The Lying Life of Adults

by Elena Ferrante

nobody, not even the one who at this moment is writing, knows if it contains the right thread for a story or is merely a snarled confusion of suffering, without redemption.

I was ashamed to have been born female, to be destined to be treated like that by a man even if I was well educated, even if I occupied an important position.

If you looked even just for a moment at those who had the privilege of a beautiful, refined face, you discovered that it hid infernos no different from those expressed by coarse, ugly faces. The splendor of a face, enhanced even by kindness, harbored and promised suffering still more than a dull face.