I hadn't understood how days could be both long and short at the same time: long to live through, maybe, but so drawn out that they ended up flowing into one another. They lost their names. Only 'yesterday' and 'tomorrow' still had any meaning for me.

At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman.

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

When love ceases to be tragic it is something else and the individual again throws himself in search of tragedy.

Am well. Thinking of you always. Love

If one could only say just once: 'this is clear', all would be saved

Man is an idea, and a precious small idea once he turns his back on love.