Who cares about great marks left behind? We have one life... just one. Our life. We have nothing else.
There is always a certain peace in being what one is, in being that completely.
At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist.
To believe in God is to know that all the rules will be fair, and that there will be wonderful surprises.
Everyone has, inside himself ... what shall I call it? A piece of good news! Everyone is ... a very great, very important character.
All of us are mad. If it weren't for the fact that every one of us is slightly abnormal, there wouldn't be any point in giving each person a separate name.
If we have anything kind to say, any tender sentiment to express, we feel a sense of shame.
When you put a man and a woman together, there are some things they simply have to do. They embrace, they warm each other. All the rest is dead and empty.
When you want to believe in something, you also have to believe in everything that's necessary for believing in it.
When I say "I," I mean a thing absolutely unique, not to be confused with any other.
Every tiny part of us cries out against the idea of dying, and hopes to live forever.
The spontaneity of slaps is sincerity, whereas the ceremonial of caresses is largely convention.
Nobody is bound by any obligation unless it has first been freely accepted.
Murderers, in general, are people who are consistent, people who are obsessed with one idea and nothing else.
There is no forgiveness in nature.
Justice! Custodian of the world! But since the world errs, justice must be custodian of the world's errors.
A vague uneasiness: the police. It's like when you suddenly understand you have to undress in front of the doctor.
It so difficult to know what the people we love really need.
It's perfectly obvious that somebody's responsible and somebody's innocent. Otherwise it [justice] makes no sense at all.
Is not man himself the most unsettled of all the creatures of the earth? What is this trembling sensation that is intensified with each ascending step in the natural order?
Behind everything we feel, there is always a sense of fear.
A long association-prolonged human contact, when a man and woman live together-this ends up producing a sort of rot, a poison.
Nature is honest, we aren't; we embalm our dead.
'Mad' is a term we use to describe a man who is obsessed with one idea and nothing else.
Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.
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