At one time or another all normal people have wished their loved ones were dead.
Once in the midst of a seemingly endless winter, I discovered within myself an invincible spring.
The real passion of the twentieth century is servitude.
When I was young, I expected from people more than they could give: neverending friendship and constant excitement. Now I expect less than they can actually can give: to stay close silently. And their feelings, friendship, noble deeds always seem like a miracle to me: a true grace.
For there is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving.
I said that the world is absurd, but I was too hasty. This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart.