Le Malade imaginaire

We'd go to bed forever, we'd say we were sick.
We'd be like a lost child, an old child made small again.
Never again would we go out. What do we care about the world? We'd stay in bed, warm, in the softness of the sheets, we'd no longer be obliged to do anything, we could shirk our duties, nothing would oblige us, we'd have all the rights. We'd be cuddled, we could cry over ourselves again, we'd never be responsible again, we'd be more of a child than our own children, we could even get rid of them, put them in a convent or sell them for anatomical tests at the Faculty of Science - we'd be able to play silly games, be little by little like an idiot baby, be the desperate child of our own wife, be the lost younger of a serious older brother, have demands, have whims. (...)

Jean-Luc Lagarce