A fate is not a punishment.
[Love] is the type of disease that spares neither the intelligent nor the idiotic.
The absurd depends as much on man as on the world. For the moment, it is all that links them together.
[Many artists], even the greatest ones, are not sure of their own existence. So they search for proof, they judge, they condemn. It strengthens them, it is the beginnings of existence. They are alone!
Outside of that single fatality of death, everything, joy or happiness, is liberty.
From the moment absurdity is recognized, it becomes a passion, the most harrowing of all. But whether or not one can live with one's passions, whether or not one can accept their law, which is to burn the heart they simultaneously exalt - that is the whole question.
Every minute of life carries with it its miraculous value, and its face of eternal youth.
I've seen of enough of people who die for an idea. I don't believe in heroism; I know it's easy and I've learned it can be murderous. What interests me is living and dying for what one loves.
Friendship is not so simple. It is hard to get and takes a long time, but when one ha it one cannot get rid of it, one has to face it.
God is not necessary to create culpability, or to punish. Our fellow men are enough for that, helped by ourselves.
The struggle to reach the top is itself enough to fulfill the heart of man. One must believe that Sisyphus is happy.
We don't have the time to completely be ourselves. We only have the room to be happy.
When love ceases to be tragic it is something else and the individual again throws himself in search of tragedy.
This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity.
But do you know why we are always more just and generous toward the dead? The reason is simple. With them there is no obligation. They leave us free and we can take our time, fit the testimonial between a cocktail party and a nice little mistress, in our spare time, in short.
Truth, like light is dazzling. By contrast, untruth is a beautiful sunset that enhances everything.
You know, [women] do not really condemn any weakness: rather, they try to humiliate or disarm our strengths. That is why women arethe reward, not of the warrior, but of the criminal.
Crime too is a form of solitude, even if one thousand get together to commit it. And it is right for me to die alone, after having lived and killed alone.
There is always a philosophy for lack of courage.
Virtue cannot separate itself from reality without becoming a principle of evil.
But,' I reminded myself, 'it's common knowledge that life isn't worth living, anyhow.
Men are never really willing to die except for the sake of freedom: therefore they do not believe in dying completely.
To correct a natural indifference I was placed half-way between misery and the sun. Misery kept me from believing that all was well under the sun, and the sun taught me that history wasn't everything.
Don't lies eventually lead to the truth? And don't all my stories, true or false, tend toward the same conclusion? Don't they all have the same meaning? So what does it matter whether they are true or false if, in both cases, they are significant of what I have been and what I am? Sometimes it is easier to see clearly into the liar than into the man who tells the truth. Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twilight that enhances every object.
the one who doesnt play, doesnt win anything, but he actually looses somehting, {playing}
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