In truth, I was so good at being a man, with such plenitude and simplicity, that I thought I was something of a superman.

In Oran, as elsewhere, for want of time and thought, people have to love one another without knowing it.

There exists an obvious fact that seems utterly moral: namely, that a man is always prey to his truths. Once he has admitted them, he cannot free himself from them. One has to pay something. A man who has become conscious of the absurd is forever bound to it.

I do not want to believe that death is the gateway to another life. For me, it is a closed door. I do not say it is a step we must all take, but that it is a horrible and dirty adventure.

There are always reasons for murdering a man. But there is no justification for his existence.

Love cannot accept what it is. Everywhere on earth it cries out against kindness, compassion, intelligence, everything that leads to compromise. Love demands the impossible, the absolute, the sky on fire, inexhaustible springtime, life after death, and death itself transfigured into eternal life.

It is better to burn than to disappear.