Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy’s face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldn’t flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on the old, worn face.

I had been right I was still right I was always right. I had lived my life one way and I could just as well lived it another. I had done this and I hadn t done that. I hadn t done this thing and I had done another. And so?

I felt the urge to reassure him that I was like everybody else, just like everybody else.

The struggle to reach the top is itself enough to fulfill the heart of man. One must believe that Sisyphus is happy.

Ce que je sais de la morale, c'est au football que je le dois. (I know of morality, it is football that I owe.)

The most eloquent eulogy of capitalism was made by its greatest enemy. Marx is only anti-capitalist in so far as capitalism is out of date.

There is a life and there is a death, and there are beauty and melancholy between.