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

Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself.

The more I produce, the less I am certain. On the road along which the artist walks, night falls ever more densely. Finally, he dies blind.

Without work, all life goes rotten. But when work is soulless, life stifles and dies.

To know oneself, one should assert oneself.