No, there is no way of defending oneself against them, no way of resisting them - they are too over-powering. There would of course be one way for me, a heroic, desperate way, the one used by people who know that they have nothing more to lose. That would be, to let myself go completely, to give up everything, release all my brakes, and shout at them that I am no fool, either, that I see through their cowardly little game... cowardly and cruel... I don't earn my living, I don't, and I feel uncomfortable about it, which they well know... incapable of getting rid of them, or of escaping... caught in their toils, cornered, ill, and they take advantage of that fact... I'm ill, I'd shout that at her, I can't live in an unheated studio and you know that perfectly well, I can't sit up all night... That's why I'm stagnating here, listening to your stupid twaddle, taking part in your dubious amusements, people amuse themselves as best they can, don't they? You know where my weak spot is and you hit me there, in order to humiliate and annihilate me - you always do it - that picks you up for a while, gives you confidence, excites you...
But I shall never dare. Nobody ever dares to do such a thing. They know that, and can therefore rest easy. They don't run the slightest risk. If ever some madman, in a moment of fury, should dare, out of a blue sky, to indulge in such an indecent outburst as that, we know very well what would happen to him. He would see them suddenly leave, withdraw, as they know how to do, far away, at immense distances, setting between them and him all their sad amazement, their incomprehension, their innocence, their unawareness; he would be alone, abandoned by everybody, in a desert, with no other partner, no other adversary, than himself; scratching, biting, embracing nobody but himself, turning in circles round himself, a stupid dog that bites its own tail, a ludicrous dervish.
[Martereau, Sarraute, N.]
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