Long Day's Journey Into Night
I'm not blaming you, dear. How can you help it? How can any one of us forget? That's what makes it so hard – for all of us. We can't forget. (1.1.228)
Because he's always sneering at someone else, always looking for the worst weakness in everyone.
Then, with a strange, abrupt change to a detached, impersonal tone.
But I suppose life has made him like that, and he can't help it. None of us can help the things life has done to us. They're done before you realize it, and once they're done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you'd like to be, and you've lost your true self forever. (2.1.76)
Scornfully parodying his brother's cynicism.
They never come back! Everything's in the bag! It's all a frame-up! We're all fall guys and suckers and we can't beat the game!
Christ, if I felt the way you do--!
Stung for a moment – then shrugging his shoulders, dryly.
I thought you did. Your poetry isn't very cheery. Nor the stuff you read and claim you admire.
He indicates the small bookcase at rear.
Your pet with the unpronounceable name, for example.
Nietzsche. You don't know what you're talking about. You haven't read him.
Enough to know it's a lot of bunk!
Shut up, both of you! There's little choice between the philosophy you learned from Broadway loafers, and the one Edmund got from his books. They're both rotten to the core. (2.2.28-32)