I have a love interest in every one of my films: a gun.

Arnold Schwarzenegger, warrior of the screen and symbol of an age of spectacle, once declared: “I have a love interest in every one of my films: a gun.” Spoken with the dry humor of one who knows his image, these words carry more than jest. They reveal the strange marriage of violence and myth in modern storytelling. Where once heroes carried swords, shields, or bows, the gun became the emblem of power, justice, and survival. By calling it his “love interest,” Schwarzenegger admits what audiences already knew: in his films, the true romance was not with another person, but with the weapon that defined his heroism.

The ancients would have recognized this bond between hero and weapon. Achilles was nothing without his spear, just as Odysseus was tied to his bow, and Arthur to Excalibur. These were not mere tools, but extensions of the warrior’s soul — objects of destiny and devotion. So too in Schwarzenegger’s films, the gun is not simply iron and fire, but the symbol of his strength, his will, his relentless determination. The love interest is therefore not romantic affection, but the union between man and the power that enables him to shape his fate.

History also bears witness to the same truth. Consider the samurai of Japan, whose sword was called the “soul of the warrior.” To lose it was to lose honor; to wield it with mastery was to bind oneself to an almost sacred partner. In the same way, Schwarzenegger’s jest reflects a serious truth: audiences did not come to his films for delicate romance, but for the bond between the hero and his chosen weapon — a bond as intimate as that between lover and beloved.

Yet there is also irony here, for by naming the gun his “love interest,” he points to the hunger of the age for power over tenderness. His films captured the imagination of a world weary of uncertainty, craving clear strength, direct justice, decisive action. Where traditional romance complicates the heart, the romance of the gun simplifies: it solves, it protects, it destroys. In this, Schwarzenegger becomes the mirror of his era, a man whose myth was built not on whispers of love but on the roar of battle.

But wisdom also lies in this jest, for it warns us: be careful what you fall in love with. To devote oneself to the gun is to embrace both strength and destruction, to wield fire that can protect but also consume. The ancients always tempered their heroes with caution: Achilles was mighty, but his wrath brought ruin; Arthur’s sword was powerful, but without unity, his kingdom fell. Love, even when directed toward weapons, demands responsibility. Schwarzenegger’s words, though playful, remind us that power without balance can become both master and destroyer.

What lesson, then, should we take? That each of us has our “love interest” — the thing we cling to, the thing that defines us. For some it may be craft, for others ambition, for others the tools of their trade. The key is to recognize it, to honor it, but also to wield it wisely. Just as the gun in Schwarzenegger’s films made him larger than life, so too our chosen tools can lift us — or bring us to ruin — depending on how we hold them.

So, O children of tomorrow, remember this: your “love interest” is the force to which you give your loyalty, your energy, your devotion. Choose carefully, for it will shape your story. And if, like the heroes of old or the warriors of the screen, you unite yourself with power, do so not with recklessness but with wisdom. For the true romance is not with the weapon itself, but with the destiny you carve by its use — whether to build, to defend, or to destroy. In this, even Schwarzenegger’s jest becomes a lesson worthy of the ancients.