Why kid ourselves, people have nothing to say to one another, they all talk about their own troubles and nothing else. Each man for himself, the earth for us all. They try to unload their unhappiness on someone else when making love, they do their damnedest, but it doesn't work, they keep it all, and then they start all over again, trying to find a place for it. 'You're pretty, Mademoiselle,' they say. And life takes hold of them again until the next time, and then they try the same little gimmick. 'You're very pretty, Mademoiselle...'
Journey to the End of the Night by Louis-Ferdinand Céline