A novel is never anything but a philosophy expressed in images. And in a good novel the philosophy has disappeared into the images.

Nature is a burning and frigid, transparent and limited universe in which nothing is possible but everything is given.

Children will still die unjustly even in a perfect society. Even by his greatest effort, man can only propose to diminish, arithmetically, the sufferings of the world.

Absurd- that is the light mind that establishes its own borders.

The end of their passion consists of loving uselessly at the moment when it is pointless.

Sometimes, carrying on, just carrying on, is the superhuman achievement.

What did it matter if he existed for two or for twenty years? Happiness was the fact that he had existed.