Younger than a Rock

In my twenties I identified with a fictional character, a much-honored artist who was selfish and difficult, silent and unworldly, obsessed with perfection and ignorant of humanity, a blandly monomaniacal recluse who insisted not only on cutting his own path up a lonely forbidding mountain but on dragging his loved ones with him. Now I’m the character’s age and I feel as much resemblance to him as to a rock that I stub my toe on.