This bronze. Yes, now’s the moment; I’m looking at this thing on the mantelpiece, and I understand that I’m in Hell. I tell you, everything’s been thought out beforehand. They knew I’d stand at the fireplace, stroking this thing of bronze, with all those eyes intent on me. Devouring me. What? Only two of you? I thought there were more; many more. So this is Hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the “burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is other people!
No Exit, Joseph Garcin