Proof is never definitive, after all; one has to begin again with each new person.

We continue to shape our personality all our life. If we knew ourselves perfectly, we should die.

The more I produce, the less I am certain. On the road along which the artist walks, night falls ever more densely. Finally, he dies blind.

After all manner of professors have done their best for us, the place we are to get knowledge is in books. The true university of these days is a collection of books.

Camus himself described this work as 'an attempt to understand the time I live in'.

I may not have been sure about what really did interest me, but I was absolutely sure about what didn't.

That is love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return.3