“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things.”—Henry Miller, Sexus (via verlieren)
Walt’s tragic flaw is very much his pride. This becomes more and more obvious as the series continues. His breakup with Gretchen, the fallout with Schwartz, his refusal of their money, and his decision to cook meth are all these impotent attempts to wrest control of his life from an indifferent universe. He’s always felt put-upon and bitter. There’s always been this
feeling, boiling just beneath the surface, that the world owes him something. And then he got cancer.