Not all people are created equal.

from The Immoralist by André Gide page 182 fiction ~3 min read

Although she depended on me for all the arrangements, these perpetual and hurried moves tired her; but what tired her still more (I do not hesitate now to acknowledge it) was the fear of what was in my mind.

"I understand," she said to me one day, "I quite understand your doctrine — for now it has become a doctrine. A fine one perhaps," and then she added sadly, dropping her voice, "but it does away with the weak."

"And so it should!" was the answer that burst from me in spite of myself.

In my heart then, I felt the sensitive creature shiver and shrivel up at the shock of my dreadful words... Oh, perhaps you will think I did not love Marceline. I swear I loved her passionately. She had never been —I had never thought her —so beautiful. Illness had refined— etherealized her features. I hardly ever left her, surrounded her with every care, watched over her every moment of the night an day. If she slept lightly, I trained myself to sleep more lightly still; I watched her as she fell asleep and I was the first to wake. When sometimes I left her for an hour to take a solitary walk in the country or streets, a kind of loving anxiety, a fear of her feeling the time long, made me hurry back to her; and sometimes I rebelled against this obsession, called upon my will to help me against it, said to myself, "Are you worth no more than this, you make-believe great man?" And I forced myself to prolong my absence; but then I would come in, my arms laden with flowers, early garden flowers, or hothouse blooms... Yes, I say; I cared for her tenderly. But how can I express this —that in proportion as I respected myself less, I revered her more? And who shall say how many passions and how many hostile thoughts may live together in the mind of man? ...

The bad weather had long since ceased; the season was advancing; and suddenly the almond trees were in bloom. The day was the first of March. I went down in the morning to the Piazza di Spagna. The peasants had stripped the Campagna of its white branches, and the flower-sellers' baskets were full of almond blossom. I was so enchanted that I bought a whole grove of it. Three men carried it for me. I went home with all this flowering spring. The branches caught in the doorways and petals snowed upon the carpet. I put the blossoms everywhere, filled all the vases, and while Marceline was absent from the drawing-room for a moment, made it a bower of whiteness. I was already picturing her delight, when I heard her step ...! She opened the door. Oh, what was wrong with her? ... She tottered... She burst out sobbing.

"What is it, my poor Marceline?" ...

, I ran up to her, showered the tenderest caresses upon her. Then as if to excuse her tears:

'The flowers smell too strong,' she said...

And it was a faint, faint, exquisite scent of honey.

... Without a word, I seized the innocent fragile branches, broke them to pieces, carried them out of the room and flung them away, my temples throbbing with exasperation, my nerves ajar. Oh, if she finds this little bit of spring too much for her! ...

I have often thought over those tears of hers and I believe now that she already felt herself condemned and was crying for the loss of other springs.

... I think too that there are strong joys for the strong and weak joys for the weak who would be hurt by strong joys. She was sated by the merest trifle of pleasure; one shade brighter and it was more than she could bear. What she called happiness, I called rest, and I was unwilling, unable to rest.

—André Gide, The Immoralist, p. 182