The myth of unlimited production brings war in its train as inevitably as clouds announce a storm.

If I convince myself that this life has no other aspect than that of the absurd, if I feel that its whole equilibrium depends on that perpetual opposition between my conscious revolt and the darkness in which it struggles, if I admit that my freedom has no meaning except in relation to its limited fate, then I must say that what counts is not the best living but the most living.

Humans are creatures, who spent their lifes trying to convince themselves, that their existence is not absurd

The act of love is a confession.

My life was lucky so that I met, I loved (and disappointed) only outstanding people.

For who would dare to assert that eternal happiness can compensate for a single moment's human suffering

What really counted was the possibility of escape, a leap to freedom, out of the implacable ritual, a wild run for it that would give whatever chance for hope there was. Of course, hope meant being cut down on some street corner, as you ran like mad, by a random bullet. But when I really thought it through, nothing was going to allow me such a luxury. Everything was against it; I would just be caught up in the machinery again.