George nodded. "The big problem with messages like that," he told her, "is that you can make them clear as a bell, in letters ten feet high, impossible to miss, and readers still don't get the point. Shakespeare was a kick-ass storyteller, but look what's happened to Romeo and Juliet. Almost everyone forgets that the play was a tragedy. Tragedy, that means Fate doesn't like you, but nine times out of ten it's you who makes the final screwup. These days we call a lovesick man a 'Romeo'; you'd have to be pretty sick, though, to really want to be Romeo. He was a punk kid; in the story he kills two people in a passion and he's directly responsible for the death of a third. In the last scene he kills himself over the loss of a woman who isn't even dead, and then she wakes up and follows his example. The double suicide is the unforgivable part; it's not touching, it's dumb. They gave up hope, and that means it's not even a love story, it's an immaturity story."
"Mature people despair," Aurora suggested.
"Never completely," George insisted. "Mature people make mistakes, they have breakdowns, they lose, but they never stop looking for the chink in the wall of Fate. The only time they suicide is to save another life; otherwise it's just quitting. That's a children's escape."