Love that line, but . . .

 
Turning her back

on the toneless expanse,

beyond the window,

she contemplated

the room, which

was the colour of

over-cooked veal." 

— from Hotel Du Lac
    a novel by Anita Brookner

I love that line, but I don't love the book. 

In the same way I sometimes love a stanza but not the whole poem.

Or love a friend but not her opinion. 

I am large, I contain multitudes, wrote Whitman. 

And so we expand, stretching across the thorny contradiction to get to a single beautiful bloom.