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"Real love isn't ambivalent." I'd swear that's a line from my favorite best-selling paperback novel, In Love with the Night Mysterious, except I don't think you've ever read it. Well, you ought to, instead of spending the rest of your life, trying to get through Democracy in America. It's about this white woman whose daddy owns a plantation in the Deep South, in the years before the Civil War. And her name is Margaret, and she's in love with her daddy's number-one slave, and his name is Thaddeus. And she's married, but her white slave-owner husband has AIDS: Antebellum Insufficiently-Developed Sex-organs. And so, there's a lot of hot stuff going down, when Margaret and Thaddeus can catch a spare torrid ten under the cotton-picking moon. And then of course the Yankees come, and they set the slaves free. And the slaves string up old daddy and so on, historical fiction. Somewhere in there I recall, Margaret and Thaddeus find the time to discuss the nature of love. Her face is reflecting the flames of the burning plantation, you know, the way white people do (he mimes the face), and his black face is dark, in the night (he mimes the face again), and she says to him (he takes an acute voice): "Thaddeus, real love isn't ever ambivalent."
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