All the songs he heard contained little stories, not “narratives,”---a word that sounded to him so sterile and clinical that he thought it more appropriately belonged in the penitentiary or the asylum, not as it had lately become popular, in university lecture halls and on the lips of prematurely jaundiced graduate students, as the latter celebrated the “transgression of modernism.” No, for him, each song he heard on the radio sang a little story about love; his love for her and---he hoped---her love for him. Some of the songs, of course, told stories of love gone wrong, or insufficient love, or unrequited love, of love directed at an illicit lover rather than a spouse, or even love for someone of the same sex. But they were, after all was said and done, little stories about love. They were not songs about hunting, or growing wheat, or the bloody shameful reality of gore-laden war, or the lies that made the world go round, or the fantastic infinitesimal beauty of circulating electrons, or the way the Crab Nebulae appeared through the Hubble telescope, or the ancient achievements of the Sumerians, or about the gargantuan appetite of the whale shark, with its four-foot wide mouth. On the contrary, all the songs he heard were stories about love….just love.
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