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.
Everyone has, inside himself ... what shall I call it? A piece of good news! Everyone is ... a very great, very important character.
If we have anything kind to say, any tender sentiment to express, we feel a sense of shame.
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.
To believe in God is to know that all the rules will be fair, and that there will be wonderful surprises.
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 I say "I," I mean a thing absolutely unique, not to be confused with any other.
When you want to believe in something, you also have to believe in everything that's necessary for believing in it.
Murderers, in general, are people who are consistent, people who are obsessed with one idea and nothing else.
There is no forgiveness in nature.
Every tiny part of us cries out against the idea of dying, and hopes to live forever.
Behind everything we feel, there is always a sense of fear.
Nobody is bound by any obligation unless it has first been freely accepted.
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.
I think the family is the place where the most ridiculous and least respectable things in the world go on.
Sisterly love is, of all sentiments, the most abstract. Nature does not grant it any functions.
The first temptation, upon meeting an old friend after many years, is always to - look the other way.
At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.
We know well enough when we're being unjust and despicable. but we don't restrain ourselves because we experience a certain pleasure, a primitive sort of satisfaction in moments like that.
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.
We cannot bear to regard ourselves simply as playthings of blind chance, we cannot admit to feeling ourselves abandoned.
Each of us is the only person who can give the other what each of us wants to have: Peace.
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