There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

Once we know and are aware, we are responsible for our action and our inaction. We can do something about it or ignore it. Either way, we are still responsible.

For forty years I was conscripted by the absolute, the neurosis. The absolute is gone. There remain countless tasks among which literature is in no way privileged.

One cannot become a saint when one works sixteen hours a day.

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.

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

So long as one believes in God, one has the right to do the Good in order to be moral.