Few tasks are more like the torture of Sisyphus than housework, with its endless repetition: the clean becomes soiled, the soiled is made clean, over and over, day after day. The housewife wears herself out marking time: she makes nothing, simply perpetuates the present … Eating, sleeping, cleaning – the years no longer rise up towards heaven, they lie spread out ahead, grey and identical. The battle against dust and dirt is never won.

Living by proxy is always a precarious expedient.

She was not to look beyond herself for the meaning of her life.

I think it's wrong to write in a totally esoteric language when you want to talk about things which interest a multitude of women.

What is an adult? A child blown up by age.

The most sympathetic of men never fully comprehend woman's concrete situation.

Given masculine norms, it is clear that women are more likely to be considered crazy - I'm not saying to be crazy.