"My baby, My baby...!"
"Mother!" The madness is infectious
"My love, my one and only, precious, precious..."

Mother,monogamy , romance. High spurts the fountain; fiece and foamy the wild jet. The urge has but a single outlet, My love my baby. No wonder those poor pre-modens were mad and wicked and miserable. Their world didn't allow them to take things easily, didn't allow them to be sane, virtuous, happy.
What with mothers and loves, what with the prohibitions they were not conditionded to obey,
what with the tempations and the lonely remorses,
what with all the diseases and the endless isolationg pain,
what with the uncertainties and the poverty - they where forced tro feel strongly. And feeling strongly (and strongly, whas was more, in solitude, hin hopelessly indivudual isolation), how could they be stable?