You can always make time for people. The point is, you have to want to.
And how angry it makes me that you shouldn’t be here, and I do ache for you all the time—damn it—it gets no better with time or distance—and I foresee that it won’t—Nor shall I have a word from you for ever so long—oh damn, damn, damn—You would be pleased if you knew how much I minded.
I never stopped loving you. Not even for a second. Even when I hated you.
I have learned something in the length of time that I have been here. This is temporary. Everything changes, whether you want it to or not. What you feel now will eventually fade and you will cease to remember it, until you need the information that you learned from it to survive, then it will be there for you.
Literature is, in that way, a solitary act of being with your own conscience. And yet, reading is also a conversation — it’s a conversation over the ages. You are speaking to the brightest and the best without the cumbersomeness of their presence… We begin with the solitude of reading which leads to the necessity of leaking, as it were, the pleasure you have to friends and the people around you, which then leads us back again to going deeper into the work… Sometimes I think I would say that we should live with these things ourselves, and not in the public realm. But I can’t keep myself from conversation. I urge you to read in solitude, but I also want to pull you out of that solitude and create some sort of dialogue.
Sometimes I wish I had never met you. Because then I could go to sleep at night not knowing there was someone like you out there.
Sometimes I wish I had never met you.