And often he who has chosen the fate of the artist because he felt himself to be different soon realizes that he can maintain neither his art nor his difference unless he admits that he is like the others. The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from.

Albert Camus

Albert Camus

Profession: Philosopher
Nationality: French

Some suggestions for you :

Rule: Start by looking for what is valid in every man.

At one time or another all normal people have wished their loved ones were dead.

What did it matter if he existed for two or for twenty years? Happiness was the fact that he had existed.

I often thought that if I had to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but look up at the sky flowing overhead, little by little, I would have gotten used to it.

Martyrs, my friend, have to choose between being forgotten, mocked or used. As for being understood - never.

Heroism is accessible. Happiness is more difficult.

I loved them, according to the hallowed expression, which amounts to saying that I never loved any of them.

Most people imagine that a man suffers because out of the blue, Death snatches away the woman he loves. But his real suffering is less futile; it comes from the discovery that grief, too, cannot last. Even grief is vanity!

The modern mind is in complete disarray. Knowledge has stretched itself to the point where neither the world nor our intelligence can find any foot-hold. It is a fact that we are suffering from nihilism.

I draw from the Absurd three consequences: my revolt, my liberty, my passion.

The furious revolt of the first weeks had given place to a vast despondency, not to be taken for resignation, though it was no the less a sort of passive and provisional acquiescence.

They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment then futile and hopeless labor.

In our society, any man who doesn't cry at his mother's funeral is liable to be condemned to death.

The everyday man does not enjoy tarrying. Everything, on the contrary, hurries him onward. But at the same time nothing interests him more than himself, especially his potentialities.