There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurts.

Fancy language, like poplin, too often conceals an eczema.

One dies if necessary, one breaks rather than bending. But I bend, because I continue to love myself.

Somebody has to have the last word. If not, every argument could be opposed by another and we'd never be done with it.

Big tears of frustration and exhaustion were streaming down his cheeks. But because of all the wrinkles, they weren't dripping off. They spread out and ran together again, leaving a watery film over his ruined face.

There are causes worth dying for, but none worth killing for.

The struggle to reach the top is itself enough to fulfill the heart of man. One must believe that Sisyphus is happy.