If you're lonely when you're alone, you're in bad company.

Do you think that I count the days? There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.

Hell is—other people!

Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does. It is up to you to give [life] a meaning.

Better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees.

Freedom is what we do with what is done to us.

We are our choices.

When the rich wage war it's the poor who die.

Three o'clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do.

You are -- your life, and nothing else.

Everything has been figured out, except how to live.

There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.

Words are loaded pistols.

Life begins on the other side of despair.

Life begins on the other side of despair.

All that I know about my life, it seems, I have learned in books.

Like all dreamers I confuse disenchantment with truth.

I want to leave, to go somewhere where I should be really in my place, where I would fit in . . . but my place is nowhere; I am unwanted.

Life has no meaning a priori… It is up to you to give it a meaning, and value is nothing but the meaning that you choose.

The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life, the clearer we should see through it.

In love, one and one are one.

Ha! to forget. How childish! I feel you in my bones. Your silence screams in my ears. You may nail your mouth shut, you may cut out your tongue, can you keep yourself from existing? Will you stop your thoughts.

Smooth and smiling faces everywhere, but ruin in their eyes.

It is therefore senseless to think of complaining since nothing foreign has decided what we feel, what we live, or what we are.

I am going to outlive myself. Eat, sleep, sleep, eat. Exist slowly, softly, like these trees, like a puddle of water, like the red bench in the streetcar.

I suppose it is out of laziness that the world is the same day after day. Today it seemed to want to change. And then anything, anything could happen.

It answers the question that was tormenting you: my love, you are not 'one thing in my life' - not even the most important - because my life no longer belongs to me because...you are always me.

Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.

Man is what he wills himself to be.

I am. I am, I exist, I think, therefore I am; I am because I think, why do I think? I don't want to think any more, I am because I think that I don't want to be, I think that I . . . because . . . ugh!

She smiled and said with an ecstatic air: "It shines like a little diamond", "What does?" "This moment. It is round, it hangs in empty space like a little diamond; I am eternal.

I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating.

Only the guy who isn't rowing has time to rock the boat.

That God does not exist, I cannot deny, That my whole being cries out for God I cannot forget.

We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are - that is the fact.

Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up; I forget them almost immediately.

You must be like me; you must suffer in rhythm.

Existence is an imperfection.

There is only one day left, always starting over: It is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk.

Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.

People who live in society have learnt how to see themselves, in mirrors, as they appear to their friends. I have no friends: is that why my flesh is so naked?

I had found my religion: nothing seemed more important to me than a book. I saw the library as a temple.

Man is condemned to be free. Condemned because he did not create himself, yet is nevertheless at liberty, and from the moment he is thrown into this world he is responsible for everything he does.

Better a good journalist than a poor assassin.

The worst part about being lied to is knowing you werent worth the truth

As far as men go, it is not what they are that interests me, but what they can become.

One always dies too soon — or too late. And yet one’s whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are — your life, and nothing else.

As for me, I am mean: that means that I need the suffering of others to exist. A flame. A flame in their hearts. When I am all alone, I am extinguished.

To know what life is worth you have to risk it once in a while.