Weary of Masks

I find myself weary of the wooden caricatures of the "good" person. Discomfited by the smooth, sugary sweet masks of the certainly saved. Horrified to watch the rich, complex dimensions of suffering's awkward confrontation with love neutered into a flat, uniform social orthodoxy of polite nods and compliant disclaimers.
Where is the passion, the vitality, the tension, the paradox, the ambiguity, coarse, messy life?