ver left her side:

"You see," he said, glad to have some one to listen to him for the first
time in his life, "what I call human wretchedness is not confined to the
social question, but exists everywhere, everywhere.... Look around you,
in the street. It's raining; and people are walking under dripping
umbrellas. Look at those women in front of us: wet skirts; muddy shoes,
worn at heel, splashing through the puddles: that is human
wretchedness.... Look at that man over there: fat stomach; squinting
eyes; gouty fingers clutching a shabby umbrella-handle: that is human
wretchedness.... Everything that is ugly, squalid, muddy, drab, abnormal
from any one point of view is human wretchedness.... Look at all those
shops, where you buy--or don't buy--trashy manufactured things that have
blood clinging to them, things which you are now pretending that you
need for your house: that is human wretchedness.... It's all ugly; and
the trail of a morbid civilization shows through it all.... Look around
you, at those big, lying letters, those gaudy posters: that is human
wretchedness. One cheats the other; and the whole thing has become such
a matter of system that nobody is really taken in. It's the same with
politics and religion as with a pound of sugar or a box of
throat-lozenges. It is all humbug and all human wretchedness. And it
drags on, piecemeal, through any average human life. It is all squalid,
vulgar, insincere, selfish, ugly and full of human wretchedness. You
think me a pessimist? Far from it. I am an idealist: in my own mind, I
see everything in a rosy light. My power of imagination is so strong
that I see everything white and gold and blue, like the marble statues
of ancient temples, with their blue sky and golden sun. But, when I take
leave of my imagination, then I see that everything is human
wretchedness: wars; politics; the fat stomach of our friend yonder; the
rain; and those pots and pans which you're wanting for your kitchen. All
life, high and low, general and individual, in the masses and in the
classes, is squalid, ugly, insincere and full of human wretchedness.
Look at that creature over there. What a miserable object: she is
knock-kneed; her nose is a yard long; and the reason why she's in this
filthy street is absurd! You think I don't know what I'm talking about,
but I do. You never see anything beautiful except at the theatre, or in
a book, or in a picture or an etching ... or in a great writer taking u