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Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Primarily, the accusation my mother leveled at me when I was about fourteen, which was that though I was intelligent and capable of interacting with people, I refused to do it and thus limited myself and made myself haughty and unuseful to the rest of my species.

Which continues a common trend for me, of listening to my mother's advice and latching on to a particular phrase for years at a time, only to remind her of it to find she does not recall the incident at all. (This also happened when she said I was the least funny of all her children. She's got knack with sticking the knife in *just* the right joint sometimes.)