Jefferson has just overtaken me in thanks !
But I'm also curious to know through which series (and which author) you entered this so-called “romantic” experience.
Thanks for the references
I already mentioned one of the foundational romantic writings that I engaged with—Song of Solomon. While often overlooked as purely a religious text, it's one of the strongest romantic writings available when you look through the lens of personal growth and development. Mining the layers of this text requires a deep understanding of historical and cultural symbolism, customs, and values that stretch beyond surface-level interpretation. For example, the idea of finding a pretty woman in one of the major cultural, commercial, and intellectual hub metropolises and winning her heart by telling her that her hair is like a flock of goats seems at first utterly impossible and confusing for everyone involved. But, stepping back several meta-layers reveals that many modern complements would also have seemed offensive in the ancient Middle East. Finding common ground by examining and translating elements like values, currency, and symbolism leads to understanding the story, and soon enough I found myself sharing in the Shulamite's sense of urgency and panic flitting about the city to find her beloved and my eyes welling up with tears as the guard patrols and others mock her, belittle her, and even assault her.
But then, I also thought about the fact that, if people weren’t just escaping into such literature, but rather LEARNING from it, and putting some of what they learned into practice, a very different result would be obtained than just going off into la-la land. Because, it sure appeared to me that many of the problems that were set up as the plot of the stories were problems that many people deal with in one way or another, and a few of the authors were darned good psychologists with excellent insight.
Within Song of Solomon, you can find a wealth of themes and struggles that resonate across time—issues of self-esteem and identity, abusive family dynamics, societal pressures, inter-class tension, contrast between public persona and private intimacy, the tension between desire and duty, and the negotiation of power dynamics within relationships—all of which make this ancient text an intellectually stimulating and emotionally charged piece of work, revealing and exploring the psychological empowerment and healing inherently possible — even ideally present — in a healthy supportive relationship.
However, I would be remiss to not also explore this through a relatively modern romance novel, also, to share more intentionally in the overall experience. I know there's a list, but I interpreted that as a template rather than a prescription. As such, I think I held true to the spirit by finding something of remarkable substance. Enter Anne Rice's Violin, a novel whose romantic depth lies not just in its overt plot but in the way it uses relationships to represent different aspects of the human experience, particularly in the context of personal healing and transformation.
In Violin, the relationships go beyond literal connections—they serve as meta-representations of the protagonist’s internal struggles. At its core, this story isn't just about romance in a traditional sense, but about how we interact with parts of ourselves through external figures, experiences, and even ghosts.
The Ghost: At first glance, he seems to be an external antagonist—a tormenting spirit from the past. But as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that he is a symbolic reflection of the protagonist’s relationship with herself. The way she engages with the ghost—her fear, her obsession, her eventual attempt to understand him—mirrors her battle with self-acceptance. Throughout the novel, her internal dialogue with the ghost exposes the harshness with which she treats herself, her self-loathing, and her difficulty extending mercy to her own soul. This relationship is the externalization of her inner conflict. The ghost’s presence forces her to confront the parts of herself that she hides, rejects, and even despises. In a sense, he represents her inability to forgive herself, which is the greatest hurdle she must overcome.
Her grieving for her deceased husband can be understood in a similar meta sense. It’s not just about mourning the death of a loved one—it reflects the death of her own identity as she once knew it. The grief is so intertwined with the erosion of her self-worth that she becomes emotionally paralyzed. In loving him, she loses herself, and thus her journey in the novel is as much about rediscovering her own identity as it is about reconciling with the loss.
Music, in this context, serves as a meta-representation of salvation. It is through music that she finds a medium to communicate her buried emotions and lost sense of self. Her love for music is not just a love for an art form; it represents her attempt to make sense of her internal chaos, her search for meaning, and ultimately, her self-redemption. The violin is both a literal object and a symbol of her pathway to reclaiming her own narrative.
For me, this musical instrument was instrumental in forming that empathic bridge allowing for overlaying myself and my loved ones at this point, due to Rice's powerful descriptions of the violin as having the most human voice among the Orchestra, wailing the sorrows impossible to articulate with spoken words. This realization alone broke something loose in my heart and I retroactively considered my years of practice on my own violin and the envy I felt witnessing more masterful and talented players expressing themselves so freely through this channel. I realized that I was not jealous of their talent but of their opportunity to have the world hear their souls cry out about their loneliness and despair while mine remained trapped without any ally or advocate! In this light, it is impossible for me not to consider how I treat myself now, and especially how much I hated and feared myself in the past as I witness this happening with Anne Rice's frumpy and jaded protagonist. The ghost serves as the vehicle that transports her elegant beautiful inner self beyond her humble appearance into public performances that inspire whole audiences to cherish life and embrace a full range of emotions without merely chasing shallow happiness. This sort of radical acceptance, if the reader carefully applies the lessons hidden in the pages of fiction, unlocks a form of relationship with self and others equivalent to comparing fiber optics to dial up modems: without changing the size of the channel but instead transofrming the density of data and voice of the signal, the capacity of the communication explodes exponentially, unlocking new abilities for cooperative support between two separately housed but synergistic operating systems.
In this way, Violin is a story that explores romantic love, but more critically, it’s about the relationship we have with ourselves. The ghost, the deceased husband, and even the music are all different aspects of the protagonist’s fragmented psyche, each helping her confront painful truths. Her interactions with them reveal the complexities of self-love, self-forgiveness, and ultimately, self-acceptance. Much like the Song of Solomon, this novel transcends its surface-level romantic elements to engage with the deep psychological forces at work within the individual.
the lady who reads for Balogh is also great fwiw
. A good romance can be very consuming!
