"He wrote to Connie with the same plaintive melancholy note as ever, sometimes witty, and touched with a queer, sexless affection. A kind of hopeless affection he seemed to feel for her, and the essential remoteness remained the same. He was hopeless at the very core of him, and he wanted to be hopeless. He rather hated hope. 'Une immense espérance a traversé la terre', he read somewhere, and his comment was:'--and it's darned-well drowned everything worth having.' "
Lady Chatterley’s Lover- D.H. Lawrence.
I read this somewhere today, and it reminds me of a friend who I haven't actually met. These internet friendships are so confusing.