I got up, slipped my hand under my shirt and drew it out wet with blood. I looked at the blood and began to laugh. I went over to the window and breathed deeply. The air filled my lungs and swelled my chest. The monk was still preaching and the mortal mob silently listened to him. My wife was dead, and her son and my grandchildren; all my friends were dead. I alone lived on, and there were no others like me. My past was buried; there was nothing now to hold me back, netiehr remembrances, nor love, nor duty. I was above all laws, my own master, and I could dispose of puny human lives as I pleased, lives destined only for death. Under the forless sky, I drew myself up erect, felt myself alive and free, knew that I would forever be alone.
The man is immortal and can't die. ↩︎
—Simone de Beauvoir, All Men Are Mortal, p. 100