The comradeship that welded our lives together made a superfluous mockery of any other bond we might have forged for ourselves.What, for instance, was the point of living under the same roof when the...
One always has to wait until the sugar melts, the memory dies, the wound scars over, the sun sets, the unhappiness lifts and fades away.
I tried to love you less.I couldn't.
Let women be provided with living strength of their own.
Living by proxy is always a precarious expedient.
ژنێکی ئازاد
One can never know oneself but only narrate oneself
The day had been spent in the expectation of these hours, and now they were crumbling away, becoming, in their turn, another period of expectancy...It was a journey without end, leading to an indefini...
One is not born, but rather becomes a woman.
If I were the earth it would disgust me, all this vermin on my back, I’d shake it off.
Enforced maternity brings into the world wretched infants, whom their parents will be unable to support and who will become the victims of public care or ‘child martyrs’. It must be pointed out that o...
I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself
The body is not a thing, it is a situation: it is our grasp on the world and our sketch of our project
Masculine desire is as much an offence as it is a compliment; in so far as she feels herself responsible for her charm, or feels she is exerting it of her own accord, she is much pleased with her conq...
To be oneself, simply oneself, is so amazing and utterly unique an experience that it's hard to convince oneself so singular a thing happens to everybody.
The body is the instrument of our hold on the world.
She would never change, but one day at the touch of a fingertip she would fall to dust.
Man may reproach women for their dissimulation, but his complacency must be great indeed for him to be so constantly duped.
I could see no reason for being sad. It´s just that it makes me unhappy not to feel happy.
(About Sartre...)His death does not separate us. My death will not bring us together again. That is how things are. It is in itself splendid that we were able to live our lives in harmony for so long.