My chief occupation, despite appearances, has always been love.

I rebel; therefore I exist.

What, then, is that incalculable feeling that deprives the mind of the sleep necessary to life? A world that can be explained even with bad reasons is a familiar world. But, on the other hand, in a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity.

On my way out I was even going to shake his hand, but I remembered just in time that I'd killed a man.

Integrity has no need of rules.

Still, obviously, one can't be sensible all the time.

I can feel this heart inside me and I conclude it exists. I can touch this world and I also conclude that it exists. All my knowledge ends at this point. The rest is hypothesis.