The act of love . . . is a confession. Selfishness screams aloud, vanity shows off, or else true generosity reveals itself.

Camus himself described this work as 'an attempt to understand the time I live in'.

Betrayal answers betrayal, the mask of love is answered by the disappearance of love.

We all carry within us places of exile, our crimes, our ravages. Our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to transform them in ourselves and others.

True debauchery is liberating because it creates no obligations. In it you possess only yourself, hence it remains the favorite pastime of the great lovers of their own person.

Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?

This world, such as it is, is not tolerable. Therefore I need the moon, or happiness, or immortality, I need something which is perhaps demented, but which is not of this world.