Marriage is one long conversation, chequered by disputes.

The words of Robert Louis Stevenson — “Marriage is one long conversation, chequered by disputes.” — flow with quiet wit and deep understanding of the human heart. Beneath their lightness lies the wisdom of a man who knew both love’s sweetness and its trials. Stevenson, the wandering poet and author of Treasure Island and Kidnapped, was also a philosopher of the soul, ever searching for truth in the everyday. In this single sentence, he captures the essence of marriage not as a fairytale, nor as a battlefield, but as a lifelong dialogue — a communion of words, thoughts, and tempers, in which two souls learn, through speech and silence alike, to grow into one another.

Robert Louis Stevenson, a man of restless spirit and frail health, spent his life wandering from Scotland to the South Seas, and it was during these years of travel that he came to understand love as a journey, not a destination. He married Fanny Van de Grift Osbourne, a woman older than himself, a mother, and a fighter who had endured much. Their union was not easy — it was marked by devotion, sacrifice, and fiery disagreement. Yet it endured, for it was built upon conversation — the kind that binds hearts even when tempers flare. Stevenson’s observation springs from this lived truth: that love is kept alive not by silence, nor by perfection, but by the courage to speak and the grace to listen, again and again, through the changing seasons of life.

To say that marriage is one long conversation is to say that it is a continual act of communion. Words in marriage are like the tide — they ebb and flow, sometimes calm, sometimes stormy, yet they never cease. Through talk, lovers reveal their minds, mend their misunderstandings, and reaffirm their bond. Even in dispute, conversation is the proof of care; for indifference, not anger, is love’s true death. The disputes that Stevenson calls “chequered” are not signs of failure but marks of humanity — the mosaic pattern of life together, where harmony and friction coexist to create something deeper than either alone.

The ancients knew this truth well. The philosophers of Greece spoke of dialogue as the path to wisdom — that truth itself is born from questioning and response. So too in marriage, the truth of love is not handed down at the altar but discovered daily, through words exchanged and emotions tested. Even in sacred texts, the union between partners is described not as perfect peace, but as a covenant — a living, breathing promise renewed through both joy and contention. The wise do not flee from disputes; they transform them into understanding. For where there is conversation, there is hope, and where there is hope, love can heal.

Consider the example of John and Abigail Adams, the second President of the United States and his remarkable wife. Separated often by war and duty, they sustained their love through letters — thousands of them, filled with debate, counsel, and even disagreement. They discussed politics, philosophy, and faith, sometimes clashing, often challenging one another, but always returning to respect and affection. Their marriage was not free of dispute, but it was made immortal by conversation — by the unbroken thread of communication that kept their spirits entwined even across oceans. Their love was proof of Stevenson’s truth: that the strength of a marriage lies not in avoiding conflict, but in continuing the dialogue, even when voices tremble.

Stevenson’s wisdom invites us to see marriage as a living art, not a frozen ideal. It is not the absence of quarrel that defines love, but the ability to return to conversation after quarrel. Words can wound, but they can also heal; silence, though peaceful, can turn to distance if it becomes avoidance. The “long conversation” of marriage is the forge where souls are shaped — where pride is softened, patience is learned, and forgiveness is born anew. Just as the sea polishes the rough stone through endless motion, so does dialogue refine the bond between two imperfect beings seeking perfect understanding.

And so, my children, learn from this: to love is to converse, and to converse is to live. Do not fear disputes, for they are the testing ground of empathy. When tempers rise, let your words be guided by respect; when hurt lingers, let silence give way to honesty. Nurture the art of listening as much as the art of speaking. Do not let the conversation die, for its death is the death of love itself. Let your words, even in anger, be rooted in care, and your disputes, even in pain, be bridged by grace.

Thus, the teaching of Robert Louis Stevenson endures like an ancient flame: that marriage, in its truest form, is not the stillness of perfection but the movement of hearts in dialogue. It is the long, imperfect, wondrous conversation of two souls learning to speak the same language — not of words alone, but of compassion. And if that conversation continues until life’s end, chequered though it may be, then you have lived not only as lovers, but as true companions on the sacred road of understanding.