If literature isn't everything, it's not worth a single hour of someone's trouble.

I think that is the big danger in keeping a diary: you exaggerate everything.

Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.

What never vary are the necessities of being in the world, of having to labor and to die there.

The For-itself, in fact, is nothing but the pure nihilation of the In-itself; it is like a hole of being at the heart of Being.

The universe remains dark. We are animals struck by catastrophe.

Genius is what a man invents when he is looking for a way out.