What, then, is that incalculable feeling that deprives the mind of the sleep necessary to life? A world that can be explained even with bad reasons is a familiar world. But, on the other hand, in a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity.

I have never been able to renounce the light, the pleasure of being, and the freedom in which I grew up.

On my way out I was even going to shake his hand, but I remembered just in time that I'd killed a man.

God is not necessary to create culpability, or to punish. Our fellow men are enough for that, helped by ourselves.

I was absent at the moment I took up the most space.

If, after all, men cannot always make history have a meaning, they can always act so that their own lives have one.

“To think the way you do,” he said smiling, “you have to be a man who lives either on a tremendous despair, or on a tremendous hope.” “On both, perhaps.”