I don't hate Rod Stewart. I think he's an incredible talent

When Bebe Buell spoke the words, “I don’t hate Rod Stewart. I think he’s an incredible talent, funny, darling. Just didn’t make a good boyfriend,” she gave voice to a wisdom that echoes through the corridors of love and loss — the eternal truth that admiration is not the same as compatibility, and that talent, charm, and affection do not always forge the bonds of enduring union. Her tone is neither bitter nor cruel; it is that of one who has lived, who has loved deeply, and who has emerged with the clarity of experience. It is the wisdom of the heart seasoned by time: to see beauty without needing to possess it, and to release without hatred.

The ancients would have recognized her insight as the mark of emotional maturity, the balance between passion and discernment. For even in the days of myth, heroes and lovers learned — often through pain — that greatness in one realm does not guarantee virtue in another. Achilles was a warrior of divine skill, yet his heart burned with wrath that destroyed friend and foe alike. So too in the realm of love: one may sing like an angel, paint like a god, or make the world laugh, and still fail to keep the fragile peace of companionship. Buell’s words, wrapped in gentleness, remind us that one may be extraordinary and flawed, brilliant and yet unsuited — and that to love such a person and let them go without resentment is one of life’s quiet victories.

It is easy to hate those who have disappointed us. It is far harder — and nobler — to recognize their worth while acknowledging their failings. “I don’t hate him,” she says — and in that simple refusal lies a power greater than revenge. The world is filled with those who turn love’s end into bitterness, who salt the earth of their past so that nothing tender may grow again. But Buell chooses a higher path: she honors what was good and releases what was not. This is not weakness, but wisdom — for hatred binds us to what we wish to escape, while forgiveness frees both souls to continue their journey.

Consider the story of Antony and Cleopatra, whose love burned bright as the sun and perished in the same fire. They were magnificent together — rulers of men, poets of passion — yet their union could not withstand the weight of ambition and destiny. Their downfall was not born of malice, but of mismatch. Cleopatra was a queen of vision and cunning; Antony, a soldier of impulse and heart. Each loved the other’s brilliance, but neither could bear its cost. And when all was lost, Cleopatra spoke not in hatred, but in reverence for what had been: “Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me.” So too does Buell’s sentiment carry that same bittersweet grace — an understanding that not all love is meant to last, and not all endings must wound.

In her words lies a mirror for our own relationships. Many of us, like her, are drawn to the radiant, the gifted, the larger-than-life — those who dazzle us with laughter, with artistry, with spirit. Yet it is often such souls who cannot walk the slow path of ordinary affection. To love them is to touch the sun — glorious, but fleeting. The wise heart, therefore, learns to cherish the warmth without cursing the burn. It learns to say, as Buell did, “I do not hate.” For hate is a chain, and love — even when ended — should leave us lighter, not heavier.

Let her lesson, then, be this: honor the beauty that passes through your life, even when it cannot stay. Do not twist memory into bitterness, nor rewrite joy into regret. It is enough to have loved and to have seen the divine spark in another, even if that light was not meant to illuminate your path forever. To say “he was incredible, funny, darling” even in parting is to keep the heart whole.

And so, O listener, when love falters — as it sometimes must — remember the grace of Bebe Buell’s wisdom. Admire without idealizing, forgive without forgetting, and let your heart remain open to the next dawn. For to love is to risk pain, but to love without hate is to transcend it. Therein lies the strength of the human spirit — to walk away, not hardened, but radiant with understanding, carrying the memory of affection as a lantern rather than a wound.