At this signal, I would stop moving, I would lean forward, I was the runner getting set, the little birdy about to spring from the camera. We would remain for a few moments face to face, a pretty chinaware group; then I would dash forward, laden with fruit and flowers, with my grandfather's happiness, I would go hurtling against his knees, pretending to be out of breath. He would lift me from the ground, raise me to the skies, at arm's length, bring me down upon his heart, murmuring: "My precious!" That was the second figure, which the passers-by could not fail to notice. We would put on a full act with a hundred varied sketches: the flirtation, the quickly dispelled misunderstandings, the good-humored teasing and pretty scolding, the lover's chagrin, the tender pretense of mystery, and the passion; we would imagine our love being thwarted so as to have the joy of triumphing in the end, I was at times imperious, but caprices could not mask my exquisite sensibility. He would display the sublime, artless vanity that befits grandfathers, the blindness, the guilty weaknesses recommended by Hugo. If I had been put on bread and water, he would have brought me jam; but the two terrorized women took care not to put me on such a diet. And besides, I was a good child: I found my role so becoming that I did not step out of it. Actually, my father's early retirement had left me with a most incomplete "Oedipus complex." No Superego, granted. But no aggressiveness either. My mother was mine; no one challenged my peaceful possession of her. I knew nothing of violence and hatred; I was spared the hard apprenticeship of jealousy. Not having been bruised by its sharp angles, I knew reality only by its bright unsubstantially. Against whom, against what, would I have rebelled? Never had someone else's whim claimed to be my law.
—Jean-Paul Sartre, Les Mots, p. 25