I don't mean romance small "r", the escapist saccharine high-calorie low-content superficiality that so many people seem to have mistaken her for. Granted, she was a Princess, and glamorous, and beautiful. But her beauty was more in the expressiveness of the eyes, the laughter that touched her mouth. She possessed a beauty that was more a part of the other kind of Romance. The kind with a capital "R".

G. K. Chesterton wrote of romance:

The thing which keeps life romantic and full of fiery possibilities is the existence of these great plain limitations which force all of us to meet the things we do not like or do not expect. It is vain for the supercilious moderns to talk of being in uncongenial surroundings. To be in a romance is to be in uncongenial surroundings. To be born into this earth is to be born into uncongenial surroundings, hence to be born into a romance."

I am always amused, in a sleazy sardonic way, at how so many people seem to hold the belief that anyone who has really suffered must bear the scars for the world to see. Like some sort of credentials to get into an exclusive club. Oh, c'mon, do any of us *really* admire those martyrs? I, for one, am always getting a finger stuck on one of the thorns in their crowns. I won't tell *which* finger it is... In my experience, you can always pick out those who have really walked through fire. They are the ones dancing the fastest, singing the loudest, dressing the brightest, laughing the most frequently. They are the most fun at parties. You want to know why?
It is a little thing. Invisible to the human eye. But it exerts a magnetic pull stronger than that of money, more irresistable than that of physical beauty. Even those most influenced by the strange indescribable force couldn't tell you what it is. It is the secret ingredient to a soul.
It is called compassion.
It has other facets, this rare jewel. Charity, generousity, humor, all the necessary tools allowing a true alchemist to turn shit into gold.
But what a sin it is, to be a Romantic. No, no, we must *all* look as if we are having a miserable time. You work hard all your life to get to Disneyland, and just as you hand your ticket to the guy in the stupid hat, he says, "Don't smile. We have rules."
You know what the Romantics say to that?
Fuck the rules!

I'm smiling! I'm dancing! Try to stop me! I double dog dare ya!

And there they go, inciting the crowd. Next thing you know, it's a party! Everybody's having fun. Can't have that, can we?

You know what Hester Prine's big sin was? She wasn't sorry for having fun. Nope, she took that scarlet letter and turned it into a work of art. She turned herself into a work of art. The world, I think, needs more works of art walking around. Let's really spruce up the place.
Oh, I know what you are going to say: Well I'm not five foot eleven and blonde and model thin.
Excuse me while I roll my eyes and stick them back in my head.

You miss my point.
Take a look at the art Rodin let loose on the world. Imperfect beautiful people. The ugly ones are full of bravery and grace, the good-looking ones are usually damned. They scream bend stretch on the wheel of the world, wordlessly beautiful.

So here's me, here's my scarlet R.

Take a picture.