Well, there's just some universal truths in a way that I've just

In the words of Feist, the singer and observer of the human heart, there is revealed a wisdom that has echoed through the centuries: “Well, there’s just some universal truths in a way that I’ve just observed to be true. You read Voltaire. You read modern literature. Anywhere you go, there’s these observations about romantic love and what it does to people, and these rotten feelings that rarely are people meaning to do that to each other.” This is not a statement of despair, but of recognition—that love, though radiant, carries with it shadows, and that those shadows are as old as humanity itself.

The ancients called these truths eternal. Plato spoke of Eros as both a divine spark and a dangerous madness, capable of lifting mortals toward the heavens or dragging them into ruin. The poets of every age, from Sappho to Shakespeare, have echoed the same: that romantic love transforms, unsettles, exalts, and wounds. Feist names this as a universal truth—a pattern repeated not just in one nation or era, but everywhere the human heart has beat.

She invokes Voltaire, the philosopher who lived through both love’s intoxications and its disappointments. In his tales and letters, he often mocked the folly of passion, yet he could not deny its force. Later, in modern literature, the same truths arise again, told in different words but always with the same recognition: love changes people, confuses them, and often leads them to hurt one another—though rarely by intent. Here is the paradox: even when the heart seeks only tenderness, it may wound, for desire and longing are forces too great to always be guided by reason.

History itself offers vivid examples. Think of Abelard and Héloïse, the medieval lovers whose passion defied custom and law. Their letters overflowed with devotion, yet their love also brought tragedy, exile, and suffering. Neither sought to wound the other, but circumstances and desire conspired to turn their devotion into sorrow. Their story, like countless others, proves what Feist observes: that rotten feelings often arise not from malice, but from the very intensity of love itself.

The deeper meaning of Feist’s words is that we must approach romantic love with humility, recognizing it as both gift and danger. It is not that people wish to harm one another—rarely do they—but that love is a fire too powerful to always be contained. The very passion that exalts can also consume. This is why so many poets, philosophers, and singers have returned again and again to the theme: for within love lies both humanity’s sweetest joy and its sharpest sorrow.

The lesson is clear: do not be deceived into thinking love alone will be free of pain. Instead, enter it with eyes open, knowing that even the purest affection may give rise to jealousy, insecurity, or longing that wounds. Yet do not reject it for this, for without love, life becomes barren and dry. The wise path is to accept the universal truth—that to love is to risk both elation and heartbreak—and to cultivate patience, forgiveness, and compassion for oneself and for others.

Therefore, O listener, heed this teaching: when the storm of romantic love comes, do not despair at its contradictions. Remember that even the greatest minds—Voltaire, the poets, the philosophers—have stumbled before it. Do not demand perfection from yourself or from the one you love, for love is not perfection; it is humanity in its most vulnerable form. And when sorrow comes, let it not harden you, but teach you tenderness. For in the end, to love and to be wounded is still greater than to never have felt the fire at all.