Яша лишь надеялся что это в нём говорит строгий голос его самокритичности, развитый не хуже его таланта.
Just like many other people, Yasha was capable of recognizing the genius in others - the genius of writers, poets, composers, even athletes. That capability made the realization that he will likely never reach that level even more distressing. He was akin to a dog barking at the Moon: the moonlight's ephemeral silver burning the dog's soul gets reflected off of it only in the form of whatever the dog's vocal cords are able to produce. Somewhere inside Yasha, there was a sensitive, responsive, finely tuned entity, filled to the brim with brilliant images, ideas and phrases - but, when it tried to pour them into the daylight, the fat fingers often missed the correct keys on the keyboard.
Yasha's only hope was that he was his own harshest critic and that the standards that he held himself to were higher than even his talent's own stature.