We hurt one another. We go through life dressing up in new clothes and covering our true motives. We meet up lightly, we drink rosé wine, and then we give each other pain. We don’t want to! What we want to do, what one really wants to do is put out one’s hands—like some danger, in a trance, just put out one’s hands—and touch all the people and tell them: I’m sorry. I love you. Thanks for your e-mail. Thank you for coming to see me. Thank you. I love you. But we can’t…. We do not keep each other company. We do not send each other cute text messages. Or, rather, when we do these things, we do them merely to postpone the moment when we’ll push these people off, and beat forward, beat forward on our little raft, alone.

All the Sad Young Literary Men, Keith Gessen (see NYRB)

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