Life is a sum of all your choices". So, what are you doing today?
To assert in any case that a man must be absolutely cut off from society because he is absolutely evil amounts to saying that society is absolutely good, and no-one in his right mind will believe this today.
We must admit that today conformity is on the Left. To be sure, the Right is not brilliant. But the Left is in complete decadence, a prisoner of words, caught in its own vocabulary, capable merely of stereotyped replies, constantly at a loss when faced with truth, from which it nevertheless claimed to derive its laws. The Left is schizophrenic and needs doctoring through pitiless self-criticism, exercise of the heart, close reasoning, and a little modesty.
Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.
Once crime was as solitary as a cry of protest; now it is as universal as science. Yesterday it was put on trial; today it determines the law.
Whoever today speaks of human existence in terms of power, efficiency, and historical tasks is an actual or potential assassin.
Can one be a saint if God does not exist? That is the only concrete problem I know of today.
Today we are always as ready to judge as we are to fornicate.
In the world today, only a philosophy of eternity could justify non-violence.
There is merely bad luck in not being loved; there is misfortune in not loving. All of us, today, are dying of this misfortune. For violence and hatred dry up the heart itself; the long fight for justice exhausts the love that nevertheless gave birth to it.
To remain a man in today's world, one must have not only unfailing energy and unwavering intensity, one must also have a little luck.
Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: 'Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.' That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.
The workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks, and this fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious.
To create today is to create dangerously. Any publication is an act, and that act exposes one to the passions of an age that forgives nothing.
A writer cannot put himself today in service of those who make history; he is at the service of those who suffer it.
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