Marriage is overdone. As long as there are people, people are

“Marriage is overdone. As long as there are people, people are going to find it interesting.” — Thus spoke Augusten Burroughs, the writer whose wit and candor often revealed uncomfortable truths about the human heart. His words shimmer with irony, yet beneath the humor lies a profound reflection on the timeless fascination humanity holds for love, commitment, and the complicated bond that unites two souls. To call marriage “overdone” is not to dismiss it, but to acknowledge how often it has been glorified, criticized, dissected, and reinvented — and yet, despite all that, it remains endlessly interesting, as eternal as the human longing for connection itself.

To understand the meaning of Burroughs’ words, one must first see the dual nature of his insight. On one hand, he points to society’s obsession with marriage — how it is celebrated in song and story, sanctified by religion, and analyzed by science. It has been both pedestal and prison, ideal and illusion. In every era, mankind has returned to this same question: what does it mean to bind two hearts together? Burroughs wryly observes that though marriage has been done and redone, though its rituals and roles have changed beyond recognition, it still captures our imagination. Why? Because behind every union lies the eternal mystery of human desire — our yearning not to be alone, our hope to be understood.

The origin of this quote reflects Burroughs’ own life and work — a writer who chronicled love, family, and chaos with unflinching honesty. He knew that human relationships, no matter how modern or unconventional, circle back to the same fundamental truths. By saying marriage is “overdone,” he means that it has been explored from every angle, yet it remains fresh because it is the mirror through which humanity studies itself. The forms may change — the vows, the laws, the partners — but the struggle remains the same: how do two imperfect beings build something lasting amid the storms of life?

The ancients, too, pondered this question. In the days of Socrates, marriage was a duty — a bond for stability and lineage, not necessarily for love. Yet even then, philosophers and poets wrote of the tension between passion and reason, between freedom and fidelity. In ancient Rome, Cicero praised marriage as the foundation of the Republic, while Ovid mocked its failures in his verses of desire. And centuries later, in every age and every culture, the pattern repeats: love and marriage inspire both celebration and satire. Burroughs joins this ancient chorus, suggesting that as long as there are people, there will be endless fascination with how we unite, how we fail, and how we try again.

One might recall the story of Henry VIII, whose six marriages changed the course of history. His quest for love, legacy, and control tore a nation from the church and reshaped the Western world. Here was marriage as obsession, as politics, as tragedy — proof that the institution’s power lies not in law or ritual, but in the hearts of those who attempt it. Even kings, for all their crowns, could not master the forces of love and pride that marriage unleashes. And so Burroughs’ observation rings true: no matter how many tales are told, marriage remains inexhaustible, because it is woven from the contradictions of the human condition itself.

In saying that people will “find it interesting,” Burroughs captures the humility of wisdom. He reminds us that marriage is not a fixed ideal but a living experiment — one that each generation, each couple, must redefine for themselves. Its failures do not make it obsolete; they make it compelling. For what could be more fascinating than two beings trying, again and again, to build a shared life out of love’s fragile materials? To be human is to be drawn to this drama — to watch it, to live it, to fall and rise within it.

And so, O seeker, let this truth settle in your heart: marriage, whether ancient or modern, sacred or secular, will always reveal the essence of humanity — our longing for meaning, our fear of loss, our hunger for companionship. Do not scorn it for being imperfect or “overdone,” for within its imperfections lie the lessons of life itself. If you choose it, enter it not for idealized happiness, but for the growth it demands. If you do not, still honor it as one of the oldest mirrors of the soul. For as long as there are people, as long as love and imperfection walk hand in hand, the story of marriage will continue — forever retold, forever fascinating, forever human.