I sit here drunk now. I am a series of small victories and large defeats and i am as amazed as any other that i have gotten from there to here without committing murder or being murdered; without having ended up in the madhouse. As i drink alone again tonight my soul despite all the past agony thanks all the gods who were not there for me then.
And broken both your hearts? How would that have benefited me? You are as dear to me as another half of my soul, jem. I could not be happy while you were unhappy. And tessashe loves you. What sort of awful monster would i be, delighting in causing the two people i love the most in the world agony simply that i might have the satisfaction of knowing that if tessa could not be mine, she could not be anybodys?
There are confessable agonies, sufferings of which one can positively be proud. Of bereavement, of parting, of the sense of sin and the fear of death the poets have eloquently spoken. They command the world's sympathy. But there are also discreditable anguishes, no less excruciating than the others, but of which the sufferer dare not, cannot speak. The anguish of thwarted desire, for example.