In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, thereβs something stronger β something better, pushing right back.
Why should it be essential to love rarely in order to love much?
Martyrs, my friend, have to choose between being forgotten, mocked or used. As for being understood - never.
The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
For if there is a sin against life, it consists perhaps not so much in despairing of life as in hoping for another life and in eluding the implacable grandeur of this life.
A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession.
