It sucks to be Lotta.

I’ve been helping at my father’s office to pay him back costs of my 18^th Birthday party almost all summer two years ago. Sitting behind the desk I decided to read some books, not to waste my time on them during the school year. (Living in dormitory wasn’t really providing the atmosphere for focusing on masterpieces of classical literature.)

And so, always with not enough sleep and trip to the post office as the only adventure waiting for me during the day, I started “The Sorrows of Young Werther”.

Focused on descriptions of symptoms of his obsession I didn’t really pay attention to the feelings of the source of it. Maybe that’s just because Goethe didn’t to much pay attention either.

But let’s look at Lotta for a second. She just couldn’t give him, what he needed. No matter if it’s just the same level of affection or a “happy ever after”. Does anyone wonder how she had to feel after his suicide?

In the real life it would be so much easier if our father made us get engaged with some boring guy and that’s the reason we can’t be with the person, who truly loves us. It’s a perfect excuse, isn’t it?

Admitting that we just don’t feel the same way hurts. And it becomes our responsibility to deal with the sorrows. Both ours and the other person. There’s no one to blame and it’s so hard not to blame anyone. Because, for obvious reason the other person is unhappy and you end up traped by feeling guilty, that you can’t give them what they need.

I’ve never actually finished that book, I just didn’t like it. But I loved Bayron’s “The Giaour”. Mainly because when the main character did all the crazy shit, Leila was already dead and she didn’t have to deal with it.