Letters from Tomis

Ah, St. Valentine’s Day—a saccharine spectacle drenched in pinks and reds, ostensibly dedicated to love, but in reality, a gaudy altar to capitalism and consumerist excess. What began as a murky blend of pagan fertility rites and Christian martyrdom has been grotesquely reborn as the most hollow of modern rituals, a day in which love, that most profound and ineffable of human experiences, is reduced to trinkets and transactions. One might say, with the faintest touch of irony, that St. Valentine has been crucified on the altar of profit margins.

Let us first dispense with any illusions of historical continuity. The modern Valentine’s Day owes little to its origins. The figure of St. Valentine—whether he was one man, two, or a composite invention—is shrouded in ambiguity. He was allegedly martyred for defying Roman authorities, an act that, had he known its outcome, might have made him think twice. That his name now adorns greeting cards and candy hearts would surely baffle, if not outright nauseate, this early Christian ascetic. What began as a solemn day of remembrance has been utterly consumed by the machinery of modern commerce.

Consider the sheer banality of what the day demands. Does one wish to express love? How convenient! A pre-selected bouquet of roses can be had for an inflated price. Does one wish to convey devotion? A greeting card will do, perhaps featuring a trite aphorism penned by someone who has never met the buyer or the recipient. The day is not about love as an act of will, sacrifice, or creativity; it is about consumption. To love, in the Valentine’s Day sense, is to spend.

The holiday’s genius, if one can use the term without choking on it, lies in its ability to exploit both insecurity and social pressure. The capitalist apparatus has masterfully conditioned the populace to believe that love must be demonstrated through purchases, lest one be accused of apathy or neglect. Woe betide the hapless soul who fails to perform this ritual of spending. A bouquet too small, a dinner too modest, or—perish the thought—no gift at all, and one risks the icy wrath of an aggrieved partner. This is not love; it is extortion, albeit gift-wrapped and perfumed.

Equally insidious is the holiday’s reinforcement of gendered stereotypes. The man is cast as the pursuer, expected to perform extravagant gestures to win approval. The woman, meanwhile, is positioned as the passive recipient, her affections apparently contingent on the size of the gift rather than the depth of the sentiment. St. Valentine’s Day, far from being a celebration of love’s universality, entrenches roles that ought to have been dismantled long ago.

One might also observe, with some despair, the grotesque uniformity of the celebration. Love, we are told, must be expressed in particular ways: roses, chocolates, candlelit dinners. All are pre-approved, pre-packaged, and entirely devoid of originality. This commodification of love strips it of its individuality, reducing it to a mass-produced product. Love becomes a checklist, and Valentine’s Day its most vulgar manifestation.

Now, none of this is to argue that love ought not to be celebrated. Quite the contrary; love, in its many forms, is one of the few things that can give life meaning amid the chaos and absurdity of human existence. But genuine love resists commodification. It thrives not in grandiose gestures but in small, meaningful acts. It is not sold but shared, not dictated but discovered. Valentine’s Day, as it stands, does not celebrate love; it cheapens it.

It is tempting to dismiss Valentine’s Day as harmless fun, a bit of frivolity in a grim and grinding world. But to do so is to ignore its deeper implications. The holiday is not an isolated phenomenon but a symptom of a larger malaise: the relentless commodification of human experience. It is a reminder that even our most intimate emotions are not immune to the predations of capitalism. Love, that most beautiful and mysterious of human experiences, has been turned into just another marketable commodity.

In the end, one is left with a simple question: what does St. Valentine’s Day truly add to our lives? Does it deepen our relationships, enrich our understanding of love, or bring us closer to one another? Or is it, as I suspect, merely a cynical exercise in profit-making, a day in which we are coerced into spending money on things we do not need, all in the name of a love that cannot be bought? I leave the answer to you, dear reader, but I suspect that, like me, you already know.

Love may be blind, but capitalism never is.