I’m in love with Quentin. Quentin Compson. We never even fucked, and he’s now dead; still, he is — and always will be — the love of my life.
Like Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Quentin and I had a love so beautiful, so exquisite, it could only end in death.
Death is the defining fate of all such tragic love.
But had we consummated our love — actually fucked — I like to think I could have saved him. And he would never have hurled himself off the Charles River bridge.
Now all that remains — besides his words in The Sound and the Fury and Absalom, Absalom! — is a plaque on the bridge at Harvard: