At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman.

Indeed the Here and Now had come to mean everything to them. For there is no denying that the plague had gradually killed off in all of us the faculty not of love only but eve of friendship. Naturally enough, since love asks something of the future, and nothing was left but a series of present moments.

Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?

Alas, after a certain age every man is responsible for his face.

But a man's beauty represents inner, functional truths: his face shows what he can do. And what is that compared to the magnificent uselessness of a woman's face? Mersault was aware of this now, delighting in his vanity and smiling at his secret demons.

Ah, mon cher, for anyone who is alone, without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful.

Those who write clearly have readers, those who write obscurely have commentators.

Too many bleak years have passed over this little spot of Central Europe, and they've drained all the warmth out of this house. They have killed any desire for friendliness and, let me repeat it, you won't find anything in the least like intimacy here.

Today we are always as ready to judge as we are to fornicate.

All great deeds and all great thoughts have a ridiculous beginning. Great works are often born on a street corner or in a restaurant's revolving door.