It’s funny how often the greatest stories are about the simplest of things. Love, after all, is nothing new to the human race. It’s been around since the beginning the time, for as long as we’ve been able to think and feel; whether eating freshly roasted meat in a cave in some unknown corner of the planet, or drinking aged wine and dining atop the CN Tower, there are some aspects of the human mind that have never changed, and never will.
So, why is it that stories like this continue to crop up? Could it be, perhaps, that even after thousands of years, there are some things about ourselves that we don’t know? Some things that still challenge us to look into our lives, into our hearts – things that elude us even to this day?
Socrates in Love is a simple story, but I believe – in my humble, oh-so-subjective opinion – that that is what makes it beautiful. Without the use of symbolism or allegory, rich vocabulary or vivid imagery, it captures the hearts of its readers – because it takes a simple, unoriginal concept, and portrays it in a blindingly blunt light that leaves the reader both dazzled and broken.
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