To abandon oneself to principles is really to die - and to die for an impossible love which is the contrary of love.

If nothing had any meaning, you would be right. But there is something that still has a meaning.

The act of love . . . is a confession. Selfishness screams aloud, vanity shows off, or else true generosity reveals itself.

One recognizes one's course by discovering the paths that stray from it.

Note, besides, that it is no more immoral to directly rob citizens than to slip indirect taxes into the price of goods that they cannot do without.

I had only a little time left and I didn't want to waste it on God.

If I convince myself that this life has no other aspect than that of the absurd, if I feel that its whole equilibrium depends on that perpetual opposition between my conscious revolt and the darkness in which it struggles, if I admit that my freedom has no meaning except in relation to its limited fate, then I must say that what counts is not the best living but the most living.