I am. I am, I exist, I think, therefore I am; I am because I think, why do I think? I don't want to think any more, I am because I think that I don't want to be, I think that I . . . because . . . ugh!

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

The viable jewels of life remain untouched when man forgets his vocation of searching for the truth of his existence.

It is no longer possible to escape men. Farewell to the monsters, farewell to the saints. Farewell to pride. All that is left is men.

As long as the writer cannot write for the two billion men who are hungry, he will be oppressed by a feeling of malaise.

Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself. [It is a matter of choice, not chance.] Such is the first principle of existentialism.

You see, I'm fond of teasing, it's a second nature with me—and I'm used to teasing myself. Plaguing myself, if you prefer; I don't tease nicely.