Every action today leads to murder, di.. Albert Camus

Every action today leads to murder, direct or indirect.

Albert Camus

Profession: Philosopher
Nationality: French

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She was wearing a pair of my pajamas with the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted her again. A minute later she asked me if I loved her. I told her it didn't mean anything but that I didn't think so. She looked sad. But as we were fixing lunch, and for no apparent reason, she laughed in such a way that I kissed her.

If those whom we begin to love could know us as we were before meeting them...they could perceive what they have made of us.

From the moment that man submits God to moral judgment, he kills Him his own heart.

I kept myself aloof from the world not because I had enemies, but because I had friends there. Not because they damaged me, as this happens usually, but because they thought I'm better than I really am. It was a lie that I could not stand.

But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?

Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.

No doubt, our love persisted, but in practice it served nothing; it was an inert mass within us, sterile as crime of a life sentence. It had declined on a patience that led nowhere, a dogged expectation.

Ah, mon cher, we are odd, wretched creatures, and if we merely look back over our lives, there's no lack of occasions to amaze and horrify ourselves. Just try.

You are forgiven for your happiness and your successes only if you generously consent to share them.

The absurd does not liberate; it binds. It does not authorize all actions. "Everything is permitted" does not mean that nothing is forbidden.

The Byronic hero, incapable of love, or capable only of an impossible love, suffers endlessly. He is solitary, languid, his condition exhausts him. If he wants to feel alive, it must be in the terrible exaltation of a brief and destructive action.

Beyond the curve of the days he glimpsed neither superhuman happiness nor eternity - happiness was human, eternity ordinary. What mattered was to humble himself, to organize his heart to match the rhythm of the days instead of submitting their rhythm to the curve of human hopes.

The realization that life is absurd cannot be an end, but only a beginning.

Without freedom no art art lives only on the restraints it imposes on itself and dies of all others.

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