That lively and shrewd but cold woman thought straight but in- accurately, because her husband thought accurately but amiss. Because he was credulous and a liar, she doubted everything: "They claim the earth goes round. What do they know about it?" Surrounded by virtuous play-actors, she conceived an aversion for play-acting and virtue. That subtle realist who had strayed into a family of coarse spiritualists became Voltairian out of defiance, without having read Voltaire. Dainty and pudgy, cynical, sprightly, she became a pure negation. With a raising of eyebrows, with an imperceptible smile, she reduced all the grand attitudes to dust, purely for her own sake, without anyone's realizing it. Her negative pride and self-centered rejection consumed her. She saw nobody, being too proud to court favor for first place and too vain to be content with second. "Know how to make people want you," she would say. She was wanted a great deal, then less and less, and, not seeing her, people finally forgot about her. She now almost never got up from her chair or bed.
—Jean-Paul Sartre, Les Mots, p. 11