Magazine article Newsweek , Vol. 160, No. 26
'The Sopranos' creator on the anxieties of love.
I was 18. I'd been crazy about the same girl for three years, with not a lot back to show for it. We weren't high-school sweethearts, although that job description would have been fine with me. We went to the same school, and we dated off and on, but there was no going steady or even any declaration--certainly not of love--of any feeling that would have satisfied me. She liked me. She found me funny. We laughed together at the Hammer horror movies of the '60s during those too infrequent times when I could persuade her to come to the drive-in with me. Yes, we also did some "making out," which is what foreplay was called back then. That was it.
I'd daydream about her all day long. I'd cry about her in my private times. I'd savor her kisses in my memory. I'd call her really late at night, often enough that her father told her that I was a "psychopath out to destroy the family." I remember that quote to this day. Certainly I was crazy--about her. But a stalker I wasn't. I was, however, a melodramatic kid. This stood me in good stead in later life, but that's another story. At parties, I'd get drunk, moan about her, put my fist through a Sheetrock wall. This all while she was in the next room. …