The multiplication of our kind borders on the obscene; the duty to love them, on the preposterous.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.

Knowledge subverts love: in proportion as we penetrate our secrets, we come to loathe our kind, precisely because they resemble us.

Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.