Finding Pushkin

"...we could hurt each other even when we weren't trying to,
and that none of us was as perfect as we liked to pretend."

—Meg Waite Clayton (via A Sea of Quotes)

You see, a writer doesn't pretend to be a saint but that does not mean he is entirely a sinner. If he cannot live his life certainly then he cannot write anything of substance. Is it worth it? I ask you: is it worth it, knowing that the man you love cannot return it in the way you would have liked, but still you cannot help feeling a certain tenderness towards him, even as you despise yourself for it? And then you watch him crash and burn, but each time he comes back smiling like a sweet young boy, grime on his face and flashing white teeth, and you melt once more upon seeing that twinkle in his eyes. But the years will take a toll on all of us—and your love may not die completely, but it will be preserved like a pressed flower; and the boy may not become a man entirely, but the twinkle in his eyes will be long gone.

Go watch J. Edgar.