All systems of morality are based on the idea that an action has consequences that legitimize or cancel it. A mind imbued with the absurd merely judges that those consequences must be considered calmly.

Existence is illusory and it is eternal.

The work of art is born of the intelligence's refusal to reason the concrete. It marks the triumph of the carnal.

There is no frontier between being and appearing.

Just as all thought, and primarily that of non-signification, signifies something, so there is no art that has no signification.

Thus, in a middle course between these heights and depths, they drifted through life rather than lived, the prey of aimless days and sterile memories, like wandering shadows that could have acquired substance only by consenting to root themselves in the solid earth of their distress.

But what does it mean, the plague? It's life, that's all.