Romance is all the rage this week. Like marmite, you either some love it or you hate it, but it’s here to stay. As a literature student, it’s hard to avoid: everywhere I turn long-dead (or living) authors are offering me conflicting advice about what to do. From Larkin’s assertion that ‘what will survive of us is love’ to Tennyson’s advice that ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all’, the authors I study seem incapable of resisting the urge to tell me what’s what. So, what influence does reading about love in literature have on ‘real life’? Does it simply create expectations of unachievable ideals, or does is present us with useful insight? Does it hinder our emotional development or help it? Are we better lovers for delving into Lady Chatterley’s Lover, or reciting Shakespeare to one another?

It all starts with fairytales. Exposed to their subliminal messages at a young age, we are fed useful life lessons (don’t talk to strangers, stray from the path, wear attractive eye-catching colours...) along with warnings about avoiding predatory men.  All literature does is dress the message up a little more cleverly. Little Red Riding Hood returns with a vengeance in a variety of incarnations, from Beatrix Potter’s Jemima Puddle-Duck to Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. However whereas Puddle-Duck gets a sneaky save, Tess’s handsome prince, (the ironically named Angel no less!) spectacularly fails to perform.

Many figures from literature show you what not to do. Scarlet O’Hara, Daisy Buchanan and Bathsheba Everdene taught me to never be selfish or to ignore the man who truly loves me. To admit it when I love someone, and not to toy with their emotions. Oh, and in Bathsheba’s case don’t fall for the first guy who shows you his sword... Nothing changes. Even recent crazes like the dreaded Twilight series show us how the romantic mindset of the human race stays the same. That modern day unattainable hero Edward Cullen, the flawed man in need of saving, is just Heathcliff with fangs; moody, broody and very Byronic.

The Bronte sisters made a significant contribution to my lessons in love, with Emily telling me never to go off and marry someone I don’t love, like silly Cathy in Wuthering Heights, but also to avoid marrying men who’ll kill my dog and love other women – like Heathcliff does. From Jane Eyre I learned to never settle for being second best, not to become imprisoned by love or adhere to conventions, ‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being’. Oh, and to walk away from married men (or, on reflection, not – hopefully the crazy wife will soon jump off a burning building and he’ll become available).

Shakespeare’s heroines have given me many a handy tip.  Beatrice from Much Ado taught me to be feisty – if you don’t speak up for yourself and always do as people say, you end up like her cousin Hero…dead! – albeit only for a scene or two. Beatrice and Benedick always appeal more as a couple because they love each other despite their flaws. Yes love is soppy a lot of the time, and yes, love poetry can feel like ‘paper bullets to the brain’, can bore and plain annoy, but when you do love, it all suddenly makes sense.

Ultimately literature encourages us to question this idea of ‘love’ presented in Valentine’s cards, suggesting that it’s okay to be different. It tells us that love happens in the most unexpected ways. Shakespeare said it first: ‘reason and love keep little company nowadays’, and ‘the course of true love never did run smooth’. . Love is not logical, it isn’t biological (you can disregard this week’s Science feature), it’s improbable and unpredictable. But that’s why it’s so exciting. Love is messy and that’s what makes it so great.  In life and in literature.