Yes, I'm happy, in human terms.

Capital punishment is the most premeditated of murders, to which no criminal's deed, however calculated can be compared. For there to be an equivalency, the death penalty would have to punish a criminal who had warned his victim of the date at which he would inflict a horrible death on him and who, from that moment onward, had confined him at his mercy for months. Such a monster is not encountered in private life.

A novel is never anything but a philosophy expressed in images. And in a good novel the philosophy has disappeared into the images.

At a certain level of suffering or injustice no one can do anything for anyone. Pain is solitary.

The absurd hero's refusal to hope becomes his singular ability to live in the present with passion.

The absurd is lucid reason noting its limits.

Truth is not a virtue, but a passion. It is never charitable.