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

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

Were we to undertake an exhaustive self-scrutiny, disgust would paralyze us, we would be doomed to a thankless existence.

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