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.
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.
Everyone has, inside himself ... what shall I call it? A piece of good news! Everyone is ... a very great, very important character.
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.
Every tiny part of us cries out against the idea of dying, and hopes to live forever.
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.
A long association-prolonged human contact, when a man and woman live together-this ends up producing a sort of rot, a poison.
A vague uneasiness: the police. It's like when you suddenly understand you have to undress in front of the doctor.
This free will business is a bit terrifying anyway. It's almost pleasanter to obey, and make the most of it.
The spontaneity of slaps is sincerity, whereas the ceremonial of caresses is largely convention.
Memories are like stones, time and distance erode them like acid.
We play make believe, pretend to take ourselves and each other seriously--to love each other, hate each other--but then--it isn't true. It isn't true, we don't care at all!
Justice! Custodian of the world! But since the world errs, justice must be custodian of the world's errors.
It so difficult to know what the people we love really need.
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.
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