballrooms and more about squabbles over whose turn it is to ‘do the dishwasher’. And perhaps not reacting with horror upon finding someone else’s attempts to do the dishwasher akin to a crime both against humanity and all laws of physics. Although maybe that’s just me.
Take Wuthering Heights, for example. No dishwashers but nevertheless the great literary tour de force of passion and devotion, the pinnacle indeed of tortured romance. And yet, if we’re being honest, Heathcliff isn’t so much a romantic hero as he is a red flag in human form. He doesn’t love Cathy so much as haunt her – quite literally. Their love is one long exercise in possessiveness, vengeance, and stormy mood swings. If they were around today, Cathy would have ghosted him (before actually becoming a ghost), and Heathcliff would be sending late-night “u up?” texts while brooding over a Spotify playlist called Tragic Love and Wild Revenge.
Even in books where love is a touch healthier, it is still suspiciously well-paced. Literary lovers always seem to know the right thing to say at the right time. In real life, as you will know dear reader, romance is riddled with awkward pauses, mistimed jokes, and the occasional existential crisis in the supermarket aisle over which pasta to buy.
And yet, for all its embellishments, literature does get one thing right. Love, at its best, transforms us. It isn’t always easy, nor is it always logical, but it shapes who we are, whether we are caught in its fevered grasp or reflecting on it from a safe distance.
So, while books may have set up some terribly unrealistic expectations, I find I cannot resent them for it. After all, in a world where romance often involves badly punctuated text messages and passive-aggressive debates over thermostat settings, isn’t it pleasant to escape, if only for a few pages, into a love story that doesn’t end with, “Did you remember to buy milk?”
Yes, there might be some mileage in that.
Here’s another idea that flitted its way across the Director’s feeble brain. There have been a lot of assessments recently…
The Heart’s Assessment Criteria: What if ‘love’ was on the school curriculum?
If love were an academic subject, how would we mark it? Would we have clear success criteria, a grade boundary for passion, and a mark scheme for commitment? Would there be a multiple-choice test for compatibility, a coursework component for compromise, and an oral exam for the art of difficult conversations?
The trouble is, of course, that love, like the best essays, as I try to explain to increasingly befuddled students and line managers, is impossible to quantify with absolute precision. We can try to assess it, but how do we account for the intangibles: the instinctive pull toward someone, the inexplicable feeling of home in another person’s presence?
And yet, and yet… we live in a world where increasingly we only value what we can measure and so perhaps if we are to save love as being a thing of value it further behoves me well to offer a rubric/mark scheme. Something like…
Love: A Mark Scheme
Band 1: Communication (AO1 – Clarity and Expression)
6 marks – Partners demonstrate a well-developed ability to communicate. They listen actively, respond thoughtfully, and show a nuanced understanding of each other’s needs. Occasional lapses into sarcasm are deployed with appropriate timing.
4 marks – Communication is generally sound, with moments of misunderstanding, usually resolved within 24 hours. Text messages contain a reasonable mix of affection and logistical coordination.
2 marks – Frequent miscommunication, often involving the phrase “I’m fine,” which, upon closer analysis, proves to mean anything but.
Band 2: Commitment (AO2 – Depth of Engagement and Development Over Time)
6 marks – The relationship displays consistent effort and emotional investment. Both partners contribute to shared responsibilities and acknowledge each other’s needs. Anniversary dates are remembered without external prompting.
4 marks – Some fluctuations in effort, but overall commitment is evident. Occasional lapses in memory regarding significant dates, usually rectified with an emergency chocolate purchase.
2 marks – A largely passive approach to commitment. Responses to heartfelt messages consist of “lol”, and important discussions are postponed indefinitely.
Band 3: Conflict Resolution (AO3 – Interpretation and Evaluation of Disagreements)
6 marks – Disagreements are handled maturely, with a clear focus on resolution rather than escalation. Both partners employ rhetorical sophistication to avoid phrases like “You always do this.”
4 marks – Some debates become needlessly philosophical (“But what even is a reasonable request?”), but harmony is usually restored within a reasonable time frame.
2 marks – Most arguments end with one partner dramatically sighing, “Forget it,” and the other saying, “Fine,” though neither is fine.
Category 4: Romance (AO4 – Creativity and Emotional Impact)
6 marks – Spontaneous gestures, thoughtful surprises, and an ability to keep the spark alive. Love notes are composed with stylistic flair and grammatical accuracy.
4 marks – Romantic gestures occur, though often prompted by external forces such as Valentine’s Day marketing campaigns.
2 marks – Romance is largely theoretical. The phrase “I don’t need to say it—you know I love you” is frequently deployed.
Final Grade:
24+ marks: An exemplary relationship, likely to withstand the trials of time and IKEA furniture assembly.
16–23 marks: A strong relationship with room for refinement (suggested improvements: fewer vague statements, more snacks shared).
Below 16 marks: Requires intervention. If one partner keeps submitting last-minute effort and expecting full marks, they may need to resit.
Of course, as with any assessment, there are things no rubric can capture—the quiet moments, the inside jokes, the feeling of knowing someone so well that words aren’t always necessary. Love, much like the best literature, defies strict evaluation. But still, if relationships came with feedback forms, one might hope for something simple: Shows great potential. Keep going.
Makes a point, I guess but is it the point?
My thoughts then turned to grammar. They often do. Did I mention what a hit the Director is at parties?
The Grammar of Love
Love, much like language, is a structure we all use but rarely stop to analyse until something goes wrong. One minute, you’re constructing a beautifully balanced sentence; the next, you’re staring at an emotional run-on, gasping for punctuation. It’s no surprise, then, that romance and grammar have more in common than we might think. If love is a language, what rules govern its syntax?
- The Subject and the Predicate
Every great love story begins with a subject meeting a predicate: Jay Gatsby longs for Daisy, Jane Eyre chooses Mr Rochester, Benedick bickers with Beatrice. But trouble arises when the subject and predicate refuse to agree. The I of one person may not align with the you of another, and before long, sentences fracture into fragments: He never listens. She stops calling.
- Verb Tense Matters
Love is, grammatically speaking, a tense business. The past perfect (we had something special) clashes with the future conditional (if only you’d stayed), while the present continuous (we are working on things) often feels more like the passive voice (mistakes were made). Relationships flourish when both parties remain in the same tense, but all too often, one person is trapped in the subjunctive (if only things were different), while the other insists on the imperative (move on).
- The Perils of Misplaced Modifiers
Lovers, like clauses, must be correctly placed to avoid ambiguity. I only love you is quite a different declaration from I love only you. The former suggests an alarming lack of hobbies, the latter a commendable sense of devotion (perhaps). Worse still, I love you, barely is a phrase no one wants to hear.
- The Parenthesis Problem
There are those relationships which might be said to fall into the trap of the unnecessary aside. You know, those bracketed relationships where one partner exists as an afterthought. For example, I’m really happy (most of the time) or You’re perfect (when you’re not here). A strong romance does not rely on parentheses; true love, like a well-constructed sentence, should stand on its own.
- Avoiding the Passive Voice
Love should be active, never passive. Sir Andrew Aguecheek’s poignant line in Twelfth Night, I was loved once carries the wistful resignation of someone who has been grammatically abandoned, whereas I love is a present-tense declaration of agency. Those who insist on remaining in the passive voice (affection was expressed, plans were made, then forgotten) should consider rewriting their emotional syntax.
- The Oxford Comma of Commitment
Commitment issues can often be identified by a person’s use of the Oxford comma. Some insist on its necessity (I love you, honesty, and loyalty), while others drop it entirely, leaving room for ambiguity (I love you, honesty and loyalty. Are these traits separate, or is honesty and loyalty an independent entity?). Those who resist the comma altogether may also resist labels, ultimatums, and shared bank accounts.
- Love and the Ellipsis…
Some relationships end in exclamation, others in ellipses. An ellipsis suggests uncertainty, unfinished conversations, the possibility of return: Maybe in another life… or I still think about you…. But an ellipsis can also be a trap; an excuse to delay the inevitable. Some stories, like sentences, need a full stop.
Final Thoughts: The Grammar of Happily Ever After
If love is a language, then fluency requires more than just good intentions. It demands clarity, precision, and an awareness of syntax. A misplaced word, like a misplaced sentiment, can change the entire meaning of a sentence. A love story, like a well-crafted paragraph, requires both structure and spontaneity, a balance between rules and rhythm.
And above all, the best romances, like the best sentences, should never feel like an obligation.
Bit too English teachery?
So then I thought to my Director self, ‘why not try the historical approach?’ And so…
The Origins: St. Valentine, the Mystery Man (or Men)
Valentine, it turns out, was not a one-size-fits-all figure, but rather a patchwork of saints, martyrs, and slightly embellished tales. The most popular version has Valentine as a priest in third-century Rome, arrested for performing clandestine marriages during a time when Emperor Claudius II had banned them as he believed that single men made better soldiers.
Valentine’s eventual fate? Execution. Because, unsurprisingly, marrying people without a licence does not sit well with emperors. In an added twist, Valentine is said to have healed the jailer’s blind daughter, and before he was beheaded obviously, sent her a note, signed, “From your Valentine.”
Fast forward a thousand years, and enter stage left, Geoffrey Chaucer. Around 1382, Chaucer wrote a poem called Parliament of Fowls, in which he linked the feast day of St. Valentine with the idea of birds choosing their mates. This was, perhaps, the first literary attempt to tie the day to romantic love.
“Let every lover know the nature of his love,” Chaucer wrote. “For on this day, all the birds in the world choose their mate.” I imagine Chaucer was having a bit of artistic licence with Biology but no matter.
Centuries passed and Valentine’s Day blossomed into the celebration of courtly love; the chivalric, ritualistic kind of romantic adoration that medieval knights would express for their ladies. Love was elevated to an art form, often involving grand gestures, poems, and sometimes the occasional joust. Think of it as Tinder but with swords where ‘swiping left’ was potentially a lot more dangerous.
By the time we get to the good old Victorians, Valentine’s Day was primed for reinvention. Thanks to advancements in printing, mass-produced Valentine’s cards became all the rage. No longer did one have to handwrite an elaborate sonnet or serenade the recipient with a lute. Instead, you could pop down to your local stationer’s and pick out something suitably sentimental.
And so today where Valentine’s Day is, arguably, less about romantic ideals and more about how much you can spend on your beloved without feeling guilty. While we’ve certainly commodified the day (capitalism always finds a way, doesn’t it?), there’s still something appealing about the idea of a day devoted to celebrating love. Perhaps it’s not the gifts, the flowers, or the chocolates that matter so much. Perhaps it’s the idea of love, the permission to indulge in it, to be expressive, and to say, “I care.”
In a world often marked by cynicism, maybe Valentine’s Day serves as a reminder to appreciate those fleeting, beautiful moments of connection. After all, whether we’re handing out flowers, sending texts, or simply holding someone’s hand, there’s something profoundly human about wanting to share our hearts with others, no matter how imperfectly we do it.
So, as you ponder your Valentine’s Day plans, remember that the origins of this day are a tangled mix of secrecy, literary invention, and Victorian showmanship. But at its core, it’s about celebrating love in all its forms, whether that’s romantic love, love for friends, or the ever-important love of a good chocolate truffle. Happy Valentine’s Day, may your love be as complex, varied, and entirely unpredictable as its history.
But do any of us really ‘know’ what love is?
Is love just a series of chemical reactions and electrical impulses in the brain; those mysterious little hits of dopamine and serotonin that make our hearts race and our palms sweat? Modern science might have us believe that love is just another complex biochemical process, much like digestion. Who knows? Maybe it is, but I think we all know it isn’t.
If we’re honest, the reductionist view doesn’t quite capture the messiness, the irrationality, or the raw intensity of love. After all, if love were just about hormones and neurotransmitters, wouldn’t we all be falling in and out of it with the same ease as we fall asleep or wake up? The reality, of course, is far more elusive.
Like life itself, as we have discussed previously, love resists easy definition. It’s not a thing or a product to be dissected and neatly explained. It’s a process, a continual unfolding of connection, choice, and emotion. We don’t simply “have” life, we live it. Similarly, we don’t simply “have” love, we experience it, shaped by everything from our deepest fears to our most heartfelt desires.
Of course, science has its place in understanding the mechanics of love, understanding what happens when we feel our hearts race and our thoughts become consumed with someone else. But reducing it to a purely materialistic explanation seems a bit like looking at a sunset and saying, “It’s just a chemical reaction in the sky.” Yes, technically, it is, but that doesn’t do justice to the experience of watching it.
Perhaps love isn’t meant to be fully understood. Perhaps it’s more of a mystery—a beautiful paradox that exists somewhere between biology, experience, and something greater than ourselves. After all, if we could fully explain it, would it still hold the same power over us?
So there we have it dear reader; you find me impaled on several many horns of dilemmas as the deadline to publish fast approaches. I must leave you with my final word of wisdom (haha) on the matter for now: True love is like the golden mole, both blind and tailless and doing its best work underground.
Until next time: Happy Reading/Loving