Once one's up against it, the precise manner of one's death has obviously small importance.

Where there is no hope, it is incumbent on us to invent it.

Beauty, no doubt, does not make revolutions. But a day will come when revolutions will have need of beauty.

Don't lies eventually lead to the truth? And don't all my stories, true or false, tend toward the same conclusion? Don't they all have the same meaning? So what does it matter whether they are true or false if, in both cases, they are significant of what I have been and what I am? Sometimes it is easier to see clearly into the liar than into the man who tells the truth. Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object.

There is a life and there is a death, and there are beauty and melancholy between.

Sometimes, from beyond the skycrapers, the cry of a tugboat finds you in your insomnia, and you remember that this desert of iron and cement is an island.

In Oran, as elsewhere, for want of time and thought, people have to love one another without knowing it.