ImageKandiyoti, Dalia. “Consuming Nostalgia: Nostalgia and the Marketplace in Cristina Garcia and Ana Menendez.” MELUS 31.1 (Spring 2006): 81-97. JSTOR. Web. 12 June 2013.

Begins with bell hooks quote: “Within commodity culture, ethnicity becomes spice, seasoning that can liven up the dull dish that is mainstream white culture” (hooks 21 qtd. in Kandiyoti 81). While majority culture makes marginalized culture a commodity, Kandiyoti asks, what happens when marginalized culture commodities itself? The key to selling Cuban-American culture is nostalgia. She claims that nostalgia plays a major role in the Perez-Firmat’s 1.5 generation.

Kandiyoti states that most scholars critique nostalgia for idealizing a conservative vision of the past. This past used for sale is manufactured (the simulacra—a past based on a non-existent idealized past). Other scholars (Mariyln Halter) suggest that identity is purchased through commodities (this idea runs through Fight Club: purchase identity: what couch defines me as a person? Baudrillard notes this problem early in his career; one buys a rolex watch not to keep time but to make a statement about who he is as a person). Nostalgia sells collective history, life, community, heritage that can be purchased—the consumer’s return to that idealized past (82). Nostalgia implies this analysis: nostos (return home)- algia (pain). Kandiyoti states that a return to home is unlikely if not impossible; “As a result, the need for strong cultural identities is fulfilled through the purchase of foods, clothes, crafts, travels et al., which are marketed through nostalgic discourse” (82).

Kandiyoti argues that Garcia and Menendez critically examine nostalgia consumerism, not dismissing it. These authors look at the original meaning of nostalgia as a painful return home. While rejecting the commodified, politicized and marketed nostalgia, “they [the characters] cannot help but be enveloped by the nostalgic link to the past” (83). Kandiyoti states that these characters cannot free themselves from the pain of their stories of longing. These characters move between identities of “ethnicity, consumerism, and personal history.” (83)

In Menendez, nostalgia is seen through the gaze of the other—the tourist observing the old men playing domino. ((While in Garcia, the exiles themselves market nostalgia: Constancia’s creams)).  The dominant Cuban nostalgia revolves around the same idealized version of pre-revolutionary Cuba without Castro. Constancia, Kandiyoti argues, is different in politics, averse to nostalgia because her mother abandoned her and returned with Reina. Constancia does not have the usual happy memories of the past in Cuba; rather her past is full of (personal not political) pain. The first look at nostalgia is the sister’s grandfather nostalgia for the Spain he left behind. Later, Constancia suffers culture shock but refuses (because of her painful past) to engage nostalgia in Miami. Yes, Constancia cries when she leaves little Habana and is angry her sister kept all their father’s things—she, Kandiyoti argues, hates exilic nostalgia but can’t “separate herself completely from it” (85). She later becomes a seller of the past.

Constancia sells cosmetics that really depend on selling the past and the ideal image of Cuban Woman. The image of Constancia’s mom sells the image of a past unaffected by time, from pre-Castro 40’s, and image of home/land. The products are a simulacrum of Cubanness. Constancia is affected by the letters she reads from customers who thank her for giving them a piece of the past so that “Her feelings about the past are shaped by the interaction of marketplace identities and her own history” (87). Riena does not engage in selling the past the way Constancia does. For Reina, the past and wanting to stay young is gibberish. The two split where Reina wants to protect her mother’s image against Constancia’s commodification.

The resolution reflects the algia (pain) of return—nostalgia. Since one cannot ever return (nostos), the nostalgic attempts “to reconstruct, resurrect, and recover” the past, but Constancia will learn that the past is a lie. The father’s notebook reveals the lies he built the past on. The lies of Constancia’s past mirror the lie of the past she sells in her cosmetics. However, now that she knows, Constancia, unlike the other exiles and their nostalgia, can leave the past behind. The past, itself, comes in multiple versions. (author, sisters, and father).

Menendez’s characters also struggle with the past, with nostalgia as presented in the dominant Cuban-American discourse. In Menendez, the Cubans participate in their own commodification—in past that are constructed and consumed by both Anglos and Cubans. However, I argue that they are victims of Miami politics selling an image that then becomes the reality. Again, a simulacrum—a hyper-reality: more real than reality.

Kaniyoti states that the main story is about loss—but I argue that yes, about loss but not a nostalgic loss of place. The story is about emotions—about the loss of family, community, and connection. The people who stare at the domino players are staring at people who have lost community. — (page89) Maximo sees his dead wife and is nostalgic about all things pertaining to his dead wife—not to loss homeland or yearning for return home. Kandiyoti looks at the stories of nostalgia and how “the narrative itself oscillates between Maximo’s anguish in the present and his exilic history” (90) –((because his exilic history has his wife))—Kandiyoti looks at the stories that the men tell that begin in happy reminiscences but that turn dark. ((because the stories are based on a reality that does not exist and lead to the end where he no longer has his wife)). She states that “nostalgia becomes a disturning rather than a soothing, pleasant, or identity-reinforcing link to the past” (90)—Nostalgia becomes an emotional reminder of the lost place in the world while also reminding Maximo of a past he shared with his wife that is no longer there. Kandiyoti aptly points out that “ But for Maximo, the positive elements of the past do not coexist with the painful memories as separate entities—the remembered positive aspects of the past in particular produce suffering” (90)– a number of problems with this observation: of course, as with any exile—as this very essay points out that nostalgia is pain and return—Maximo’s thoughts on the past lead to pain. The positive past only reinforces the painful present. If the past was great and is gone, then of course remembering how great things were will be painful. Doubly so for Maximo who lost his wife: when he thinks of happy times with her, he will be in pain through the positive. This point seems obvious—a painful past will be remembered happily if it is left behind.

Kandiyoti claims that the Cuban’s nostalgia, replayed over in songs, writing, politics, and products for sale, give “outsiders” a view of “Miami Cubans” that have solidified. She cites 8th street as a place for Cubans and tourist. She points out the story’s opening on the park rather than the characters. Kaniyoti cites the Dominicans as Menendez’s way to show that Miami is a center for many Latinos, highlights “cultural practices” with Caribbean cultures, and to show how Cuban’s discourse affects others, as seen in Antonio’s response to Raul’s musings on the women that pass by.

A look at how tourist consume the Cuban other, which irritates Maximo. Then she analyzes the jokes. She says “This final joke is a caricature of the manufactured grandiose past, It validates Antonio’s and other’s impatience with the exiles’ nostalgia. At the same time as it undermines dominant Cuban nostalgia and tourists’ vicarious experience, Menendez’s story also reinforces Maximo’s non-commodifiable suffering” (94). Ok… first, that is ONE reading of the joke. Yes, we can see the joke in this manner, but that misses all the nuance of the joke. The joke reflects a past in which a poor exile had everything (was a German Sheperd) to where he has nothing (mutt). She states that the last joke leaves Maximo in tears because he wonders what he is able to salvage from the past—but could it be that he is in tears because he remembers his wife? Kandiyoti goes on to suggest that Menendez (herself?) suggest that nostalgia is a spent discourse because the joke is a repetition not an original the way Maximo thought.

These characters (in both stories) both participate in selling nostalgia and an image of Cuba (although neither really falls under Perez-Firmat’s 1.5 definitions since they both came over much too old. Their kids are 1.5, who came over in adolescences) and dissent from it.


Zizek, Slavoj. “Melancholy and the Act.” Critical Inquiry 26.4 (2000): 657-81.

Zizek begins by stating that the Lacanian Big Other designates explicit symbolic rules and unwritten rules as well. Example of Robert Ebert’s movie rules—in a foreign land, in a car chase, a fruit stand will get run over, the grocery bag rule, etc—the Big other regulates our speech and actions. While not stated outright, disobeying them can be very bad.

One of those rules is mourning and melancholia. The dominant opinion is: “Freud opposed normal mourning (the successful acceptance of a loss) to pathological melancholy (the subject persist in his or her narcissistic identification with the lost object). Against Freud, one should assert the conceptual and ethical primacy of melancholy” (658). In mourning, a remainder occurs that fails integration through mourning, “and the ultimate fidelity is the fidelity to this remainder” (658). Mourning kills the lost object (again), while melancholy stays faithful to the lost object. The melancholic refuses to renounce the attachment to the lost object. (((This point is elaborated on by Derrida—we carry the world of the other; the dialogue continues)). This idea of maintaining attachments to the lost object can be used in multiple ways: from the queer one—gays should maintain attached to the repressed same-sex libidinal economy to the ethnic one: where the ethnic  group might lose their culture as it is subsumed by the capitalist tradition.

“The melancholic link to the lost ethnic Object allows us to claim that we remain faithful to our ethnic roots while fully participating in the global capitalist game” (659).

Anamorphosis- distorted projection or perspective, requiring a specific vantage point. Zizek says ideology works off of anamorphosis, where if we look at the ideology from a certain standpoint, then it makes sense; example, anti-semitism—the Jewish plot is the cause of all our problems. Anamorphosis distorts the idea of subjective and objective reality, since “the subjective distortion is reflected back into the perceived object itself, and, in this precise sense, the gaze itself requires a supposedly objective existence” (659).

This paradox does not hold in the melancholic, who mistakenly asserts that something “resist the symbolic sublation”, and “locate[s] this resistance in a positively existing, although lost, object. ” The melancholic interprets his/her desire as a loss, when it is merely lacking. The melancholic thinks that he/she possessed the object and has now lost it when in reality, he/she never possessed it at all. The melancholic confuses the object as missing, but in reality, it is lacking. That lack causes the object to emerge in the first place. The paradox comes when the melancholic thinks the object loss when in reality it lacks. “The melancholic subject thus elevates the object of his longing into an inconsistent composite of a corporeal absolute; however, since this object is subject to decay, one can possess it unconditionally only insofar as it is lost, in its loss” (660).

Zizek looks to Giorgio Amamben who “emphasized how, in contrast to mourning, melancholy is not only the failure of the work of mourning, the persistence of the attachment to the real object, but also its very opposite: ‘melancholia offers the paradox of an intention to mourn that precedes and anticipates the loss of the object’” (661). The problem is that the melancholic thinks what he possesses is lost—he mourns the object before the object is lost. ((((This problem happens with Maximo, who always wonders while all the stories that begin with Cuban being pure and great turn into something dark—he is suffering from melancholy, and even in Miami, where he possess a Cuban identity, through his food, his wife, and his community—he feels his Cubanness lost; later, he maintains connection to his identity through playing with the Cubans, through old stories, and through his jokes, but feels this abstract object loss, so he suffers the attachment to it—Also, his sadness comes from knowing that his homeland has forgotten him; he is no longer the German Shepherd of Cuba, he is the mutt of America. Having suffered one loss (losing his home), he suffers the loss of his Miami identity, he suffers the loss of his children, his friends—all before any of them are actually lost))))

As Zizek further explains “the mourner mourns the lost object and kills it a second time through symbolizing its loss, while the melancholic is not simply the one who is unable to remounce the object but rather the one who kills the object a second time (treats it as lost) before the object is actually lost” (662).

The manner to explore this paradox comes in the Lacanian distinction between the object and the (object) cause of desire, the feature that has us desiring the desired object. Something that we are usually unaware, “even misperceived as an obstacle.” The melancholic posseses the object but has lost his desire for the object: “. . . the cause that made him desire the object has withdrawn, lost its efficiency” (662). Lacan’s object petit a, is the void in reality around which reality is displaced and centralized. “This object is the sublime object (of ideology), the object elevated to the dignity of a Thing, and simultaneously the anamorphic object (in order to perceive its sublime quality, we have to look at it awry—if looked at straight on, it appears as just another object in a series)” (662).

The void-lack- only works when when it is embodied in an object. The object keeps the gap open. The void of desire embodies itself in an object that serves as a stand in. This void is best embodied in post-sctructuralist, Derridian, deconstructionist ethics: an ethics that calls for the always-already withdrawn negative trace of its own absence. We can never be fully present, accountable, ethical enough in the face of the other. The other is a void around which to build this ethics. Another example happens in Derria’s view on Marxism: we must keep true to the spirit of Marx, not the letter. Derrida’s radicalization means only the theoretical Marx, any actualization of Marx betrays the “spirit.”  As Zizek explains “on account of its very radicalism, the messianic promise forever remains a promise, cannot ever be translated into a set of determinate economic and political measures” (665). We can never be responsible enough to the other, our answer to the other will always lack. This gap between ethical responsibility and action betrays the problem of totalitarianism because the party attempts to fulfill this ethical gap with actions that betray and go against the people.

Democracy works as a perpetual working-ING, a “to-come”: “The to-come (a venir) is thus not simply an additional qualification of democracy but its innermost kernel, what makes democracy democracy. The moment democracy is no longer to come but pretends to be actual—fully actualized—we enter totalitarianism” (665). This democracy to come refers to when one is urgently called to answer the call of the other in the face of injustice. Derrida addresses the gap between ethics and politics, where ethics is the impossible response to the call of the other and politics is the need to act/respond. Ethics is always to-come; politics is a “here/ now”—in politics, in having to make a choice, we risk doing the wrong thing: “The ethical is thus the (back)ground of undecidability, while the political is the domain of the decision(s), of taking the full risk of crossing the hiatus and translating this impossible ethical request for messianic justice into a particular intervention that never lives up to this request, that is always unjust towards (some of the) others” (666). Ethics, then, opens up the condition of possibility for politics, while closing it. When I have to act in politics because of the ethical call, my action my hurt (some) others—will be unethical. The decision to act works on two levels:

First, we open up the gap between the ethical call of the other, and the decision to decide. Zizek elaborates, “the first decision is identified with/as the injunction of the Thing in me to decide [the other’s call/ the other’s decision in me]; it is a decision to decide, and it still remains my (the subject’s) responsibility to translate this decision to decide into a concrete, actual intervention, to invent a new rule out of a singular situation, wehre this intervention has to obey pragmatic and/or strategic considerations and is never at the level of the decision” (668-9).  Zizek wants to say that the Lacanian act is not along the lines of this deconstructionist ethic, where the “other’s decision in me” is not some structuralist view of a decentered subject of abyss of otherness I can never reach; rather, the Lacanian act refers to the subject’s direct identification with the other’s Thing/ injunction to action. The subject becomes the Other-Thing for “a brief, passing moment of, precisely, decision—directly is the Thing” (669).

An ethical act changes the very nature of what we think about ethical acts, the very idea of what is good.


Johannessen, Lene. “The Lonely Figure: Memory and Exile in Ana Menendez’s “In Cuba I Was a German Shepherd.” Journal of Postcolonial Writing 41.1 (2005): 54-68. Routledge, 15 Aug. 2006. Web. 5 Nov. 2013.


Johannessen covers the discussion of exile and figuration. She examines how the exile attempts to re-map his/her new place in order to orient him/herself, in order to understand a new place meaningfully. Johannessen expresses that writin gin exile is writing in extreme. Her essay explores two levels: figuration- metaphor and analogy, which are the master tropes; and the manner in which the exile attempts to understand and familiarize him/herself in a new land. The exile uses old knowledge and applies it to new, unknown world in order to place him/herself. Migration is never merely happy or not—literature, like actual experience, has a growing number of displacement stories. Migration follows a wide range of motivations. The difference between groups depends on motivation. Exile, for instance, is marked by forced banishment; emigration is a choice for a better life.

Ana Menendez’s stories speak in memory, which remembers what has been left behind. The essay states, “The title story “In Cuba I was a German Shepherd” allows a reading that lends ear to the voice of memory as it obsesses with the past” (Johannessen 55). This essay wants to look at how “this voice” [memory] configures the narrative and how memory shapes desire. Johannessen says she will use tropology (the figurative use of language), Bakhtinian architectuonics (triad of model of human psyche; I-for-myself; I-for-other; and I-for-me), and cognitive linguistics. All these fields deal with memory, orientation, and relationships.

Memory unites the dissimilar, while similarity unites what is not continuous in memory. Borrowing the idea from Dianne Thompson’s The Brothers Karamazov and the Poetics of Memory, this essay quotes: “the continuity of memory makes us unite what dissimilarity (spatio-temporal) might otherwise separate; similarity makes us unite what discontinuity in the memory might hold apart” (Thompson (3) qtd. in Johannessen 55). The essay goes on to say that writing in exile intensifies this “sensitivity to temporal and spatial complexities and contradictions embodied in all attempts at representation” (55). Writing magnifies the disjunction between “home” and “place”—writing turns to home in order to restore familiarity in memory (55). Writing in exile highlights what was and what is, and attempts to recover home through narrative, “in order to recreate and restore familiarity, if only its memory” (55). Therefore, exile writers attempt to hold on to memories and to write in order to familiarize themselves with the world.

This familiarization attempts to “orient” self in the world. Writing attempts to restore the old world from nostalgic memory: the writer’s attempt to understand a new place through familiarization happens through the use of metaphor and analogy, “ ‘the master tropes’of migration” (55). Since the exiled lives in a new, unknown world, the exile uses analogy and metaphor to familiarize him/herself—to map his/her new world, a way of understanding. One comes to know the world through language—figuration or mapping—the exile takes what he/she knows and connects that knowledge to things he/she does not know. This “figuration” results in mixing of culture and language. Memory recalls what has been left behind. This idea leads to the essay’s contention that “The title story “In Cuba I Was a German Shepherd” resonates powerfully with such compulsive retrospection, and allows a reading that lends ear to the voice of memory as it obsesses with the past” (55). This memory leads to exile’s desire.

Emigration leads to the need of making the unfamiliar and new into the familiar and understandable. The essay draws on cognitive linguistics to explain the idea of metaphorical mapping—the mapping of “source domains” that diverge from the “target domain.” The idea—from Heyden White and Antonio Barcelona—is that the exile projects old concepts on to new ones: “Language, custom, religion, and tradition undergo a certain degree of ‘figuration’ as they travel from one domain o another”—the two domains tend to blend (56). Migration parallels the idea of the “figuration process.”

The essay looks at Menendez’s stories, and it claims that the characters “and their relationship to the world display…a sensitivity to temporal disjunction and dislocation that challenges the coherence of the narrative’s inner space” (56). –plot summary   –focus on Maximo’s “nervous breakdown” (bottom 56-57).Looks at the park: essay claims that Domino Park becomes a separate entity of “American Miami” and acts as a “synecdoche of Cuba” (58). The park only matters to the Cuban immigrants who determined the “place” of the park, giving it meaning as they recreate a Cuban ritual. The Park, now—when Maximo visits it—has become gentrified and a tourist attraction. With the gentrification and touristification of the Park, the Park loses its synecdoche for the Cuabns (why? I don’t understand this logic?) The process works by taking something old but subordinate (Cuban Domino) and re-figuring it to match the new “thing” (America Miami). [An example is brujeira—where Cubans take an old, “pagan” religion and map it on to the new Catholic religion). The Park, however, has not followed these examples: “The park takes its cue, as it were, exclusively from what lies outside it” (58). The tour guide’s discourse objectifies Maximo and the Park, taking away the old Cubans agency in creating their own culture. [Again, I don’t agree—the Park, gentrified or not—arises out of Cuban culture, of bringing and introducing a Cuban ritual in to this space where only (mostly) Cubans over the age of 55 are allowed to participate. Objectification for tourist does not lead to inauthenticity of the ritual performed by the Domino players).

Maximo feels someone else’s will determining him “So even if the function of the park (as a site for playing domino) may not be basically altered from the point of view of the guide, the metaphorization it has been subjected to transforms it into a relic, an object for musuems, something that is lifeless” (59) – [Cubans who fled from Castro’s communism have always-already felt “someone else’s” will determining them].   The park attempts a one-to-one replacement that attempts to limit distance and past. [[I would argue no—that the Cubans who go play there KNOW that this park is a constructed space; however, as Raul says, they do not care. He embraces the spectacle. The Cubans know that this Park, in the middle of Miami, pales in comparison to what they had in Cuba—like most everything in Miami/America, none of it is as good as it was in Cuba.—‘eso no pasabar en Cuba]

Troping is a desire for replication not transformation; the exile space becomes itself the substitute for home. Johannssen claims that “Domino Park represented home with little regard for the new cultural domain in which it resided” (59) and that currently, the Park represents home as a constructed place, thus a caged zoo. Using cognitive linguistics, metaphor and metonymy, used to map knowledge to the unknown for understanding. Both, however, are different “Metonymy is [a] conceptual projection whereby one experiential domain (the target) is partially understood in terms of another experiential domain (source) included in the same common experiential domain” (Barcelona 4 qt. in Johannssen 60).

The essay relates memory to metonymy—metonymic memory selects what it remembers along continuous lines. For the exile, the idea of orientation does not involve making a ‘new home’—home is lost forever, and only lingers, frozen, in memory (60). Metaphor is not good for constituting the exile’s discourse “both because of its retrospective orientation, but also, and just as crucially, because the exile’s obsession is not only with memory but also oblivion” (60). Metonym is better since it “prefigures the exile’s mode of ordering” (60). The essay then looks at “In Cuba…”—stories about Cuba and past and follows two figurations: 1-similie—figure of despair of departure “roots dug in like fingernails in a good-bye” (Menedez 7). The 2nd– likens narrative to movement, where memory uses image of journey and space: “figuration is, however, inherently unstable, inaccurate, if for nothing else than the fact that the absence of figure does not exist” (61)—language opens up a gap between what is meant and what can be meant—this analysis sounds much like Derrida’s trace. The gap is itself a form, a “thing.” The figure that Maximo opens up is called “suspension” (61). Maximo’s memory illustrates memory and oblivion: memory connects him and separates him from his old home.

Maximo’s memories –his daydreams—become present in the figure of his wife. His memories, his daydreams, are a “synecdochical representation”, where parts (memory) stand in for the whole (Cuba). His memories stand in for that location, his home in Cuba. His memories represent how the exile occupies a certain place while remembering another place. This double creates a “discursive tension” that cause Maximo to “conflate and confuse” Cuban with Miami (62). Maximo thinks of his “other life” but that phrase is ambiguous—which is his other life? Johannssen wants to look at this tension—this suspension—and states that exile’s “double orientation” struggle for dominance; however, for Maximo, this “suspension” is neither Miami nor Cuba. Maximo is left without a place because he has no way to orient himself. He has no place from which to speak since he cannot reconcile his current place and his past; he is caught between place and time. (63).

Essay turns to joke, which functions along metonymic memory. The laughter directed at Anglo-American superiority and arrogance also pokes fun at Cuban “and his innocent provincialism in the face of the cosmopolitan new world he encounters” (65). He invests his naivety in the dignity. Essay says that he gets the laugh and “allows Maximo to escape his enclosure in a life lived elsewhere” (65). [I think this reading of the joke misses some nuances. I think that Maximo, a professor and well-read man in Cuba, knows that he is thought to be the provincial, poor man, and possibly uneducated man in the eyes of American society, and the joke is quite “literal”—in that new way literal means—in pointing out that Maximo was a German Shepherd in Cuba (a well respected professor), so the joke serves as a tragic reminder of his new place in America, in Miami, where he can no longer come off as a great and “pure breed”]

Rather than go into the long list of excuses (most of them revolving around me being lazy, but not the only reason), I will get into something new.

There is this interesting article over at the which looks at neural research being done on love. The thesis here is that “…love mostly can be understood through brain images, hormones and genetics.” I had to stop there. Can love be “understood” in this way? I mean, sure, ok… looking at the definition of understand, then one can, maybe say that love can be something that we can “be familiar with, to assign a meaning to.” In a way, and that is interesting in its own way, but for me that still does not explain love.

This is an interesting artcle, and it does a nice job of explaining how the chemicals in the brain react to love:
The VTA is part of a key reward system in the brain.

“These are cells that make dopamine and send it to different brain regions,” said Helen Fisher, a researcher and professor at Rutgers University. “This part of the system becomes activated because you’re trying to win life’s greatest prize _ a mating partner.”

But I don’t think this helps with any understanding of our conception of love. The study goes on to say that love is like a drug, working with the same chemicals, but I could have told you that without spending any money on research– and, none of this still actually explains love. It is interesting to note that love produces the same effect in the brain as craving cociane, but that still doesn’t “understand” love.

The article explains how this research could lead to drugs that could help autism and other such neurological disease where people have problems, yadda yadda…

These scientist also studied heartbroken individuals, but they didn’t really go into it. Just more blather about how these things can be measured through chemicals in the brain. And while the article did mention that research is being done on why we are attracted to whom we are attracted to, this is still lacking for me. This, I would argue, is a way to explain love, not understand it, which is why the word understand bothered me at the beginning of the article. None of this still explains any of it really. Sure, love makes our bodies release chemicals, but what is that “something” that triggers it. Why do some girls, some relationships, some situations cause the release and others don’t. Also, it makes this all so un-romantic.

I did like the way the article ended because it is what I am more interested in. I mean, besides looking at how artist have dealt with love and heartbreak– how love/heartbreak has manifest itself in the arts– that is what really interest me.

Here is the end of the article:

Young said that romantic love theoretically can be simulated with chemicals, but “if you really want, you know, to get the relationship spark back, then engage in the behavior that stimulates the release of these molecules and allow them to stimulate the emotions,” he said. That would be hugging, kissing, intimate contact.

“My wife tells me that flowers work as well. I don’t know for sure,” Young said. “As a scientist it’s hard to see how it stimulates the circuits, but I do know they seem to have an effect. And the absence of them seems to have an effect as well.”