"

“Not particularily, but—” And she went on with a piteous air: “I was thinking of the child. It was Gomez who wanted it done, you know. And when he wanted anything in those days—But it was horrible, I would never—if he went down on his knees to me now, I would never have it done again.” She looked at Mathieu with agonized eyes.

“They gave me a little parcel after the operation, and they said to me: ‘You can throw that down a drain.’ Down a drain! Like a dead rat! Mathieu,” she said, gripping his arm, “you don’t realize what you’re going to do.”

“And when you bring a child into the world, do you realize what you’re going to do?” asked Mathieu wrathfully.

A child: another conciousness, a little center-point of light that would flutter round and round, dashing against the walls, and never be able to escape.

"

"We have no power to prevent ourselves being born: but we can rectify this error—for it is sometimes an error. When one does away with oneself one does the most estimable thing possible: one thereby almost deserves to live."

"

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

"

"…I asked my old man a question: ‘Dad, is there any purpose in life?’ You see what I was getting at, don’t you, what I really meant? Father, can you give me one single reason why you go on living? Wouldn’t it be better just to fade away as quickly as possible? But a first-class insinuation never reaches a man like that. He just looked surprised and his eyes bugged and he stared at me. I hate that kind of ridiculous adult surprise. And when he finally answered, what do you think he said? ‘Son, nobody is going to provide you with a purpose in life; you’ve got to make one for yourself.’ “How’s that for a stupid, hackneyed moral! He just presses a button and out came one of the things fathers are supposed to say. And did you ever look at a father’s eyes at a time like that? They’re suspicious of anything creative, anxious to whittle the world down into something puny they can handle. A father is a reality-concealing machine, a machine for dishing up lies to kids, and that isn’t even the worst of it: secretly he believes that he represents reality."