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But he had spotted her from the window, seen her
striding swiftly holding hands with their son, and said to himself: she’s savoring a moment of joy — alone. He had felt frustrated because for a while now he hadn't been able to live unless with her. And she still managed to savor her moments — alone.

They lived so peacefully that, if they brushed
up against a moment of joy, they'd exchange rapid,
almost ironic, glances, and both would say with their eyes: let’s not waste it, let’s not use it up frivolously. As if they'd been alive forever.

What if his wife was fleeing with their son from that living room with its well-adjusted light, from the tasteful furniture, the curtains and the paintings? That was what he’d given her. An engineer’s apartment.

And things had worked out in such a way that
painful love seemed like happiness to her —strength flowed back and forth through her heart in weighty abundance. She was very pretty just then, so elegant; in step with her time and the city where she'd been born as if she had chosen it. In her cross-eyed look anyone could sense the enjoyment this woman took in the things of the world.

‘Whoever marries off a son loses a son, whoever marries off a daughter gains a son,’ her mother had added.

Ah! it was easier to be a saint than a person!

She would have to kiss the leper, since she would never be just his sister.

She loved the world, loved what had been created — she loved with nausea.

The world seemed to be hers, dirty, perishable, hers.

The Garden was so pretty that she was afraid of Hell.

The cruelty of the world was tranquil. The murder was deep. And death was not what we thought.
While imaginary — it was a world to sink one’s
teeth into, a world of voluminous dahlias and tulips.

She had pacified life so well, taken such care for it
not to explode… And a blind man chewing gum was shattering it all to pieces. And through this compassion there appeared to Ana a life full of sweet nausea, rising to her mouth.

Through winding paths, she had fallen into a woman’s fate, with the surprise of fitting into it as if she had invented it. The man she’d married was a real man, the children she’d had were real children. Her former youth seemed as strange to her as one of life’s illnesses. She had gradually emerged from it to discover that one could also live without happiness

Her brief conversation with the electric bill collector was growing, the water in the laundry sink was growing, her children were growing, the table with food was growing, her husband coming home with the newspapers and smiling with hunger, the tiresome singing of the maids in the building. Ana gave to everything, tranquilly, her small, strong hand, her stream of life.

The moon. How well you could see it. The high, yellow moon gliding across the sky, poor little thing. Gliding, gliding ... Up high, up high. The moon.

Oh what’s got into me! she thought desperately. Had she eaten too much? oh what’s got into me, my goodness!
It was sadness.

She lay still in bed, peaceful, improvised. She loved… In advance she loved the man she’d one day love.

“From their collective force Humanity gains much in material prosperity.  But it is only the material result that it gains, and the man who is poor is in himself absolutely of no importance.  He is merely the infinitesimal atom of a force that, so far from regarding him, crushes him: indeed, prefers him crushed, as in that case he is far more obedient.”

'Why did I ever get in this silly Hole?' he said. 'Why did I ever?'

He sat on the stile, and looked with eyes that seemed blurred with impalpable flaws at a world in which even the spring buds were wilted, the sunlight metallic, and the shadows mixed with blue-black ink.

To the moralist I know he might have served as a figure of sinful discontent, but that is because it is the habit of moralists to ignore

“Socialism itself will be of value simply because it will lead to Individualism.”

“It is much more easy to have sympathy with suffering than it is to have sympathy with thought.”

“The chief advantage that would result from the establishment of Socialism is, undoubtedly, the fact that Socialism would relieve us from that sordid necessity of living for others which, in the present condition of things, presses so hardly upon almost everybody.  In fact, scarcely anyone at all escapes.”

In no one is the desire to be loved so constant as in you; in no one is evil so attractive; in no one's glance is there such a promise of bliss; nobody knows better than you how to use his advantages, and no one else can be so genuinely unhappy as you, because nobody tries as hard as you to convince himself of the contrary.

When I think of imminent and possible death, I think only of myself;

Some think of me worse, others better, than I really am. Some will say: he was a good fellow; others: he was a scoundrel. And both will be wrong. Is it worth the trouble to live after this? And yet you go on living—out of curiosity, in expectation of something
new. . . . How ludicrous and how vexatious!

My love has never made anyone happy, for I have never sacrificed anything for those I loved; I have loved only for myself, for my own pleasure; I have striven only to satisfy a strange craving of the heart, greedily absorbing their emotions, their tenderness, their joys and sufferings—and have never been sated.

No matter how passionately I might love a woman it is farewell to love if she as much as hints at my marrying her. My heart turns to stone, and nothing can warm it again. I would make any sacrifice but this; twenty times I can stake my life, even my honour, but my freedom I shall never sell.

All the way home she talked and laughed incessantly. But she was merely suffering a fit of nerves and would spend a sleepless night weeping. The very thought gives me infinite pleasure; there are moments when I understand the Vampire. . . . And yet I have the reputation of being a good fellow and try to live up to it!

Women should wish all men to know them as well as I do, for I have loved them a hundred times more since I overcame my fear of them and discovered their petty frailties.

She looked at him gently. 'Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well—you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me. But the moment is gone—it was I who let it go. And one must go on living. Goodbye.'