How could be somebody love of my life, if I have never met him, never heard his voice, long long time I hadn´t seen his face...?
It is possible, if you look at Red self-portrait by Stuart Sutcliffe. It was the moment when I understood life.
He was also struggling with what to do about Astrid. He said, ‘I haven’t seen her since the day we arrived. I’ve thought of going to see her but I would be so awkward—and probably the others would come as well and it would be even worse. I won’t write any more about it cause it’s not much fun.’ It was typical of him to appear to dismiss something so distressing with a phrase like ‘it’s not much fun’. He found it so hard to talk about, or show, his true feelings. Later he talked to me sometimes about Stuart and about the awful sense of loss and guilt he felt. He agonised over why he had lived and Stuart had died, and whether there was anything he could have done. But these glimpses of his real feelings were rare. Most of the time he kept it all deep inside himself. In that letter he also told me that he had lost his voice — perhaps a symptom of unexpressed grief.
“As the ´bean´ (Preludin) took effect, John would open up about his own feelings for Stu, that strange, unstable mixture of hero-worship and casual cruelty. As much as grief-stricken, he seemed almost bitter towards Stu for fading out of his life with so little warning.”
“At the Woolton village fete I met him. I was a fat schoolboy and, as he leaned an arm on my shoulder, I realised he was drunk. We were twelve then, but in spite of his sideboards, we went on to become teenage pals.” - Paul McCartney in his introduction to John’s first book.