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

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

We do not judge the people we love.

He is always becoming, and if it were not for the contingency of death, he would never end.

God is absence. God is the solitude of man.

The writer is committed when he plunges to the very depths of himself with the intent to disclose, not his individuality, but his person in the complex society that conditions and supports him.

The absurd man will not commit suicide; he wants to live, without relinquishing any of his certainty, without a future, without hope, without illusions … and without resignation either. He stares at death with passionate attention and this fascination liberates him. He experiences the “divine irresponsibility” of the condemned man.