There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.

The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly. He is solitary, languid, his condition exhausts him. If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action.

The realization that life is absurd and cannot be an end, but only a beginning. This is a truth nearly all great minds have taken as their starting point. It is not this discovery that is interesting, but theconsequences and rules of action drawn from it.

I am alive again, now that I can no longer stand to live.

No code of ethics and no effort are justifiable a priori in the face of the cruel mathematics that command our condition.

Happiness implied a choice, and within that choice a concerted will, a lucid desire.

To lose the touch of flowers and women's hands is the supreme separation.