In 1949, I believed that social progress, the triumph of the proletariat, socialism would lead to the emancipation of women. But I saw that nothing came of it: first of all, that socialism was not achieved anywhere, and that in certain countries which called themselves socialist, the situation of women was no better than it was in so-called capitalist countries.

My worst mistake has been not grasping that time goes by. It was going by and there I was, set in the attitude of the ideal wife of an ideal husband. Instead of bringing our sexual relationship to life again I brooded happily over memories of our former nights together.

History is a great cemetery: men, deeds, ideas are always dying as soon as they are born.

I take on a shape and an existence only if I first throw myself into the world by loving, by doing.

The emancipation of women must be the work of women themselves, independent of the class struggle.

There is only one solution if old age is not to be an absurd parody of our former life, and that is to go on pursuing ends that give our existence a meaning.

I was very fond of Lagneau’s phrase: “I have no comfort but in my absolute despair.