Man is a useless passion.

Jean-Paul Sartre

Jean-Paul Sartre

Profession: Philosopher
Nationality: French

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The sun was clear and diaphanous like white win. Its light barely touched the moving figures, gave them no shadow, no relief: faces and hands made spots of pale gold.

Giacometti knows that space is a cancer on being, and eats everything; to sculpt, for him, is to take the fat off space, he compresses space, so as to drain off its exteriority.

From these few observations we can already conclude that the real is never beautiful. Beauty is a value applicable only to the imaginary and which means the negation of the world in its essential structure.

I am not virtuous. Our sons will be if we shed enough blood to give them the right to be.

I exist. It is soft, so soft, so slow. And light: it seems as though it suspends in the air. It moves.

I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity...

Love or hatred calls for self-surrender. He cuts a fine figure, the warm-blooded, prosperous man, solidly entrenched in his well-being, who one fine day surrenders all to love—or to hatred; himself, his house, his land, his memories.

She is rotting quietly under her skirts with a melancholy smile, like the odour of violets given off by a decomposing body.

He is always becoming, and if it were not for the contingency of death, he would never end.

Still, somewhere in the depths of ourselves we all harbor an ashamed, unsatisfied melancholy that quietly awaits a funeral.

We have to deal with human reality as a being which is what it is not and which is not what it is.

Man is nothing else but what he purposes, he exists only in so far as he realizes himself, he is therefore nothing else but the sum of his actions, nothing else but what his life is.

When it is dark, the objects and I will come out of limbo.

I know very well that I don't want to do anything: to do something is to create existence—and there's quite enough existence as it is.