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Romance Quotes

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Romance Quotes

“I used to think Romeo and Juliet was the greatest love story ever written. But now that I’m middle-aged, I know better. Oh, Romeo certainly thinks he loves his Juliet. Driven by hormones, he unquestionably lusts for her. But if he loves her, it’s a shallow love. You want proof?” Cagney didn’t wait for Dr. Victor to say yay or nay. “Soon after meeting her for the first time, he realizes he forgot to ask her for her name. Can true love be founded upon such shallow acquaintance? I don’t think so. And at the end, when he thinks she’s dead, he finds no comfort in living out the remainder of his life within the paradigm of his love, at least keeping alive the memory of what they had briefly shared, even if it was no more than illusion, or more accurately, hormonal. “Those of us watching events unfold from the darkness know she merely lies in slumber. But does he seek the reason for her life-like appearance? No. Instead he accuses Death of amorousness, convinced that the ‘lean abhorred monster’ endeavors to keep Juliet in her present state, her cheeks flushed, so that she might cater to his own dissolute desires. But does Romeo hold her in his arms one last time and feel the warmth of her blood still coursing through her veins? Does he pinch her to see if she might awaken? Hold a mirror to her nose to see if her breath fogs it? Once, twice, three times a ‘no.’” Cagney sighed, listened to the leather creak as he shifted his weight in his chair. “No,” he repeated. “His alleged love is so superficial and selfish that he seeks to escape the pain of loss by taking his own life. That’s not love, but obsessive infatuation. Had they wed—Juliet bearing many children, bonding, growing together, the masks of the star-struck teens they once were long ago cast away, basking in the comforting campfire of a love born of a lifetime together, not devoured by the raging forest fire of youth that consumes everything and leaves behind nothing—and she died of natural causes, would Romeo have been so moved to take his own life, or would he have grieved properly, for her loss and not just his own?”

“We stood there, looking at each other, saying nothing. But it was the kind of nothing that meant everything. In his eyes, there was no trace of what had happened between us earlier and I could feel something inside me break. So that was that. We were finally, finally over. I looked at him, and I felt so sad, because this thought occurred to me: 'I will never look at you the same way again. I'll never be that girl again. The girl who comes running back every time you push her away, the girl who loves you anyway.' I couldn’t even be mad at him, because this was who he was. This was who he’d always been. He’d never lied about that. He gave and then he took away. I felt it in the pit of my stomach, the familiar ache, that lost, regretful feeling only he could give me. I never wanted to feel it again. Never, ever. Maybe this was why I came, so I could really know. So I could say good-bye. I looked at him, and I thought, 'If I was very brave or very honest, I would tell him.' I would say it, so he would know it and I would know it, and I could never take it back. But I wasn’t that brave or honest, so all I did was look at him. And I think he knew anyway. 'I release you. I evict you from my heart. Because if I don't do it now, I never will.' I was the one to look away first.”

“Why, aren’t you just about as sweet as syrup on a sundae? I sure would appreciate that, ma’am.” He winked. “How’d you like ta stroll the deck of this fine ship with me and watch the sunset? I need a purty girl to put her arm around me and steady this bow-legged cowboy as he finds his sea legs.” I raised an eyebrow and affected a southern accent. “Why, I think you’re a pullin’ my leg there, Texas. You’ve had your sea legs a lot longer than I have.” He rubbed the stubble on his face. “You might be right at that. Well then, how about you taggin’ along to keep me warm?” “It’s about eighty degrees.” “Shoot, you’re a smart one, you are. Then how ‘bout I jes say that a feller can get pretty lonesome by hisself in a strange country and he’d like to keep compn’y with you fer a while longer.”

“By my early twenties, I was still devoted to heroic woman stories, but the love narratives had started to lose some of their appeal. The release of a new Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks vehicle seemed far less interesting to me than the latest installment of the Alien movie franchise. Had I lost interest in romance? Far from it. In fact, this was at the time in my life when I was very serious about finding a great love. However, I was also struggling to be my own person, to understand my identity, to follow my own dreams and start down my chosen career path. I had plans to travel the world, to attend graduate school. I was coming into—and exercising—my own forms of strength and independence. But I was tired of the one-sided representations of male-identified characters doing this, of feeling that only one version of this kind of empowerment existed. I wanted balance and social justice. I wanted to see more evidence of women on screen doing the same, women making a difference, doing something amazing, and being the heroes of their own lives and stories. Unfortunately, there weren’t very many female-bodied characters who did that who also got to find love. In fact, the more romance a woman enjoyed in a narrative, the less strength or independence of any kind she expressed in the story, especially before the last two decades. (3)”

“As a viewer, I was left torn, wanting the women to have it all, to not seem to be excluded if they dared to transgress the traditional female gender role, but finding myself presented with heroines who never did, who seemingly had to choose between heroic accomplishment and romance, and who made it more complicated to see these options as possible for other than the male-identified. This representational “either/or” is one more symptom of the so-called war between the sexes that continues to confound feminists about the roles romantic relationships play in our lives and even the idea of romance itself: how are we to be dedicated to empowering ourselves and others but also to find a real romantic connection if that interests us? (4)”

“This problem—the reconciliation of feminist goals and activism with romance and its ties to narrow conceptions of womanhood—has been far from solved for feminists growing up in the 21st century, whether on screen or in real life. This problem is at the heart of my own yearnings and my attempts to find assurance and even decent blueprints in the unsatisfactory onscreen fantasies about the strong, independent woman. (5)”

“There have been glimpses of alternative romance narratives—not only in niche genres or in programs with small but dedicated followings, but also in Hollywood blockbusters and primetime television—that represent an empowered version of womanhood that still finds room for intimacy, even if it is a struggle. These alternative romance narratives offer sites of potential resistance, transformation, and agency. They show us examples where feminist-friendly heterosexual intimacies are being advanced and even celebrated, where pockets of popular culture are replacing the feminist man-hating stereotype with a feminist man-loving ideal—whether the love is romantic or not—that portrays female relationships with men in ways that avoid or question the old caricatures. (6)”

“[B]y the beginning of the 21st century, the fighting female capable of spectacular violence had gained a firm ground, and there were more versions of them than ever before on the big and small screens, and the number only continues to increase. Audiences growing up in the 70s, 80s, and 90s, male and female, have been raised on depictions of women onscreen who could more than hold their own and didn’t need to be protected, at least no more than a man did.”

“She’s wild, unpredictable and dangerous as hell. Not just to my sanity, but to my health. She’s the kind of girl you know you’ll want forever with and forever will still not be enough. But she’s not the type of girl to give forever to you willingly. I’m pretty sure you’d have to drag it out of her kicking and screaming.” - Dominic Delaney -Damaged”

“When I saw you, I thought you were poetry and I just wanted to read you over and over again and I wanted to memorize every verse. But now I know people aren’t poetry. They’re people and they mess up. They make mistakes. They say they love you and sometimes they even mean it. That doesn’t stop you from getting hurt and if you ever were a poem, you’re one that I just have to stop reading now.”