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The truth is that nothing is less sensational than pestilence, and by reason of their very duration great misfortunes are monotonous.
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There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn. If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning.
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If the only significant history of human thought were to be written, it would have to be the history of its successive regrets and its impotences.
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To think is first of all to create a world or to limit one's own world, which comes to the same thing.
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I understood, by dint of digging into my memories, that modesty helped me to shine, humility helped me to triumph and virtue to oppress.
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How hard it must be to live only with what one knows and what one remembers, cut off from what one hopes for!
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Seeking what is true is not seeking what is desirable.
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The artist reconstructs the world to his plan.
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But above all, in order to be, never try to seem.
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At times I feel myself overtaken by an immense tenderness for these people around me who live in the same century.
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Absolute virtue is impossible and the republic of forgiveness leads, with implacable logic, to the republic of the guillotine.
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The opposite of an idealist is too often a man without love.
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Basically, at the very bottom of life, which seduces us all, there is only absurdity, and more absurdity. And maybe that's what gives us our joy for living, because the only thing that can defeat absurdity is lucidity.
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Knowing that certain nights whose sweetness lingers will keep returning to the earth and sea after we are gone, yes, this helps us to die.
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People have played on words and pretended to believe that refusing to grant a meaning to life necessarily leads to declaring that it is not worth living. In truth, there is no necessary common measure between these two judgments.
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The absurd is a shadow cast over everything we do and even if we try to live life as if it has meaning as if there are reasons for doing things the absurd will linger in the back of our minds as a nagging doubt that perhaps there is no point.
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The most eloquent eulogy of capitalism was made by its greatest enemy. Marx is only anti-capitalist in so far as capitalism is out of date.
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Ce que, finalement, je sais de plus sûr sur la morale et les obligations des hommes, c'est au football que je le dois.
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This was her finest role and the hardest one to play. Choosing between heaven and a ridiculous fidelity, preferring oneself to eternity or losing oneself in God is the age-old tragedy in which each must play his part.
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Fate is not in man but around him.
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The real passion of the twentieth century is servitude.
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Why must one love rarely to love well?
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To two men living the same number of years, the world always provides the same sum of experiences. It is up to us to be conscious of them.
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What will be left of the power of example if it is proved that capital punishment has another power, and a very real one, which degrades men to the point of shame, madness, and murder?