Men and women consume one another rapidly in what is called "the act of love," or else settle down to a mild habit of conjugality. We seldom find a mean between these two extremes.
Great novelists are philosopher novelists - that is, the contrary of thesis-writers.
If God did not exist, we should have to invent him. If God did exist, we should have to abolish Him.
I enjoyed my own nature to the fullest, and we all know there lies happiness, although, to soothe one another mutually, we occasionally pretend to condemn such joys as selfishness.
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide.
Nihilism is not only despair and negation, but above all the desire to despair and to negate.
If there is a soul, it is a mistake to believe that it is given to us fully created. It is created here, throughout a whole life. And living is nothing else but that long and painful bringing forth.
A nihilist is not one who believes in nothing , but one who does not believe in what exists.
The world in which we were called to exist was an absurd world, and there was no other in which we could take refuge.
A man's work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.
The truth, as the light, makes blind.
Artistic creation is a demand for unity and a rejection of the world.
All that remains is a fate whose outcome alone is fatal. Outside of that single fatality of death, everything, joy or happiness, is liberty. A world remains of which man is the sole master. What bound him was the illusion of another world. The outcome of his thought, ceasing to be renunciatory, flowers in images. It frolics-\-\-in myths, to be sure, but myths with no other depth than that of human suffering and, like it, inexhaustible. Not the divine fable that amuses and blinds, but the terrestrial face, gesture, and drama in which are summed up a difficult wisdom and an ephemeral passion.
At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman.
For rich people, the sky is just an extra, a gift of nature. The poor, on the other hand, can see it as it is, a gift of infinite grace.
We are condemned to live together.
The best are led to make greater demands upon themselves. As for those who succumb, they did not deserve to survive.
Thus, in a middle course between these heights and depths, they drifted through life rather than lived, the prey of aimless days and sterile memories, like wandering shadows that could have acquired substance only by consenting to root themselves in the solid earth of their distress.
I am too much in love with my lies and hypocrisies not to confess them fervently.
The world is never quiet, even its silence eternally resounds with the same notes, in vibrations which escape our ears. As for those that we perceive, they carry sounds to us, occasionally a chord, never a melody.
History has shown that the less people read, the more books they buy.
Some are created to love, while the others - to live.
We rarely confide in those who are better than we are.
There can be no true goodness, nor true love, without the utmost clear-sightedness.
Heroism is accessible. Happiness is more difficult.
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