Boris Pasternak. Doctor Zhivago (№ 4896)

All the grief that I love you and you don't love me. I am trying to find the meaning of this judgment, to interpret, to justify, rummage, dig yourself out the rest of our life and all that I currently know and do not see and can not remember what I did and what brought this misfortune. You are somehow wrong, evil eyes looking at me, you see me distorted as in a distorting mirror.
And I love you. Oh, how I love you, if only you could imagine! I love everything special about you, everything is advantageous and disadvantageous, all ordinary your hand, expensive in their extraordinary connection, gentrified inner content entity that may be, it would seem ugly, talent and mind, as if a place completely absent of will. To me everything is expensive, and I don't know the person better than you.
But Hey, you know what I told you? Even if you weren't so dear to me, if you hadn't loved me to such an extent, it is still an unfortunate truth of my coldness would not open for me, I still would think that I love you. One of the fear of a humiliating, debasing punishment dislike, I was instinctively careful to understand that I don't love you. Neither I nor you would never know. My own heart would have concealed it from me, because the dislike is almost like murder, and I'm not in forces was to strike this blow.