- Thought about what you said to me the other day. About my painting.
- Oh.
Stayed up half the night
thinking about it.
Something occurred to me.
I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep
and haven't thought about you since.
- You know what occurred to me?
- No.
You're just a kid. You don't have the
faintest idea what you're talking about.
- Why, thank you.
- It's all right.
You've never been
out of Boston.
Nope.
So if I asked you about art,
you'd probably give me the skinny…
on every art book
ever written.
Michelangelo?
You know a lot about him.
Life's work, political aspirations.
Him and the pope.
Sexual orientation.
The whole works, right?
I bet you can't tell me what it
smells like in the Sistine Chapel.
You never actually stood there
and looked up at that beautiful ceiling.
Seeing that.
If I ask you about women,
you'll probably give me a syllabus
of your personal favorites.
You may have even been laid
a few times.
But you can't tell me what it feels like
to wake up next to a woman…
and feel truly happy.
You're a tough kid.
I ask you about war, you'd probably
throw Shakespeare at me, right?
"Once more into the breach,
dear friends. "
But you've never been near one.
You've never held your best friend's
head in your lap…
and watch him gasp his last
breath lookin' to you for help.
If I asked you about love,
you'd probably quote me a sonnet,
but you've never looked at a woman
and been totally vulnerable.
Known someone that could
level you with her eyes.
Feelin' like God put
an angel on Earth just for you,
who could rescue you
from the depths of hell.
And you wouldn't know
what it's like to be her angel,
to have that love for her
be there forever.
Through anything.
Through cancer.
And you wouldn't know about sleepin'
sittin' up in a hospital room…
for two months,
holding her hand,
because the doctors
could see in your eyes…
that the terms "visiting hours"
don't apply to you.
You don't know about real loss,
'cause that only occurs when you love
something more than you love yourself.
I doubt you've ever dared
to love anybody that much.
I look at you. I don't see
an intelligent, confident man.
I see a cocky,
scared shitless kid.
But you're a genius, Will.
No one denies that.
No one could possibly understand
the depths of you.
But you presume to know everything about
me because you saw a painting of mine.
You ripped
my fuckin' life apart.
You're an orphan, right?
Do you think I'd know the first thing
about how hard your life has been-
how you feel, who you are-
because I read Oliver Twist?
Does that encapsulate you?
Personally, I don't give a shit
about all that, because-
You know what? I can't
learn anything from you…
I can't read
in some fuckin' book.
Unless you wanna talk
about you,
who you are.
And I'm fascinated.
I'm in.
But you don't wanna do that,
do you, sport?
You're terrified
of what you might say.
Your move, chief.
