I didn't want anyone getting close to me. I pushed people away. Built a wall around my heart to keep them out. I let one person take down the bricks, and I suppose it was a good idea, but, sometimes, he hurts me too. And it hurts so much worse then any other hurt I've felt because he is one of the very few that matter anymore.
No author, I think, is deserving of much censure for vanity if, taking down one of his ten-year-old books, he exclaims: "Great heavens, did I write as well as that then?" for the implication always is that one does not write any longer so well and few are so envious as to censure the complacencies of an extinct volcano.