As far as men go, it is not what they are that interests me, but what they can become.

Being is. Being is in-itself. Being is what it is.

She believed in nothing; only her skepticism kept her from being an atheist.

I am responsible for everything... except my very responsibility.

He loves me, he doesn't love my bowels, if they showed him my appendix in a glass he wouldn't recognize it, he's always feeling me, but if they put the glass in his hands he wouldn't touch it, he wouldn't think, "that's hers," you ought to love all of somebody, the esophagus, the liver, the intestines. Maybe we don't love them because we aren't used to them, but if we saw them the way we saw our hands and arms maybe we'd love them; the starfish must love each other better than we do.

Absurd, irreducible; nothing--not even a profound and secret delirium of nature--could explain [a tree root].

To love is never just to love since it is also to will to love, and ... to love in spite of oneself, to allow oneself to be overcome by one's love.