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“She left me the way people leave a hotel room. A hotel room is a place to be when you are doing something else. Of itself it is of no consequence to one's major scheme. A hotel room is convenient. But its convenience is limited to the time you need it while you are in that particular town on that particular business; you hope it is comfortable, but prefer, rather, that it be anonymous. It is not, after all, where you live.

When you no longer need it, you pay a little something for its use; say 'thank you sir,' and when your business in that town is over, you go away from that room. Does anybody regret leaving a hotel room? Does anybody who has a home, a real home somewhere , want to stay there? Does anybody look back with affection of even disgust, at a hotel room when they leave it? You can only love or despise whatever living was done in that room. But the room itself? But you take a souvenir. Not, oh, not to remember the room. To remember, rather, the time and place of your business, your adventure. What can anyone feel for a hotel room? One doesn't any more feel for a hotel room than one expects a hotel room to feel for its occupant.”
― Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye

“You looked at them and wondered why they were so
ugly; you looked closely and could not find the source. Then
you realized that it came from conviction, their conviction. It
was as though some mysterious all-knowing master had
given each one a cloak of ugliness to wear, and they had each
accepted it without question. The master had said, “You are
ugly people.� They had looked about themselves and saw
nothing to contradict the statement; saw, in fact, support for
it leaning at them from every billboard, every movie, every
glance. “Yes,� they had said. “You are right.� And they took
the ugliness in their hands, threw it as a mantle over them,
and went about the world with it.”
― Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye