A long association-prolonged human contact, when a man and woman live together-this ends up producing a sort of rot, a poison.

We know well enough when we're being unjust and despicable. but we don't restrain ourselves because we experience a certain pleasure, a primitive sort of satisfaction in moments like that.

Who cares about great marks left behind? We have one life... just one. Our life. We have nothing else.

If we have anything kind to say, any tender sentiment to express, we feel a sense of shame.

Every tiny part of us cries out against the idea of dying, and hopes to live forever.

I think the family is the place where the most ridiculous and least respectable things in the world go on.

Nature is honest, we aren't; we embalm our dead.