Man is the only creature that refuses to be what he is.

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

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

The only real progress lies in learning to be wrong all alone.

I feel like getting married, or committing suicide, or subscribing to L'Illustration. Something desperate, you know.

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.

It is not true that the heart wears out - but the body creates this illusion.