I cannot but take exception to the preceding letter. The initial premise, that “love is no hothouse flower,” may well be true, but I can see no reason for advocating the extremely antithetical position that love is some sort of “wild plant.” This sort of thing is pure, irresponsible fantasy. Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary correctly defines love as “tender and passionate affection for one of the opposite sex.” Where does Galsworthy get off? He’s been dead for thirty-seven years.
Mayflower van Lines
Shaker Heights, Ohio
Letters from the Editors of the National Lampoon (1973)