I see many people die because they judge that life is not worth living. I see others paradoxically getting killed for the ideas or illusions that give them a reason for living (what is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying). I therefore conclude that the meaning of life is the most urgent of questions.

In order to exist, man must rebel, but rebellion must respect the limits that it discovers in itself - limits where minds meet, and in meeting, begin to exist.

I have always felt I lived on the high seas, threatened, at the heart of a royal happiness.

In normal times all of us know, whether consciously or not, that there is no love which can't be bettered; nevertheless, we reconcile ourselves more or less easily to the fact that ours has never risen above the average.

I lived with the only continuity, day to day, of the me-me-me.

Only it takes time to be happy. A lot of time. Happiness, too, is a long patience.

Whoever today speaks of human existence in terms of power, efficiency, and historical tasks is an actual or potential assassin.