There’s so much wickedness in the world,” she said. “So what can you expect?
All healthy men have thought of their own suicide, it can be seen, without further explanation, that there is a direct connection between this feeling and the longing for death.
I’m waiting for you, I’m waiting for the evening calm, I’m waiting for our time, the oblique light, this pause between day and night. Peace will come, surely. But I can imagine no other peace than that of our two bodies bound together, of our gaze given over to each other – I have no other homeland but you.
In solitude and when fatigued, one is after all inclined to take oneself for a prophet.
We must take revenge for having to die alone.
There is not a single true work of art that has not in the end added to the inner freedom of each person who has known and loved it. Yes, that is the freedom I am extolling, and it is what helps me through life.
Don’t think I’m saying that money makes happiness. I only mean that for a certain class of beings happiness is possible, provided they have time, and that having money is a way of being free of money.
Tyrants know that a work of art possesses a liberating strength.
There is so much stubborn hope in the human heart. The most destitute men often end up by accepting illusion.
The surest of stubborn silences is not to hold one’s tongue but to talk.
The sun shattered into little pieces on the sand and water.
It may seem a ridiculous idea, but the only way to fight the plague is with decency.
The body’s judgment is as good as the mind’s, and the body shrinks from annihilation.
As for me, I didn’t want anybody’s help, and I just didn’t have the time to interest myself in what didn’t interest me.
But, looking into it, one saw that people who tried to escape at this time were prompted by quite understandable motives. Some of them plague had imbued with a skepticism so thorough that it was now a second nature; they had become allergic to hope in any form. Thus even when the plague had run its course, they went on living by its standards. They were, in short, behind the times.
Being aware of one’s life, one’s revolt, one’s freedom, and to the maximum, is living, and to the maximum.
Thus the absurd man realizes that he was not really free.
There are those who are made for living and those who are made for loving.
All thought is anthropomorphic.
Everything contributes to spreading confusion.