At one time or another all normal people have wished their loved ones were dead.

What is a firm hand to me, of what use to me is this astonishing power if I cannot change the order of things, if I cannot make the sun set in the east, that suffering diminish and that beings no longer die?

Sometimes, carrying on, just carrying on, is the superhuman achievement.

A man who has become conscious of the absurd is for ever bound to it.

Freedom is the right to never have to lie.

As for those whose role it is to love us - I mean, relatives and in-laws (what a word)- It's a different tune. They find the right word, but it's usually the one that wounds.

Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.