Albert Camus Quotes
At that moment he knew what his mother was thinking, and that she loved him. But he knew, too, that to love someone means relatively little; or, rather, that love is never strong enough to find the words befitting it. Thus he and his mother would always love each other silently. And one day she – or he – would die, without ever, all their lives long, having gone farther than this by way of making their affection known.
Quotes to Explore
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I think as any mother would be she was absolutely over the moon. And actually we had quite an awkward situation because I knew and I knew that William had asked my father but I didn't know if my mother knew.
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I love Chicago.
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You're not sick you're just in love.
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I knew that I was a gay boy fairly early; what was interesting to me was that my mother didn't know. She made me play baseball - I had no desire to do that. I said, 'Mom, I don't like direct sunlight, I don't like bugs, I don't like grass, and I'd rather be in the house playing with your fabric samples.'
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Whenever you hear a man speak of his love for his country, it is a sign that he expects to be paid for it.
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What I love about New York is just the electricity I feel right away.
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There are no rules when it comes to love.
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She teaches me to be kind, punctual... and to stand up for myself. And when I think about it, aren't these things every mother should teach their daughter?
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Love and dignity cannot share the same abode.
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When I was really small, my mother had difficulty keeping me dressed, as I liked to be naked! I definitely had very strong ideas on what I wanted to wear. My favourite look was always Action Man and Spiderman. Now though, I really like beautiful clothes.
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How come I love having an episode of deja vu? It's akin to an out-of-body experience, I would think. It sits with me, happily, begging me to delve into my memory to find its match point.
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I'm a bass player from way back and Paul is a guitar player and we've been in many bands.
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I love Fall Fashion Week because it means lots of layering, long sweaters and vintage coats.
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The hardest of all is learning to be a well of affection, and not a fountain; to show them we love them not when we feel like it, but when they do.
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My father was a dark-skinned brother, but my mother was a very fair-skinned lady. From what I understand, she was Creole; we think her people originally came from New Orleans. She looked almost like a white woman, which meant she could pass - as folks used to say back then. Her hair was jet-black. She was slim and very attractive.
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Running in Central Park is my favorite thing to wake up and do. I have my own specific path that I have to run every single time. There's a little bit of OCD involved, but I love it.
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Love and death are the two great hinges on which all human sympathies turn.
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When I was very young I was sort of floored by the fact that my mother and my father and everyone I knew was going to die one day, and myself too. I had a sort of a philosophical crisis. I couldn't believe that we were mortal.
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Mum says that, since I was a tiny baby, I've had the most strong-willed and stubborn personality known to man. Although that was a real pain for her, she admired my resolve.
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Feelings of love and gratitude arise directly and spontaneously in the baby in response to the love and care of his mother.
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If you're trying to understand why it is that certain things happen in Sacramento and certain things don't, at the end of the day, it comes down to the issue of incentives: We do what we're incentivized to do.
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Anything that can be perfect is very damaging for my psyche.
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People wait their whole lives for the kind of happiness we have.
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At that moment he knew what his mother was thinking, and that she loved him. But he knew, too, that to love someone means relatively little; or, rather, that love is never strong enough to find the words befitting it. Thus he and his mother would always love each other silently. And one day she – or he – would die, without ever, all their lives long, having gone farther than this by way of making their affection known.
