From Michael Chabon - an author who has written a lot about adolescence, and even a little bit about comic books - at the end of The Mysteries of Pittsburgh:
"When I think of that dizzy summer, that dull, stupid, lovely, dire summer, it seems that I ate my lunches, smelled another's skin, noticed a shade of yellow, even simply sat, with greater lust and hopefulness - and that I lusted with greater faith, hoped with greater abandon. The people I loved were celebrities, surrounded by rumor and fanfare; the places I sat with them, movie lots and monuments. No doubt all of this is not true remembrance but the ruinous work of nostalgia, which obliterates the past, and no doubt, as usual, I have exaggerated everything."
How do we keep that lust for life and unabashed hopefulness alive? Must it always become "ruinous nostalgia"?
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