Appropriate Age For Marriage Quotes

What is a novel, anyway? Only a very foolish person would attempt to give a definitive answer to that, beyond stating the more or less obvious facts that it is a literary narrative of some length which purports, on the reverse of the title page, not to be true, but seeks nevertheless to convince its readers that it is. It's typical of the cynicism of our age that, if you write a novel, everyone assumes it's about real people, thinly disguised; but if you write an autobiography everyone assumes you're lying your head off. Part of this is right, because every artist is, among other things, a con-artist. We con-artists do tell the truth, in a way; but, as Emily Dickenson said, we tell it slant. By indirection we find direction out -- so here, for easy reference, is an elimination-dance list of what novels are not. -- Novels are not sociological textbooks, although they may contain social comment and criticism. -- Novels are not political tracts, although "politics" -- in the sense of human power structures -- is inevitably one of their subjects. But if the author's main design on us is to convert us to something -- - whether that something be Christianity, capitalism, a belief in marriage as the only answer to a maiden's prayer, or feminism, we are likely to sniff it out, and to rebel. As Andre Gide once remarked, "It is with noble sentiments that bad literature gets written." -- Novels are not how-to books; they will not show you how to conduct a successful life, although some of them may be read this way. Is Pride and Prejudice about how a sensible middle-class nineteenth-century woman can snare an appropriate man with a good income, which is the best she can hope for out of life, given the limitations of her situation? Partly. But not completely. -- Novels are not, primarily, moral tracts. Their characters are not all models of good behaviour -- or, if they are, we probably won't read them. But they are linked with notions of morality, because they are about human beings and human beings divide behaviour into good and bad. The characters judge each other, and the reader judges the characters. However, the success of a novel does not depend on a Not Guilty verdict from the reader. As Keats said, Shakespeare took as much delight in creating Iago -- that arch-villain -- as he did in creating the virtuous Imogen. I would say probably more, and the proof of it is that I'd bet you're more likely to know which play Iago is in. -- But although a novel is not a political tract, a how-to-book, a sociology textbook or a pattern of correct morality, it is also not merely a piece of Art for Art's Sake, divorced from real life. It cannot do without a conception of form and a structure, true, but its roots are in the mud; its flowers, if any, come out of the rawness of its raw materials. -- In short, novels are ambiguous and multi-faceted, not because they're perverse, but because they attempt to grapple with what was once referred to as the human condition, and they do so using a medium which is notoriously slippery -- namely, language itself.

New Orleans at the nexus of gold rush, immigration, war, and trade created a fertile playground for a variety of :mysterious affections" between men. What Whitman would later call "adhesiveness" — his term for male-male love borrowed from the pseudoscience of phrenology — was on full display in the Crescent City. Prior to the existence of a modern concept of homosexuality (as sexual orientation), hand-holding, embracing, or sharing a bed were broadly considered appropriate expressions of bonding between members of the same sex. A city like New Orleans, overrun with transitory young men of marriageable age without local family ties, invited further experimentation. When Whitman was pressed, late in life, about his sexual history in New Orleans, he became flustered, quickly making up stories about affairs with women and having fathered numerous illegitimate children. The vehemence of his old-age denials suggests both an awareness of the growing homophobia of the 1890s and a conscious desire to rewrite this particular part of his biography.

New Orleans at the nexus of gold rush, immigration, war, and trade created a fertile playground for a variety of "mysterious affections" between men. What Whitman would later call "adhesiveness" — his term for male-male love borrowed from the pseudoscience of phrenology — was on full display in the Crescent City. Prior to the existence of a modern concept of homosexuality (as sexual orientation), hand-holding, embracing, or sharing a bed were broadly considered appropriate expressions of bonding between members of the same sex. A city like New Orleans, overrun with transitory young men of marriageable age without local family ties, invited further experimentation. When Whitman was pressed, late in life, about his sexual history in New Orleans, he became flustered, quickly making up stories about affairs with women and having fathered numerous illegitimate children. The vehemence of his old-age denials suggests both an awareness of the growing homophobia of the 1890s and a conscious desire to rewrite this particular part of his biography.

We’re in an a bit of an awkward situation. When the institution of marriage first came about, people commonly got married at around the same age that they began to develop feelings for the opposite sex. This is no longer the case. 13, 14 - these are no longer appropriate ages to be getting married. Now, you do not get married until you’re out of college, at least. If you get married any earlier, you’re looked down upon. So, what we have is a gap. A gap between when we begin to be attracted to the opposite sex, and when we’re allowed to give into that attraction. A gap between now and then. A fairly large gap, I might add. About a 10 or 12 year gap. I believe that dating was designed to bridge that gap.

The analogy between infertile heterosexuals and same-sex couples misses the point. The extension of marriage to infertile heterosexual couples serves not to deprecate same-sex couples, but to preserve the equal status of women in marriage. A test for fertility would be unfair to women because all women spend most of their adult lives in a state of infertility. Fertile women are infertile most days of a month, and postmenopausal women are always infertile. A fertility requirement would also render women susceptible to enormous abuse by men, providing a ready excuse for men who would trade in older women for nubile brides. The status of women in marriage would be intolerably diminished through this practice. Infertility is less common among men, as they can sire children into old age. Moreover, men, like women, typically do not discover that they are infertile until they attempt to sire children, at which time they ought already to be married. A measure that serves primarily to protect women and to preserve their equal status within the institution of marriage is not a measure that is an appropriate basis by which to judge that the same should go for same-sex couples. One of the great challenges men and women face in marriage is in coming to terms with their differences while respecting the status of the other as an equal. Acceptance of infertility is a measure promoting this end. A measure to accommodate the reality of sex-based difference in marriage is no reason to extend marriage to same-sex couples. Moreover, accommodation for infertility in no way diminishes the reality that the inequality of the parent-child relationship is what differentiates marriage from other contractual relationships. It is the parent-child relation, as it emerges from sexual difference and procreation, which elevates marriage above a mere contract, and renders it a sacred duty.