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There comes a time in most everyone’s life where they realize that their idols are… less than idol-licious.

These people that I had admired my entire New York existence ? they all disappointed me. I don’t understand how people can exist in such a dishonest way and still call themselves writers. (nymag)

It usually looks somewhat like that, but I’d make the comment that the author is confusing what one needs to be a writer with what one needs to be a decent human being. (One can be a halfway decent writer while having not the least shred of humanity, and many’s the intellectual who’s gone that route.)