CLYTEMNESTRA: You hate me, my child, but what disturbs me more is your likeness to me, as I was once. I used to have those clean-cut features, that fever in the blood, those smoldering eyes—and nothing good came of them.
ELECTRA: No! Don’t say I’m like you! Tell me, Philebus—you can see us side by side—am I really like her?
ORESTES: How can I tell? Her face is like a pleasant garden that hail and storms have ravaged. And upon yours I see a threat of storm; one day passion will sear it to the bone.
Jean-Paul Sartre, The Flies
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