Life is nothing until it is lived; but it is yours to make sense of, and the of it is nothing other than the sense you choose.

What the painter adds to the canvas are the days of his life. The adventure of living, hurtling toward death.

It is only in our decisions that we are important.

You must be like me; you must suffer in rhythm.

The existentialist says at once that man is anguish.

Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.

I clung to nothing, in a way I was calm. But it was a horrible calm—because of my body; my body, I saw with its eyes, I heard with its ears, but it was no longer me; it sweated and trembled by itself and I didn’t recognize it any more.