Every time I have given love it was as if I was handing out the plague. It was curious business, trifled with, explored, but when discovered thrown back, unwanted. Everyone was left confused. They would wonder why I would give such a terrible thing. I would wonder why I couldn’t have kept it to myself. Then maybe things would have been different and no one would have to touch whatever denatured form of love I seem to have. There is obviously something wrong with it.
A couple of weeks ago when I was doing my Shelleys analysis I chose not to look at The Last Man. It had no place among the works I was considering. Last night I glanced it over briefly, and I thought about Evadne.
She loves deeply and passionately, yet it is never good enough. In fact the exact association Shelley makes between Evadne, love, and the way it is received is one in which Evadne symbolizes the plague, even as she is the epitome of love. Raymond wants nothing she has to offer, and never gives her a second thought.
She probably should have kept all that business to herself as well.
