The public wants to believe that there exists something which their multiple life expieriences have evidenced to be a chimera: happiness. But they don't want that happiness that moralists predicate, the one that aside from demanding more ardous trainning than that of an athlete competing in the Olympics,consists in a state of mind that is not altered by changes in fortune, and which contemplates with equal indifference gain and loss, health and sickness, death and birth.
No, what the public doesn't want either is that other happiness, differed to another world, that religions promise, but another one, one made of tangible objets, obvious enjoyments: the girl is happy because she has married in the town's cathedral with the owner of the castle.
And her marraige makes ill with envy all her rivals, that have no alternative but to accept that all their machinations to prevent such an event form taking place have been fruitless, and that they have no choice but to savour the bitter bread of defeat.
No, what the public doesn't want either is that other happiness, differed to another world, that religions promise, but another one, one made of tangible objets, obvious enjoyments: the girl is happy because she has married in the town's cathedral with the owner of the castle.
And her marraige makes ill with envy all her rivals, that have no alternative but to accept that all their machinations to prevent such an event form taking place have been fruitless, and that they have no choice but to savour the bitter bread of defeat.
That concept of happiness, that flourishes in Harlequin romance novels (or novelas rosas) has remained unalterable even through the discovery of atomic fission and placing men in the moon. The public wants to go to sleep listening to the same lullaby, the same song. The only thing that changes is the dècor.
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