Ah, mon cher, for anyone who is alone, without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful.
If Nietzsche is correct, that to shame a man is to kill him, then any honest attempt at autobiography will be an act of self-destruction.
Instead of killing and dying in order to produce the being that we are not, we have to live and let live in order to create what we are.
I draw from the Absurd three consequences: my revolt, my liberty, my passion.
There is nothing abstract about pain. It is specific, it is real, and, when it is intense, it is world destroying.
Have you noticed that only death arouses our emotions? How we love thee friends who have just passed away, right? How we admire those master who no longer speak, their mouths full of dirt. We them we are not obligated.
We continue to shape our personality all our life. If we knew ourselves perfectly, we should die.
But when a man has had only four hours' sleep he isn't sentimental. He sees things as they are: that is to say, he sees them in the garish light of justice; hideous, witless justice.
A trial cannot be conducted by announcing the general culpability of a civilization. Only the actual deeds which, at least, stank in the nostrils of the entire world were brought to judgment.
He was expressing his certainty that my appeal would be granted, but I was carrying the burden of a sin from which I had to free myself. According to him, human justice was nothing and divine justice was everything. I pointed out it was the former that had condemned me.
As soon as one does not kill oneself, one must keep silent about life.
I should like to be able to love my country and still love justice.
A work of art is a confession.
Although it was the middle of winter, I finally realized that, within me, summer was inextinguishable.
Knowing what [Christ] knew , knowing all about mankind--ah! who would have thought that the crime is not so much to make others die, but to die oneself--confronted day and night with his innocent crime, it became too difficult to go on. It was better to get it over with, to not defend himself, to die, in order not to be the only one to have survived, and to go elsewhere, where, perhaps, he would be supported.
After another moment's silence she mumbled that I was peculiar, that that was probably why she loved me but that one day I might disgust her for the very same reason.
I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate.
There are plagues, and there are victims, and it's the duty of good men not to join forces with the plagues.
For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving.
What more ghastly image can be called up than that of a man betrayed by his body who, simply because he did not die in time, lives out the comedy while awaiting the end, face to face with that God he does not adore, serving him as he served life, kneeling before a void and arms outstretched toward a heaven without eloquence that he knows to be also without depth?
Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable.
I would like to be able to breathe— to be able to love her by memory or fidelity. But my heart aches. I love you continuously, intensely.
To insure the adoration of a theorem for any length of time, faith is not enough, a police force is needed as well.
We must learn how to lend ourselves to dreaming when dreams lend themselves to us.
Without culture, and the relative freedom it implies, society, even when perfect, is but a jungle. This is why any authentic creation is a gift to the future.
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