I read fragments of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex in my twenties. I didn’t like her writings at the time.

In my thirties I read A Very Easy Death. I didn’t like it either.

Now, in my late forties, I read The Woman Destroyed, three novellas.

“Never a plan, never a wish,” says the unnamed woman in “The Age of Discretion,” a successful sixty-year-old writer, whose rigid views isolate her from her loved ones.

„I’m sick of it I’m sick of it sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick.” Murielle’s rage fills “The Monologue” as she blames the world for her daughter’s suicide.

And then there are Monique’s final words in “The Woman Destroyed”:

“I am afraid. And I cannot call anyone for help.

I am afraid.”

I no longer care whether I like Beauvoir’s work or not.

I understand now.