I think in the end, you would have stayed with me, out of obligation…or maybe comfort. Maybe I was safe to you, and you needed to feel that. I know how scared you get of the unknown. To you…I must be kind of a security blanket. Do you see now, how that doesn’t work for me? I don’t want to be there, simply because the idea of me being gone is too…scary. I want to be someone’s everything. I want fire and passion, and love that’s returned, equally. I want to be someone’s heart… Even if it means breaking my own.
Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist-a master-and that is what Auguste Rodin was-can look at an old woman, protray her exactly as she is…and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be…and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart…no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn’t matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired-but it does to them.
—Robert A. Heinlein (via observando)