As I see it, we are icebergs. We may collide and touch each other and voyage a little road together. But we will never melt in one thing, as some conception of love would like to be, and as we secretly would like to do. Each iceberg is ruled by an internal system of laws. There may be some agreement at the level of the tips, and, when we succeed in such agreements, we should not throw them away because they are incomplete. To us who are maimed in our souls, they appear even more incomplete, being thirsty for real affection or even more for love (oh love, love what a confusion!), we pretend much more than other people can give. We walk all our life on sidewalks close to other people that may be (may be, we are not sure) have the same secret desire, may be, perhaps they never knew about it, they were reared in an incubator, or perhaps they had never been endowed by nature of the organs of love or they were sold when they were children to some Asiatic brothel. Oh that happens here too, sold to a school of marketing, that promises a longer life and affluence but is no better than a brothel in the quality of the relationships it cultivates. …
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Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
--Samuel Beckett