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.
If we have anything kind to say, any tender sentiment to express, we feel a sense of shame.
Everyone has, inside himself ... what shall I call it? A piece of good news! Everyone is ... a very great, very important character.
When I say "I," I mean a thing absolutely unique, not to be confused with any other.
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.
To believe in God is to know that all the rules will be fair, and that there will be wonderful surprises.
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.
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.
'Mad' is a term we use to describe a man who is obsessed with one idea and nothing else.
Nature is honest, we aren't; we embalm our dead.
Every tiny part of us cries out against the idea of dying, and hopes to live forever.
Nobody is bound by any obligation unless it has first been freely accepted.
Behind everything we feel, there is always a sense of fear.
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?
It's perfectly obvious that somebody's responsible and somebody's innocent. Otherwise it [justice] makes no sense at all.
I think the family is the place where the most ridiculous and least respectable things in the world go on.
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.
Each of us is the only person who can give the other what each of us wants to have: Peace.
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.
Sisterly love is, of all sentiments, the most abstract. Nature does not grant it any functions.
At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.
We cannot bear to regard ourselves simply as playthings of blind chance, we cannot admit to feeling ourselves abandoned.
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