I never could bear the idea of anyone's expecting something from me. It always made me want to do just the opposite.
I think of death only with tranquility, as an end. I refuse to let death hamper life. Death must enter life only to define it.
So this is hell. I'd never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the "burning marl." Old wives' tales! There's no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!
You are -- your life, and nothing else.
Much more likely you’ll hurt me. Still what does it matter? If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.
