“I think I love you deeply, but I’ve come to believe it’s an illusion.”
“Look at this love. Isn’t it too obscure and arcane?”
“I’ve written so many stories that I’ve come to believe anything can happen in this world.”
“Except a love without flaws.”
Most people don’t know. He doesn’t write, not because he can’t, but because he mustn’t.
Even though novels are made-up stories, they always contain a piece of the author, especially when it comes to feelings. It’s harder for the writer to remain detached.
If he doesn’t write it fully, the work has no soul. If he writes too deeply, the signs of what he must keep hidden will show.
Tezuka couldn’t bring himself to lie to himself. He couldn’t sit before a sheet of paper and write distorted events and twisted facts.
So he doesn’t write. He would rather bury his indescribable love deep in his heart. No matter how he describes it with words that sear into the soul, nobody will ever see them.
Most people don’t understand: some kinds of love aren’t tragic because they’re like a moth flying into a flame. It’s just that even the love itself can’t be spoken aloud.
That, too, is flying into a flame. Whenever you blindly pursue something you cannot have, you’re flying into a flame.
