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Murderers, in general, are people who are consistent, people who are obsessed with one idea and nothing else.
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There is no forgiveness in nature.
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Who cares about great marks left behind? We have one life... just one. Our life. We have nothing else.
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All of us are mad. If it weren't for the fact every one of us is slightly abnormal, there wouldn't be any point in giving each person a separate name.
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'Mad' is a term we use to describe a man who is obsessed with one idea and nothing else.
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At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.
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Memories are like stones, time and distance erode them like acid.
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This free will business is a bit terrifying anyway. It's almost pleasanter to obey, and make the most of it.
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To believe in God is to know that all the rules will be fair, and that there will be wonderful surprises.
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If we have anything kind to say, any tender sentiment to express, we feel a sense of shame.
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There is always a certain peace in being what one is, in being that completely.
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Justice! Custodian of the world! But since the world errs, justice must be custodian of the world's errors.
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The first temptation, upon meeting an old friend after many years, is always to - look the other way.
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I think the family is the place where the most ridiculous and least respectable things in the world go on.
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We know well enough when we're being unjust and despicable. but we don't restrain ourselves because we experience a certain pleasure, a primitive sort of satisfaction in moments like that.
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A vague uneasiness: the police. It's like when you suddenly understand you have to undress in front of the doctor.
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Is not man himself the most unsettled of all the creatures of the earth? What is this trembling sensation that is intensified with each ascending step in the natural order?
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When you want to believe in something, you also have to believe in everything that's necessary for believing in it.
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When you put a man and a woman together, there are some things they simply have to do. They embrace, they warm each other. All the rest is dead and empty.
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Everyone has, inside himself ... what shall I call it? A piece of good news! Everyone is ... a very great, very important character.
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Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.
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A long association-prolonged human contact, when a man and woman live together-this ends up producing a sort of rot, a poison.
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It's perfectly obvious that somebody's responsible and somebody's innocent. Otherwise it [justice] makes no sense at all.
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We play make believe, pretend to take ourselves and each other seriously--to love each other, hate each other--but then--it isn't true. It isn't true, we don't care at all!