“There is sadness for the dying selves that must be killed for the sake of the new ones.”
— Anaïs Nin
“The labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery which insulted my desolate state and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus